Fair Play (5 page)

“Let me guess: They want to buy us out,” Theresa deduced blandly.

“I assume that's the case, but of course Banister wouldn't come right out and say so on the phone. He wants to meet with us here Friday morning.”

“And did you tell him to go take a leak in his hat?”

“I wish,” Janna replied. “No, I told him to stop by around ten. Should be interesting.”

“Mmm.” Theresa resumed swinging in her chair, more slowly this time. “Why would they be interested in
us
? We're not that big.”

“No, but we've got some professional athletes and TV people on our roster.”

“Jesus. How long do you think the meeting will take?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“I have to be at the celeb softball game at noon.”

“I'm sure we'll be done by then. If not, you can go when you need to, and I'll wrap things up.”

There was an edge of uneasiness in Janna's voice that Theresa found contagious. “I don't like this,” Theresa confessed.

“I know,” Janna agreed. “I'm afraid he'll offer us an obscene amount of money we'd be insane to turn down, or else he'll blatantly threaten to ruin us. But we'll hang tough, right?”

“Damn straight,” Theresa replied without hesitation.

But whether they truly believed what they were saying was another matter.

 

 

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

Hustling through the small crowd of fans outside the players' entrance at Met Gar, Michael promised to sign autographs afterward, praying the team wasn't already on the ice for the pregame warm-up. If they were, his ass was going to be grass. Tearing down the long concrete hallway leading to the locker room, he was hurriedly calling out hellos to various Met Gar staff.
Shit.
Most of the guys had already left, but a few were still dressing.
Thank God.
If he could dress really fast and get out on the ice with them, he'd be okay.

“Hey, hey, Mikey boy, nice of you to show up,” quipped Dennis O'Malley, the team's backup goalie, his melon-sized head bobbing up and down in time to the music blasting from the locker room sound system. “We were starting to wonder if you forgot how to get here.”

“Or if you forgot to set the alarm before you took your afternoon nap,” added rookie van Dorn. “I hear you old guys need lots of sleep.”

Pointedly ignoring him, Michael went to his locker, peeled off his street clothes and began frantically dressing for the warm-up. But by the time he was done, the stragglers who had still been putting on their uniforms when he came in had already left. Grabbing his stick, he headed out to the ice to join the rest of the team. Their captain, Kevin Gill, just shook his head when he spotted Michael. Ty Gallagher stood behind the bench clutching his ever-present clipboard.

“You're late,” he called out as Michael hit the ice, skating slowly and deliberately to give his body a chance to warm up, even though he was pretty sure anxiety had pushed his resting heart rate up a notch or two already.

“Sorry, coach,” he called back.

“Get over here.”

Michael skated to the bench. “Yeah, coach?”

“You owe me fifty bucks,” Ty informed him.

“What?”

“Fifty bucks for every five minutes you're late. We talked about it last week.”

Michael frowned. “Right.” He remembered it now that Ty mentioned it. Otherwise? Zip, gone, out of his head.
Jesus. Wasn't he a bit young to be going senile?

“Stop taking the subway and start using the car service, Mike. That's what it's there for.”

He toyed with massaging the truth and telling Ty he was late because he'd been going over plans for the restaurant with Theresa—plans that would benefit his wife, Janna's business—but then decided against it. The reason he was late had nothing to do with the subway, and everything to do with Theresa's parents, who could talk the ears off a brass monkey. They were lovely people, welcoming and warm, but trying to get out of that house was like trying to escape from Sing Sing. Three times he'd tried to politely make his exit and three times they managed to detain him. By the time he hit the subway, he knew he'd be late. Even so, he was glad he'd gone to visit them. Very glad.

“Yeah, all right,” he muttered, joining the parade of players already circling the ice.

Muscles loosening, he headed toward one of the pucks scattered on the ice and began practicing his stick handling. He'd been at it less than a minute when van Dorn sidled up to him and stole it, seemingly under the mistaken impression that the fans and little kids gathered around the Plexiglas were there to see him, so superior was his expression.
Schmuck. They couldn't care less about you.
Michael waved to a couple of familiar fans, and grabbing another puck, flipped it over the glass to one small girl in particular who looked completely enraptured. It was a feeling he remembered well, one he always tried to tap in to when he was out there, that sense of magic.

Michael looked around at the rapidly filling arena, where a sense of anticipation was beginning to build. He could still remember exactly where he sat that first time his pop took him here for a game: high up in the blue seats, or the “nosebleeders” as Pop liked to joke. Back on the ice, Dallas's players were starting their own warm-up.

“Hey, how ya doin'?” Michael called out to a former teammate from Hartford, Duncan Lee, who'd been traded the same year as Michael.

“Doin' good,” Lee replied. “Yourself?”

“No complaints. Give my regards to Andrea.”

“Will do.”

Once the game started, all notions of friendship would be put aside as each team focused on winning. But for now, during the warm-up, players who were once teammates weren't averse to a little catching up as they circled opposite each other. Picking up the pace a bit, Michael glided past his nemesis, who refused to be bested and went tear-assing down the ice at warp speed.
Nice one, Mr. Ivy League. What'll you do for an encore?
Finishing their three-on-two drills, Michael and the rest of the guys formed a circle and started shooting at the goalie to help warm him up. Michael was easily passing a puck back and forth with one of the team's defensemen, Barry Fontaine, when he heard Ty call out his name again. Changing direction, he skated over to the bench.

“Don't tell me you want the money now,” he ribbed Ty.

A hint of a smile shadowed Ty's face. “After the game would be fine. No, I just wanted to let you know you're a healthy scratch tonight. You can watch from the skybox if you want.”

Ty's words hit like a blow to the solar plexus. Michael knew his pain must have been obvious because Ty, who rarely explained his decisions, did this time. “We need more speed on the ice against Dallas.”

“Who are you dressing instead?”

“Fabian.”

There wasn't much Michael could say. Fabian was a great skater and he wasn't.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Ask La Temp to come over here.”

“Will do.”

Ty nodded curtly, signaling their conversation was done. Feeling oddly numb, Michael skated up to the team enforcer Guy La Temp, told him the coach wanted to see him, and continued circling the rink, the eager faces of the fans smearing into a blur as he obsessed on what had just happened. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't dressed for a game. It had to be at least two years, and even then, it was because of a sore hamstring. A healthy scratch . . . shit. He wished he could be a bit more zen about it and convince himself that in the grand scheme of things, sitting out one game was but a drop of rain in the ocean, but that wasn't his nature. He
did
take it personally, whether it was meant that way or not.

The warm-up ended. Heart heavy, Michael followed his teammates and the coach back off the ice and into the locker room. As Ty talked about strategy and Kevin tried to get them pumped up, all the guys not playing that night slipped out of their uniforms. Trying not to feel self-conscious, Michael changed back into his street clothes right along with them, painfully aware of the excitement emanating from Jim Fabian, who'd been with the team two years and still didn't have a regular spot in the lineup. Michael was just finishing combing his hair when van Dorn came up to him, snapping gum and looking every inch the trouble-making little prick.

“Got the ax, huh?” the youngster chuckled as he took off his jersey.

Michael just stared at him, noting contemptuously how van Dorn looked like he'd just stepped out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad.

“Maybe you should think about retiring and save yourself the pain and humiliation of eventually losing your spot on the third line to me.”

“And maybe
you
should kiss my ring,” Michael snapped back, shoving his Stanley Cup champion ring right in the pubescent wonder's face. Still infuriated by van Dorn's mocking chuckle, Michael shoved him as he went past. “Outta my way, frat boy.”

“Arriverderci,
gramps.”

The urge to wheel around and pound that pretty little face into chop meat was strong, but Michael fought it, choosing instead to wish his teammates good luck while he and Guy La Temp headed toward the elevator that would take them to the skybox. They didn't wait for the others, not wanting to share the ride with van Dorn. Neither of them said a word as the elevator ascended. But as they walked through the opening doors, La Temp turned to Michael. “This sucks,” he grumbled.

That said it all.

Theresa and Janna were prepared for Ted Banister to sell them on the idea of Butler Corporation acquiring their business.

They weren't prepared for him showing up with a hot-tie in tow.

Both women arrived at the office early to get a head start on work. Despite protests that they were “ruthless slave-drivers hell-bent on exploiting his gentle nature,” Terrence went out to pick up a tray of muffins and croissants they'd ordered from a nearby bakery. When he returned, he made a great show of plonking the tray down in the middle of the conference room table, declaring, “I give and I give and I give, and what do I get?”

“Health insurance,” Theresa replied.

That shut him up.

Watching Janna raise then lower the conference room shades at least half a dozen times, Theresa knew her friend was nervous. But she also knew the minute Banister strolled through the door, Janna would morph into the ultimate professional, all hints of anxiety completely submerged. This transformation always amazed Theresa, who was less skilled than Janna at masking her emotions. This was why they'd agreed that Janna would do most of the talking. Theresa still squirmed with embarrassment whenever Janna told the story of how, when they worked together at
The Wild and the Free,
Theresa had quietly voiced the desire that one network exec's arms would blacken, wither and fall to the ground, only to find out that he was Sicilian, too, and had understood every word.

Definitely better to let Janna do most of the talking.

Theresa was both anxious and irritated. Like Janna, she was afraid Banister would come in, and using corporate doublespeak, threaten to blow them away. But she was also resentful of the sheer greediness of Butler Corporation. Did they have to own
everything?
Couldn't they leave a couple of the smaller firms, like theirs, alone?

Ted Banister arrived promptly at ten, looking distinguished in a steel-gray, Italian silk suit and Bally shoes as he flashed a smooth, nonthreatening smile no doubt perfected over years of corporate dealings. Theresa reckoned him to be about fifty, judging by his mane of well-groomed silver hair and the deeply grooved crow's feet around his eyes. By his side, looking just as polished but completely uncomfortable, was a young, handsome man somewhere between twenty-five and thirty whom Ted introduced as his nephew, Reese Banister.

“Reese recently graduated from Harvard Law and is eager to learn the ropes. I hope you don't mind if he sits in on our meeting.”

“Not at all,” Janna assured him, ushering both men into the conference room.

Theresa followed right behind, closing the door. Since Janna was now in pro mode, she had no way of telling whether or not Janna really
did
mind if Reese was there. Theresa couldn't take her eyes off of him. He was preppie gorgeous, with pale blue eyes, a strong jawline, and blond, sun-kissed hair that probably came from time spent playing touch football on the beach at Hyannis or Martha's Vineyard. He smiled at her shyly as he took the seat opposite. She acknowledged him with a polite nod of the head, as she settled back in her chair to hear out his uncle Ted.

Banister began by saying, “I'm here today because Butler Corporation has been watching your business since its inception two years ago. It's very impressed with the client roster you've managed to assemble in that short time. Clearly, the two of you are extraordinary business-women.”

“Thank you,” said Janna.

“Yes, thank you,” Theresa echoed. Her gaze drifted across the table to Banister the Younger. He was staring at her. Flustered, she looked away, turning her attention back to Janna.

“We appreciate the compliment,” said Janna, “but I'm sure you didn't come here to feed our egos.”

“No, of course not.” Banister coughed uncomfortably. Perhaps he was unused to Janna's form of directness. “I'm here to tell you Butler Corporation would very much like you to join their corporate family.”

Janna folded her hands in front of her. “Now why would we want to do that, Mr. Banister?”