Fair Play (2 page)

“I'll be the consummate professional,” Theresa assured her, while mentally stockpiling rebuffs to use on Dante if he tried flirting with her. She'd meet with him, fine. They needed the business, so she'd do it.

But she didn't have to like it.

 

 

“Dante! Off the ice.”

At the sound of his coach's voice, Michael Dante abruptly cut short his rink-long sprint, and with dogged determination skated over to the bench where Ty Gallagher sat, stopwatch in hand. Michael was close to throwing up from sheer physical pain and exhaustion, Gallagher having insisted the entire team sprint up and down the ice until he told them to stop. That had been twenty minutes ago—after a practice that had already been an hour and a half long.

“What's up?” Michael panted, grateful for the momentary respite. He wished he could collapse onto the bench beside Ty, but knew it would be seen as a sign of weakness. Instead, he bent over with his stick across his knees, trying to steady his breathing and get rid of the stitch in his side that zapped him with pain every time he inhaled.

“You're slowing down,” Ty barked. “You started out fine, but the last couple of sprints, you've been dragging your ass. Out partying last night?”

“No.”
Michael knew there was an edge of defensiveness to his voice, but he couldn't help it. If Ty had his way, they'd all be tucked up in bed by nine with a glass of warm milk, even though there'd once been a time when
he'd
availed himself of all the fruits Manhattan had to offer.

The difference was Ty had still managed to excel on the ice. He was one of the NHL's legendary players, with four Stanley Cup wins to his credit. Two years ago, as their captain, he'd led the Blades to their second Cup in as many years, before shocking the hell out of everyone and retiring while still at the top of his game. Last year, the Blades didn't make the playoffs, and when their beloved coach, “Tubs” Matthias, was killed in a car crash over the summer, Kidco Corporation, who owned the team, lured Gallagher back by making him the highest-paid coach in the NHL. He was also perhaps the toughest, a dedicated but relentless SOB who pulled no punches with his players and brooked no bullshit, either. Judging from the skeptical expression on his face, Michael guessed that Ty thought he was lying.

“I kid you not,” Michael swore. He was breathing easier now, enough to stand upright. “I was home last night.”

“Why's that?” Ty needled. “Every bar, restaurant and dance club in the city closed?”

Jesus wept, can you cut me a break here?
Michael pleaded in his head. Ever since Ty had taken over the team, Michael's off-ice activities had been a bone of contention between them. Ty thought that Michael led “too active” a social life. He claimed it showed a lack of commitment to his chosen profession. But that was bull. Michael had been a professional hockey player for ten years, and he knew it was possible to be a dedicated player
and
have a decent social life. What the hell did Ty want from him? He was a single guy, for Chrissakes. And New York was his town. He was born here, learned to play hockey here. . . . Hell, he still choked up when he thought back to the first professional hockey game he ever saw. He was six years old, and his father, whose idea of sports was bocce ball, took him to Met Gar to see the Blades play the Rangers. He'd known then and there that he wanted to be one of those tough guys magically flying down the ice. And he'd made his dream come true.

When the Blades acquired him in a trade with Hartford three years back, he'd reveled in coming home to the city, and the city did nothing to hide its unabashed love for him in return. He was their own “Mikey D,” the local boy made good. So what if, like Ty once cracked, “He'd never met a photo op he didn't like?” He was a people person. He liked meeting New Yorkers, talking to them, finding out what made them tick. And not just the rich ones who showed up at charity events and swanky parties, either. Michael liked talking to the people he met on the subway. People who approached him when he was out doing his grocery shopping. Normal, hard-working people who reminded him of where he came from should his ego start getting the better of him. Good people. New Yorkers. Where was the problem in that?

Still, his coach's insinuation that he was slowing down bugged him. He knew he'd never be a marquee player like Ty had been. But he was a solid hockey player, a grinder, an old-school third line winger. He was the guy they sent out to pound on the other team's defensemen. When the tide of a game needed to be turned, he was the one they relied on. He might not be the fastest skater in the world, but he was renowned for his relentless, crushing forecheck and his refusal to ever back down. “A formidable physical presence,” that's what the
New York Post
had called him his first season back. So what was Ty trying to tell him? That he was losing his juice?

“Tell you what,” Michael said, glancing back at his teammates, a number of whom looked as physically sick as he had felt just minutes before. “I'll concentrate on picking up the pace, okay?”

“
Concentrate
is the operative word here,” said Ty. “I don't have a sense you're really focusing on what you're doing.”

“I'm trying.”

“Well, try harder. Or else you're going to find yourself watching van Dorn.”

Paul van Dorn. Golden boy. Rookie. The second coming of Christ at training camp. Fresh out of college, van Dorn was acquired in the Lubov trade and was among the youngest players on the team. He didn't yet have a permanent place on the roster. But all that could change if Michael, or any of the other players, got sloppy or slowed down. And van Dorn knew it. He seemed to take sadistic pleasure in needling some of the guys about being “old men.” But with Michael, it was more personal. “I thought old Italian men liked to sit in their gardens and look at their tomatoes,” he'd once cracked while Michael was killing himself on an exercise bike. Another time he'd asked Michael if he needed help dressing.
Arrogant little Wasp prick.

Michael nodded at what Ty said and skated back out onto the ice.

The coach was right: He wasn't focused at all today. Instead, his mind was on the meeting he was having later in the day in Brooklyn. He wanted Theresa and Janna's PR help to bring in more customers to the restaurant he and his brother, Anthony, had inherited from their parents. Unfortunately, Anthony was the patron saint of sullen, older siblings. He was also the head chef at the restaurant and was horrified at the idea of changing
anything
. To him, change was bad, period. Anthony had had the same hairstyle for twenty years and had held on to his '70s threads for so long, they were now back in style. Michael loved Anthony, but his narrow-mindedness and inflexibility often drove him to despair. He knew that when he got to the restaurant that afternoon and told Anthony they'd be sitting down with a PR person, his brother would start foaming at the mouth. Pots and pans would be hurled and the sanctity of their parents' vision invoked. Michael could deal with that later. Right now, he had to deal with muscles screaming for relief in his legs.

Joining his teammates, he gave it his all as they sprinted up and back, up and back. . . .

 

 

Theresa muttered to
herself as she hustled down Eighty-Sixth Street on her way to Dante's on Twentieth Avenue. She was feeling guilty that she was in Bensonhurst, but had no intention of visiting her parents. She kept imagining bumping into her mother coming out of Cuccio Brothers Cheese or Santoro's Pork Store. After feigning a heart attack, her mother would launch into a tear-jerking soliloquy about how her only daughter had time to come to Brooklyn for work, oh yes, but God forbid she see her family more than one Sunday a month. The fantasy encounter was so real Theresa had started defending herself out loud. If that wasn't a testament to how easy it was for her family to get under her skin, she didn't know what was.

Dante's. She could have put her foot down and demanded Janna do it. But Janna seemed so stressed of late. Not that she wasn't stressed herself. The idea that their agency might not make it kept her up at night watching bad TV, sucking her into the twilight world of infomer cials and square-headed, self-righteous televangelists. She sighed. There were worse things in life than meeting with professional athletes. Unemployment was one of them.

Rounding the corner of Twentieth Avenue, she marveled at how little it had changed since she was small, the mom-and-pop stores of her childhood still intact. Dante's was the same as she remembered it, a veritable Bensonhurst institution with a decent-sized dining room and an ample, traditional menu that featured everything from spaghetti and meatballs to osso bucco. Up until her father was diagnosed with lung cancer eight months ago, her parents used to go to Dante's every Thursday; their “date night” as they called it. But now Poppy was too tired and too sick to go anywhere. Once again, guilt gripped her. Maybe she
would
stop by the house when she was done and surprise them.

She pushed open the large, carved wooden door to the restaurant and slipped inside, out of the warm September air. The lights and air-conditioning were on, but there was no one behind the long, polished wood bar, and every linen-covered table in the large room was empty. Trying hard to ignore the bad paintings of Venetian gondoliers and photographs of local priests gracing the red walls, she loudly called out, “Hello?” A minute later, Michael Dante appeared through the swinging steel doors of the kitchen. He was scowling, but upon seeing her, the tensions melted from his face, replaced by a big smile.
Here it comes,
thought Theresa.

“Theresa. It's great to see you.”

Theresa smiled politely. “Nice to see you, too. I see you're wearing all your teeth today.”

“For you, a full mouth,” he kidded back. Theresa noticed him subtly checking her out and bristled.
Get over it, ice boy. I'm through with your kind.

“So . . .” she began, eager to get the ball rolling so she could leave as quickly as possible. “Should we wait for your brother to arrive?”

Michael's scowl returned. “That won't be necessary,” he said, ushering her to a table for two adorned with a red and white checked tablecloth. “You want anything to drink? Pellegrino, a glass of wine?”

“Pellegrino would be great,” said Theresa, watching his back as he sauntered away and slipped behind the bar. Objectively speaking, he was not unattractive: black, tousled hair, tan skin, and green-blue eyes, which seemed to change color depending upon what he was wearing. A decent body, too: strong arms and a muscled chest tapering down to a perfect V at the waist.

Filling two glasses with ice, over which he poured mineral water for both of them, Michael tried to hide his disappointment at the change in Theresa's appearance. She was still gorgeous, but looked nothing like he remembered—or fantasized about. Clad in black from head to toe, her long, wavy hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, and her eyes were obscured by those chic, heavy-framed glasses all the hip people seemed to favor nowadays. Her manner was different, too. Polite, formal. How could this be the same woman who, just two short years ago, was fun, flirty, and enjoyed cursing at him in Italian?
Maybe she wasn't The One after all.

“Here you go.” Michael handed Theresa her Pellegrino and slipped into the chair opposite her. “So,” he said.

“So.”

“You look nice today,” he noted.

“Thank you,” Theresa replied politely, having been taught from a young age that when someone pays you a compliment you acknowledge it, whether you like the person or not. “So, what can I do for you?”

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly thinking better of what he intended to say.

“My brother and I need your help. We want to turn Dante's into an upscale, Manhattan-style restaurant.”

“Okay,” said Theresa, intrigued as she took out a legal pad and pen. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

She listened carefully as he outlined the reinvention he envisioned. Just as she was about to ask him if they planned any renovations—
boom!
—one of the kitchen doors flew open and out stormed an older, 1970's version of Michael, pointedly glaring at them as he strode across the restaurant and out the front door.

Theresa turned to Michael questioningly. “Was that—?”

“My brother?” Michael supplied. “Yeah, that was him, all right.”

“He doesn't seem very happy.”

“He's not. He thinks upgrading the restaurant is a cardinal sin on a par with jarred gravy and
Godfather III.
” Michael shook his head dismissively. “Don't worry about him. I've got him covered.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask me lots of personal questions.”

Theresa squirmed. “If upgrading the restaurant is going to cause your brother to throw an embolism, why do it?”

Michael looked uncomfortable. “Because it's time. My mom died last year, and she always talked about how she wished the place was just a little bit . . . better. I've been waiting to see what Anthony would do, but it's obvious that if I don't step in, things are never going to change. So here I am.” His expression was playful as he leaned toward her. “Anything else you'd like to know?”

Theresa pushed back out of range, hoping he got the message. “Why do you want FM PR to represent you?”

“Well, for one thing, it's all in the family, so to speak.” Theresa assumed he was referring to his connection to Ty and Janna and not, she hoped, some imaginary union between them in the future. “Plus, Eddie James Jackson told me that you, personally, were the best at spinning PR straw into gold.”