Fair Play (22 page)

 

 

Ty's admonition pissed
Michael off so much he remained fired up for the rest of the day, and well into the Blades game that night against the Rangers. By the time the third period rolled around, Michael had been a physical presence on both ends of the ice. The Blades held a slim, one-goal lead with the clock ticking down slower than seemed humanly possible.

Ty had Michael on the ice for a defensive face-off with less than a minute remaining. There was a mad scramble in front of the Blades crease and the puck squirted out to the point. Michael saw Rangers defenseman Pascal Noel winding up to take a slap shot; reflexively, Michael dove to block it, the puck hitting him squarely on the right side of the helmet as his body crumpled to the ice. He felt his eyes roll up in the back of his head as he grimaced against the pounding pain beating at his temple. A white, hissing sound seemed to fill his ears, blocking out the sound of the final horn as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, there were four Kevin Gills standing over him.

“Mike?”

The hissing sound had ebbed away, replaced by that of a phone that seemed to be ringing from deep inside his head. He blinked, fighting to focus. The multiple images remained. The ringing sound now hummed in a perfect circle around the perimeter of his skull.

“Mike? You gonna be okay? You need help getting up?”

He nodded, causing a surge of nausea deep within him. He allowed Kevin and Tully Webster to help him to his feet. Skating toward the bench, he barely heard the praise of his teammates. Rather than stopping, he headed straight for the bathroom in the visiting team's locker room, where he puked his guts out. Looking up, he found Dr. Linderman, one of the team's physicians, staring at him.

“How you doing, Michael?”

“Okay,” Michael replied, loping over to the nearest bench to sit down.

“You dizzy?”

Michael nodded weakly, then regretted it. He should have lied. The more symptoms he displayed, the longer he was likely to be off the ice. He knew guys whose brains were scrambled because they insisted on playing through a head injury. He didn't want to be one of them, but at the same time . . . shit . . .

He blinked furiously as the doctor shone a light deep into his eyes. “All right, we're going to do an X ray here, and then we'll shoot over to the hospital. They'll probably want to keep you overnight for observation. Looks like you have a concussion.”

“No kidding.”

Peeling off his helmet, Michael groaned. The room was moving to and fro and the urge to throw up again was strong. With deliberate slowness he stood, trying hard not to appear too woozy. Having been through this before, he already knew he'd be out for at least three days.

And he knew who Ty would put in to replace him.

The next day,
the back page of the
New York Post
screamed BADABOING! MIKEY D HAS CONCUSSION, while the
Daily News
declared, ONE FOR THE TEAM: MIKEY D TAKES SHOT TO THE MELON. Concerned, Theresa pressed Janna the hockey expert for details. When she learned that Michael had to be symptom free for at least forty-eight hours before he'd be allowed to play, she realized his injury provided her with the perfect excuse to pay him a visit and apologize for the disastrous ending of their dinner date the week before.

She'd decided Janna was right.

She
was
cutting off her nose to spite her face by being so rigid in the parameters she'd set for her dream man. She was still attracted to Reese, and if he called and asked her out she'd certainly join him. But she was done thinking of him as the answer to her cosmopolitan prayers. Her new M.O. was to be open-minded to whatever and whoever the world decided to throw in her path.

And that included Michael Dante.

Two days later, she was on the subway, halfway to Brooklyn to surprise him, when it dawned on her that she had no idea where he lived, apart from the fact it was in Park Slope. They'd been so busy talking on the way there she'd paid no attention to where he was driving and she wasn't in the room later when he made the call to the cab company to pick her up. She called Janna from her cellphone, hoping Janna could in turn buzz Ty and get back to her. But Janna's phone was off.

Which left Theresa with one option.

She couldn't decide whether Anthony looked horrified or terrified when he opened the door of the restaurant to her.

“Mikey's not here,” he announced soberly, clearly hoping she would turn around and leave. When she didn't, simmering resentment crept into his already suspicious brown eyes.

“I know that,” Theresa replied. “I need his home address.” Anthony looked unmoved. “I need to talk to him about something important,” she added, hoping the additional gravitas would yield an answer.

“Mikey's unavailable,” Anthony declared.

Theresa was unsure how to take this. Was he referring to the concussion? Or was he making a veiled comment about their failed date? Maybe Michael had poured his frustration out to Anthony, who was really telling Theresa to take a hike and leave his brother alone. Maybe Michael
wanted
her to leave him alone? She hadn't even thought of that.

“Look, Anthony, I really need to talk to him,” Theresa repeated.

“If it's about the restaurant, you can talk to me,” Anthony declared, folding his massive forearms across his chest.

“It's not just about the restaurant,” Theresa informed him, drawing her scarf tighter against her throat. “Though something has come up.”

“What?” Anthony growled.

“There's a local cable show called
Italian Cooking and Living.
Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“Well, they got the press kit and called, wanting to know if you might be interested in being a guest chef.”

“No, thanks.”

“Anthony—”

“Do I look like Molto freakin' Mario to you?” He glowered. “Do I?”

No,
thought Theresa,
you look like you should be in a straight jacket, pumped full of Thorazine.
She took a deep breath and tried again.

“Anthony—”

“You want Mikey's address or what?”

“That would be great,” Theresa replied politely. Michael was right: Talking to Anthony was like talking to a slab of granite, especially if he didn't care for what you were saying.

“It's 212 President Street.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't get him worked up,” Anthony warned. “He's supposed to be resting.”

“I won't get him worked up,” Theresa promised, thanking him profusely while wondering if
worked up
meant something sexual in Anthonyspeak.

 

 

Turning on to Michael's
brownstone-lined street, Theresa felt her mouth go dry. Suppose she buzzed to be let in and he wouldn't see her? What then? Fingers crossed, she climbed the high steps leading to his front door and pressed the bell.

The intercom crackled. “Hello?” It was Michael.

Theresa cleared her throat and nervously leaned in closer to the intercom. “Michael, it's Theresa. Can I come in?”

She released the button and waited, worrying a hang-nail on her left index finger. He was going to politely tell her to take a hike. He was going to read her the riot act, calling her a psycho and every other choice name in the book. He was—

“Come on up.”

Buzzed through the front door, Theresa found him waiting at his apartment door, looking tired and a little worse for wear in a pair of blue sweatpants and a softly faded red flannel shirt.

“Hey,” he said quietly. He had a severe case of bed head. Obviously he'd been lying down.

“Hey,” she returned, peering into his face with considerable concern. “How are you feeling? I heard you took a puck to the head.”

“I still have a headache,” he admitted, ushering her inside. “And if I get up too fast from lying down, the whole room spins. But apart from that . . .” He held out a hand. “Take your coat?”

“Thanks.” She slipped off her trench coat and handed it to him, watching as he went to hang it on a nearby coat rack, his steps slightly unsteady.

“Michael, why don't you lie back down on the couch and I'll make us something to drink? It doesn't look like you should be on your feet.”

“I'm fine,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Michael.”

He shrugged. “Okay. You want to play nursemaid while I lie on my butt, who am I to argue?”

Theresa waited until he'd eased himself back down on the sofa before perching on the edge by his feet. “You look miserable.”

“I am miserable. I can't play. I can't even practice.”

“Who's replacing you?” she asked, seeing immediately it was a mistake as his eyes flared with contempt.

“That little shit you met at the party, van Dorn. Don't you read the papers?” he asked bitterly. “In the space of two games, he's turned the third line into a scoring line and brings lightning speed where before there was only steely determination.”

Theresa winced. “Is that a direct quote?”

“Yeah, from the
Times.
Like that
la fava
LaPointe knows a thing about hockey.”

Theresa laughed. “You Dante boys need your mouths washed out with soap.”

“Yeah, well, if the epithet fits . . .” Michael grumbled. He raised himself up slightly, adjusting the pillows behind his back. “I may not be the most riveting conversationalist today. My head hurts and this whole thing with van Dorn has put me in a pretty bad mood.”

“That's okay,” Theresa assured him. The urge to touch his tired face, brush her knuckles against the day-old stubble gracing his cheek, was strong. She opted instead for a friendly squeeze to his foot, since she was sitting right next to it. “You want me to make you some coffee or something? Tea?”

“Nah, I'm fine. But if you want to make yourself something, go ahead.”

“I'm fine, too.” She glanced around the living room, which seemed a bit messier than the last time she'd been there. Newspapers were piled up on the floor and a ratty old afghan lay crumpled by Michael's feet. “So, what have you been doing to entertain yourself?”

“Watching
The Wild and the Free.
Reading.”

“What do hockey players read?” she asked. “No, wait, I know. Your favorite book is . . .” she closed her eyes, deep in concentration, “
Of Ice and Men.
” Her eyes sprang open. “Favorite play?
The Iceman Cometh.
”

“Is that your idea of hockey humor?” Michael asked in a voice laced with pity.

“It was pretty good for off the top of my head.” She grinned.

“Well, it's funnier than
Happy Gilmore,
but it's no
Slap Shot.
”

“Thank you,” Theresa said. “I think.”

“So, what brings you to Park Slope?” he asked, his eyes quietly searching her face.

“You.”

“Uh huh,” Michael replied cautiously, his expression giving away nothing. “You have some restaurant stuff we need to go over?”

“I already handled it with Anthony.”

Michael stiffened in alarm. “You talked to Anthony?”

“Just briefly. I told him the local cable show
Italian Cooking and Living
wants him as a guest chef. He said he has no interest.”

Michael closed his eyes, sighing. “Don't listen to him. He'll do it.”

“What are you going to do, put a gun to his head?”

“Just trust me on this, okay? Get me the details, and I'll make it happen.”

“Okay,” Theresa replied dubiously. She shifted her weight, fearful she might slip off the edge of the couch onto the floor. “This might sound nosy, but does Anthony have a girlfriend or anything?”

Michael's eyes slowly opened. “Why?” he asked harshly. “You interested?”

“What?” Theresa exclaimed. She tried to picture herself even touching Anthony and burst out laughing. “Are you nuts?”

Michael looked suspicious. “Then why do you want to know?”

She stopped chuckling. “Because he seems so self-contained. Alone. I just wondered if he had anyone.”

“Other than the Virgin Mary? No.” Michael scratched absently at the stubble on his chin. “There was this hostess at the restaurant for a while named Loretta. He had a crush on her, but I don't think he ever did anything about it.” He frowned. “What can you do? That's who he is.”

“I guess,” she concurred.
And I think I'm starting to figure out who I am. I think.