“You’re bad.” There was a rustling sound in the background, and he pictured her untying the knot in the sash, then fanning open both sides of the robe as she lay on the bed. Her voice came through again, salacious and heavy with want. “Don’t stop.”
He pressed further; his erection had its own pulse now. Antony pulled down his zipper, as he began to describe the seduction he was imagining.
The smile was permanent on Antony’s face, even when Chase stumbled into the room two hours later, drunk with a pair of pink lacy thongs tucked into his jacket pocket. And even the next day when the Russian defender’s knuckles split his bottom lip open, requiring three stitches, All the while, Antony kept grinning.
He’d skated off the ice, leaving a trail of blood while one of the trainers held a towel to his face. There was a standing ovation from a group of fans dressed in the blue and white Maple Leaf’s jerseys.
“Christ, Laurent.” The trainer smiled as they went under the bleaches toward the medical room. “One goal, one assist, and a highlight reel worthy fight. You’re my hero.”
Don’t lose your passion.
Not a chance.
Chapter Seventeen
“You look like you’re going to be sick. Is your sandwich off or something?” Crosby crinkled up her nose. The new diamond stud captured the light above, momentarily blinking at Maxine.
“Sorry, what?” Maxine turned away from the bistro window.
“You were going to tell us your news,” Rose prompted, but her voice was laced with worry. She and Crosby traded expressions. “You sounded excited over the phone.”
Maxine’s smile slipped back in place. Antony was flying back to Toronto tonight, and she was completely giddy with the idea of seeing him that when Rose called to chat, Maxine blurted out that they should meet for lunch with Crosby.
She felt dopey with anticipation knowing that her sisters would be thrilled for her, she’d planned on keeping Antony a secret, but since the phone call from Florida she’d been picturing him becoming part of her life. It was a terrifying and exhilarating prospect, like jumping off the high dive platform for the first time.
In a flash of inspiration, Maxine started pulling down old sweaters she still loved but were too small. She thought of the pin up girl Antony had been describing, and was toying with the sexy idea of dressing up for him.
Then the white box toppled down when she’d grabbed a pile of pullovers. The lid slipped off and the wedding invitations fell to the floor, scattering between her feet.
Johnny. Damn it.
And before she could stop herself, she slipped back into the memory, the image of him superimposed over the present. It was like seeing a movie with no way of turning it off.
Maxine watched as Johnny shoved the clothes he’d kept in her top drawer into a small duffel bag. Her eyes were throbbing and gritty. She stood with her arms at her sides, dumbfounded, stunned into silence.
Johnny had arrived unannounced with a small cardboard box and his leather overnight bag, which had been traveling between his apartment and Maxine’s for four years.
He moved from her bedroom to the hallway, snatching his collection of coupons from under the magnet on the fridge.
She must have made a sound then, a mild declaration of opposition, because he finally turned to her. “I never lied to you, Maxine,” he said.
“You’re having an affair,” she said straight forward, her nerves deadened by the complete obliteration of her reality.
“You must have known; we stopped having sex three months ago.” Then he turned and entered the living room. The cardboard box that had been placed on the uncluttered table was now full of Johnny’s finance magazines. His gaze focused on the flat screen television and console. “If you’d asked me, I would have told you. All you had to do was voice your suspicions.”
The dullness in Maxine’s soul began to dissipate. A sharpness cut through the misery, fanned by angry desperation. “We’re engaged,” she sputtered.
He folded the box closed and pulled up the shoulder strap of his duffle bag. “Just because we talked about it, doesn’t make it real,” his tone, sarcastically apologetic. “There’s no ring. How can we be engaged if I never gave you a ring? Hmm?”
A stone the size of her heart stuck in Maxine’s throat. “We talked about buying a house. We were going to adopt a dog. I showed you wedding invitation samples. I even had one drawn up as an example.” Her voice was starting to rise. “You commented on the font!”
Johnny grabbed the box and pushed past her to the front door. “I don’t remember.”
Maxine raced back to her bedroom and took one of the white cards from the mess on the floor where she’d dropped them the day before. She threw herself between Johnny and the door, shoving the stationary in his face.
“You said Times New Roman! I changed the lettering, I had it centered and embossed in black. It’s perfect! I had the rest printed up as a surprise.” Her voice started to crack. “How can you be having sex with someone else while criticizing the font on our wedding invitation?” she screamed. “How?”
“Maxine,” he hissed, looking at the door as if the whole world was listening on the other side. “Whatever we had wasn’t the romance you thought. I’ve fallen in love with someone else. You have to accept that. And I have to go.”
“No!” She pulled on the box. “You’re not leaving!”
“Stop it! You’re embarrassing yourself.” Then he leaned in so close she could count the furrows the comb had left in his hair. She was still wearing the dress she had on yesterday, there was a stain on the front with a few crumbs.
“I know you’ll be telling everyone how I cheated on you, but I never lied to you, Maxine. If anyone was pretending in this relationship it was you.”
After he left, Maxine stared at the door for another hour, still trying to wake up from this nightmare. He’ll come back, she kept telling herself. But he never came back. He even hired someone to come get the flat screen television.
The memory left Maxine somber, her previous anticipation had dissipated. Would he ever stop sneaking into her mind? These days it was worse because she wasn’t expecting it, Antony had taken up most of her imagination.
She’d cursed and kicked the box with her foot, sending more invitations across the floor. Old insecurities rose to the surface. The sweater idea seemed ridiculous now. Antony probably made the story up on the spot, trying to make her feel better about her weight. Had she imagined a more romantic relationship with Johnny? Was she doing it now with Antony?
With the cloud of Johnny hanging over her head like a perpetual rainstorm, Maxine put on her layers of warm clothes and met her sisters for lunch.
Now, over plates of grilled avocado with brie, tomato, and beansprout sandwiches, Maxine took a deep breath, ready to jump off the high dive again, as it were. She simply told her sisters, “I met someone.”
A half hour later, their little table was cleared of lunch plates and covered in lattes and dessert plates.
“What’s the name of his towing company again?” Rose asked, her fingers twitched like she was dying to grab her notepad and pencil and jot notes. You have no idea how many people money launder drug profits in this city,” she arched a challenging eyebrow. “I have my finger on the pulse of the darker side of Toronto.” Then her eyes grew wide and she whispered, “Mafia.”
“You work for the paper and write columns about people killing each other every day. That doesn’t make you an expert on my love life.”
“I’m just saying be careful.”
There was a lull in the conversation at their little table. Maxine folded and refolded the napkin, pressing her finger along the crease. “He keeps me from thinking about Johnny—like a rebound is supposed to do, but now I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m worried I’m only replacing memories of Johnny instead of actually moving on. Maybe I’m only using him?”
Crosby brought the cappuccino mug to her lips, her bangles slid and tinkled alo
ng her arm. “Romance isn’t about who you should love the most. It’s about who makes you feel the most loved.” She sipped her drink.
“That’s hardly helpful,” Rose said, pressing her fork into the pie crumbs. “She turned to her older sister. “Why are you worried about how much you like this guy?”
Maxine cupped her hands around her mint tea, considering the question. Rose was skilled at getting to the heart of the matter. The memory of Johnny slipped a splinter of doubt into her feelings for Antony. She glanced out the window; the sky was heavy with threatening layers of gray. “It’s all so physical. What if that’s all there is?”
“Why does he have to be your rebound? Maybe he’s your next boyfriend,” Rose suggested, completely dedicated to logical reasoning.
“It’s so different than it was with Johnny though,” Maxine said.
“That’s a good thing,” Crosby said.
Still, Maxine wondered if she was setting herself up for another heartbreak. As much as she tried to keep her feelings in check, Antony was getting under her skin, making her giddy, giving her hope. She dared to think about a future with him.
The bistro began to empty out. Maxine softened her voice. “Everything is so intense with this guy. I’ve never felt this way before, but I worry it’s too much, that it will fizzle out or something.”
Rose pushed her plate away and tightened her ponytail. “What do you want?”
Maxine smiled. “I want more.”
“Then tell him that.”
“How?”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Easy, just say—hold on, what’s his name again?”
“Antony.”
Crosby squealed. “I love it, sounds like a Roman soldier.”
“I know!” Maxine laughed.
Rose cleared her throat. “You say, ‘Antony, I like you, I want to see you more.’ What? Why are you laughing?” She tossed her napkin at Crosby. “That’s a perfectly reasonably statement.”
Maxine said, “But what if he says no?”
“Romance means taking a chance.” Crosby reached out and squeezed her hand. “Besides,” she said. “I haven’t seen you smile this much in over six months.”
When she returned to her apartment, the snow flurries had gained in number, promising an impending storm. Maxine began to check the airport website for flight cancellations, but she didn’t know which airline Antony was flying with.
Needing a distraction, she opened her laptop and searched for an image of Antony’s pin up girl with the half-knitted sweater. When she found the redhead in the seductive pose, it was like fireworks set off inside her heart. The simple existence of this image convinced her that Antony could be trusted. “If I can trust him with my body,”—she said out loud—“I can trust him with my heart.”
She picked out an outfit to change into then went to her nail polish stash. The deep red shade caught her eye. Maxine was thrilled to read, Art of Seduction, on the bottom of the bottle.
Antony would be coming over tonight…hopefully with condoms. He asked for the lights to stay on. A warmth began to spread out from her stomach, then downward.
Her phone buzzed from the kitchen counter.
Ace.
Antony’s voice echoed from far away. His words were muffled. “Bad news.”
“Your flight is delayed?”
“Non, very bad.”
Chapter Eighteen
Antony stood on the other side of Maxine’s apartment door and wet his lips. The stitches poked out of his lower mouth, scratching his tongue. The fight last night was spectacular, one of those battles where both players held each other’s jersey while they swung like crazy with the other fist—making hay, the announcer had said on the after game broadcast.
“What’s wrong?” Maxine asked.
He could hear the sudden panic in her voice. “I had accident.”
“What kind of accident? Are you all right? Are you in the hospital? Are you still in Florida?”
He waited a few heartbeats then said, “Open your door.”
Antony thought he’d gotten the better of Bachlahov, at least he was sure he landed more punches, his swollen hands and busted knuckles were a testament to that. And it hardly took any time for the medical staff on site to stitch him up, but when he looked at his face this morning, the angry black eye and swollen lip were poor consolation of a trophy for winning the fight.
He put on his suit and boarded the private plane with the rest of his teammates and flew back to Toronto. Usually, he’d wear the damage like a badge of honor for a game well played, a team member who protects his line and doesn’t take crap.
But this time was different. Maxine was waiting for him.
Antony was desperate for some kind of story to tell her. He whisked into his apartment, distracted and frantic, dropping luggage and peeling off his jacket. Marc wasted no time in barraging him with his critique.
“Fight should have happened in first period.” Marc wheeled behind him following around the apartment. “Come out strong, attack him first. I sent text, oui? J’avais raison?”
“Oui.” Antony stood at his closet, unbuttoning his shirt. “Tu as raison.” He reached for a t-shirt and sweater, then tucked a pair of jeans under his arm. “You are right.”
Marc stayed in the doorway. The familiar weight of obligation forced Antony to slow down. He sat on his bed, listening to his brother review notes from both games. Most of his attention was on his watch, ticking away the seconds. He wished he could stop time, save this for tomorrow. Marc was Antony’s strongest advocate in terms of learning and improving his game, but in life, he was his weakest ally.
“Tu as raison,” Antony said for what seemed like the millionth time.
Marc spoke about the fight again. “Might have saved this,” he said, tapping his lower lip.
Antony touched his mouth. The stitches pulled every time he spoke or smiled.
Marc said, “There’s Italian stew leftover.” His tone was hopeful now. “Good, but not as good as Mama’s.”
“Vrai.” Antony took in his brother’s shaggy hair and sweat pants. There was a button missing half way down his shirt. “Sasha will be upset to see flabby belly,” he pointed to the opening in his shirt. “She tell you to weight train every day, oui?”
“Home gym broke.”
Antony tossed his suit pants on the bed, then slipped on his jeans. “Quand?”
Marc picked at a loose thread on the waistband of his sweat pants. “Last week.” He shrugged.
“Pourquoi ne me l’as-tu pas dit?” Antony heard the impatience in his voice and adjusted his tone. “You should have told me. I need to fix for you.”
“Tonight?” Marc almost sounded happy.
“Non.” Antony hurried by the wheelchair and went to the bathroom. He groaned at the face staring back at him, the swelling had worsened since this morning. He wished he’d put ice on it during the flight. But even then, the bruises and the black stitches sticking out of his lower lip made him practically into a monster.
He made his way to the front hall, choosing his parka with the hood and a pair of sunglasses. “Don’t eat all stew,” he called out. “And don’t wait up.”
Marc wheeled himself out of the kitchen, there was an unopened can of beer on his lap. He looked Antony up and down. “Date with good fuck charm?” he prompted.
The muscles in Antony’s jaw tightened. “You need English lessons.”
“I need a lot of things,” he said. Then he stared back at Antony, letting the silence build between them, enforcing the invisible shield that encircled them both. Antony had been suffocating in that bubble with Marc for five years. The only way out was with the words he’d never be able to speak. The muzzle was the price Antony paid for having a life as a free man, except his freedom was the chain Marc let out and pulled back in every day.
“Don’t eat all stew,” Antony repeated. Then he left the apartment, making sure to lock the door behind him.
All the way to Maxine’s ap
artment, he drove with the windows down, letting the bitter wind numb his face. The visceral pain of the chill started to replace the cuts Marc’s words had left on Antony’s conscience.
Shit, he’s right. As much as he wanted to deny it, he was using Maxine as a good luck charm. He came to a stoplight. In the rearview mirror, his bruised and blood shot eye blinked back. His lip looked like a blotted worm. It would be impossible to kiss her. Then the idea hit him with a jolt—he may have found a loophole. By the time Antony had parked and was walking up the stairs to Maxine’s apartment, he’d convinced himself it would work.
Now, standing outside her door, talking on the phone, he was about to find out.
“Open the door?” she repeated. Her footsteps approached from the other side. There was the dull click of the deadbolt sliding back.
He slipped on his sunglasses, hoping to spare her the full onslaught of his disfiguration. As soon as she opened the door and screamed, Antony realized a paper bag over his entire head would have been better.
Her eyes grew round as saucers. “What happened to you? Should we call the police?” she stammered.
“Stupid accident last night,” he said, reaching up and taking off his glasses.
Her jaw dropped. “How?” she asked, still talking to him through the phone.
“I fall down stairs.” His words sounded full to him. His lips couldn’t move around the letters.
She kept staring.
“Can I come in?”
Taking him by the elbow, she gingerly led him into the apartment as if he was too frail to move forward on his own. Antony closed the door behind him and tucked his phone in his jacket pocket.
She pulled him into the kitchen, under the bright ceiling light. Maxine’s fingers lightly touched his cheek. “This happened falling down the stairs?”
“Oui,” Antony was momentarily distracted by her touch.
“It must hurt,” she said. Her gaze traveled along the bruises and then his mouth. “I’d hate to see the damage you did to the stairs.” There was slight intonation of skepticism.
The Right Fit Page 11