“Yes, I’m sure there is Mom, but what am I supposed to do?” Maxine pleaded over the phone. “I can’t date someone who has super models lining up to take him to bed.”
There was a heavy sigh over the line. Maxine imagined her mother sitting under an umbrella in the condo’s courtyard, sipping her morning orange juice. “Those women will exist no matter how much it bothers you,” she said. “The real issue is you and Antony. If you care for him the way you tell me, then you have to trust him. If not, there’s no point.”
Maxine stayed quiet, remembering how easily he lied to her about the towing business. Is there anything else he’s lying about?
“Aunt Margo and I watched the game last night at the sports bar near the beach. First hockey game I’ve sat through since your dad died.” There was pause then she said, “Next time he plays in Florida, I want you to come down for a visit. You never take time off work. Plus”—she didn’t even bother to hide her amusement—“I’d like to see that hunk of a man in person.”
“Mom!”
“I’m glad you called for advice, but I think you already know what you want. Besides”—her voice softened—“your dad was a staunch Toronto fan. I’m sure he’d be excited.”
Maxine ended the call and leaned against the kitchen counter. Various nail polish bottles and used cotton balls littered the area. Her sisters were sitting at the dining table making plans for the bachelor auction, a notepad in front of Rose, a bag of pretzels in front Crosby.
“You didn’t tell her about the bathroom episode,” Rose said.
“I didn’t want to start crying over the phone.”
“You’re braver than me,” Crosby said, munching on the end of a pretzel. “I would have been curled up in the corner, bawling my eyes out. Security would have found me on night patrol.”
“Those women are pathetic,” Rose said. “They’re the ones with body image issues, that’s why they felt so threatened to see you with Antony. It doesn’t make sense to them. They think if you starve yourself, get implants, and wear high heels you’ll nab a husband.” She waved a hand at Crosby. “That’s who is going to get on Marry Me, misguided Barbie dolls with no self-confidence.”
“Hey!” Crosby frowned.
“I don’t mean you.” Rose rolled her eyes. “You probably won’t get picked because nitwits make better TV drama. Oh, please, Crosby, don’t pout. You don’t even know who the bachelor is yet.”
Maxine looked down at her manicure, still slightly tacky from the last coat. The muted pink tone was called, ‘Pretty Little Lies’. She wondered if her subconscious was trying to tell her something. It had been two days since she’d seen Antony—at least in person.
She watched the game last night on her laptop, while Westley and Stuart took another college friend in her place. When Antony scored, her heart soared. He called after the game asking to come over, but she was adamant about her decision the night before. She didn’t want to see him until after Philadelphia.
This was, of course, a lie. She wanted to see him desperately, but the incident in the bathroom had brought to light an issue that impaled her heart and stuck, irritating, and sore, like a hooked thorn.
Maxine had been in a stall when they walked into the bathroom, their stilettos clicking on the tiles.
“I would screw that Antony Laurent anywhere, anytime,” the first one had said.
“His ass is like stone.” The sink tap was turned on.
One of them took the stall next to Maxine. “I’m more interested in the front. I bet he’s hung like a racehorse. I wouldn’t be able to walk for days!”
They both laughed. There was a flush, then more clicking of heels to the mirror. “Did you see that woman he was with?”
A gasp, then the other had said, “Fat ass hobo with piss stains? Must have been one of those Make a Wish things or something.”
“Fat ass hobo.” The other squealed with laughter. “Maybe we should stick around until the short bus comes to pick her up. He’ll probably need some detox therapy to get her smell off his clothes.”
“I’d like to get him out of his clothes!”
“He can put that big cock in me anywhere he wants.”
Maxine stayed in the stall until they’d left. Then she waited a few more minutes, just to be sure. She partly rebuked herself for not bursting out of the stall and facing them, another part of her, the survival part, wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.
But it had happened.
And their words, no matter what the motive, opened an old wound. When she’d returned to Antony it was all she could do to walk with her chin up. She only managed to mutter a few words after that.
The next day at work, she was a zombie, going through the motions. Everyone asked if she was getting sick or having a migraine. Then that night, she watched his game on her laptop in bed, trying to push away the images of the women lined up outside the locker room.
Puck bunnies.
“…Maxie?” Crosby was looking at her expectantly.
“Sorry?”
“Do you think Antony would help get one of his teammates to sign up for the auction? That would be huge! Imagine how impressed my boss would be!”
“Because this is all about you,” Rose muttered, head tilted, writing in short hand. “You don’t even have a master of ceremonies, maybe you should be concentrating on that.”
Crosby licked the salt off her fingers. “Stuart said he’d help if I get stuck. Everything will fall into place eventually. At least this gives me something to concentrate on while I wait to hear about my Marry Me audition tape.”
“You have way too many bachelors in your life,” Rose said.
She sighed. “And not enough time.”
“I’m not sure you should count on me to haul in the hottest bachelors of the city,” Maxine said. The sound of her own pathetic voice was enough to make her fragile shield begin to crack. She’d found an intense passion with Antony that ignited her deepest desires, but now it was fizzling out, leaving her emptier than before.
Her twin sisters stared at her.
“I wish he’d never came back for his stupid phone,” Maxine mumbled. “I wish he was only a rebound.”
“But you love him,” Crosby gushed.
Rose pointed her pen at Maxine. “You have to look at this situation like a grown woman instead of a lovesick chick.”
“Lovesick chick is a great nail polish name!” Crosby grabbed Rose’s pen and jotted it down.
“A guy with wicked moves in the bedroom doesn’t happen by mistake,” Rose said. “Of course he’s going to have past lovers, you both do.”
“I don’t care about his past,” Maxine said.
Rose continued undaunted, “If you’re dating a celebrity, stupid fans encroaching your space is part of the package.”
“I don’t want a celebrity. I want Antony.”
“And so do all those other women.” Crosby reached inside the bag, taking another handful of pretzel sticks.
“Listen,” Rose said, “you can’t be with Antony and then expect the world to stop noticing how hot he is. It’s like having your cake and eating it too.”
“Is this based on your vast knowledge of celebrity dating?” Maxine said, slightly annoyed at her little sister’s pious attitude. “Besides, I don’t want cake; I only want a brownie…and monogamous sex with Antony.”
Rose sighed, sounding just like their mother. “He’s giving you that now. Don’t make this about Johnny.”
“Truly, he’s taken too much from you already,” Crosby added.
“I hadn’t even thought about him,” Maxine admitted. The wedding invitations were now back in the box and shoved under the bed, except for the flashcards Antony had made, she kept those in her bedside table. Jesus, I’ve traded one obsession for another.
Crosby stood up and put her arm around Maxine. “Love is about throwing it all up in the air and seeing what you can catch. Take a chance!”
Maxine frowned and said, “Easy for
you to say, you’re trying to get on a show to fall in love with a stranger.”
“Every stranger is a potential lover, stupid.”
“You sound like Carmine.”
Rose started to pack up her notepad and things. “I think you should stick to your plan; wait until he comes back from Philadelphia and see how you feel.”
Later, Maxine was at the spa prepping her room for her afternoon clients. Three facials, four waxings, and a spa signature manicure. She needed to be at work today, her mind had to focus on something other than Antony. She couldn’t shake the feeling he would crush her heart in the end, and the devastation would be complete, making her split with Johnny seem frivolous.
During her break, she called the one person whose advice always made her feel better. But when he answered, Carmine’s voice did nothing to ease Maxine’s stress.
“You sound terrible,” she said, as his breath wheezed over the phone.
“Only a bad cold, honey.”
When she told him about Antony’s identity he said, “Nicely done. But you can’t figure this one out with a list of pros and cons. In matters of the heart, the brain is useless. I’ll say what I always say, go for the right fit, anything else is a waste of your time.” Then he laughed, brining on a round of wet coughs.
Maxine winced. “Can I bring you anything?”
“No. I kept the store closed today. I’m staying in bed having gin and watching Cabaret.”
“Get better,” she said. “And thanks, Carmine.”
“Love you, honey.”
“Love you, too.”
When Maxine was finished with her last client, an ache had started between her shoulder blades, but it had nothing to do with work. She missed Antony. She pulled her phone out of her purse and saw that he still hadn’t sent her a text all day.
“Well, what do you expect, stupid,” she muttered. “You told him not to call until after Philadelphia.”
There was a knock and then Beverly peeked her head around the door. “Um…one last client came in, requested you specifically.” She grinned and stepped to the side as Antony entered the room. “I’ll be out front,” she sang as she closed the door, leaving them alone.
Maxine put a hand on the counter to steady herself. It had been almost a full two days since she’s seen him in person.
He was in jeans, a tight crew neck sweater, and leather jacket. There was a small shopping bag in his hand. “Bonjour,” he said. “You once promised me facial.”
“I thought we weren’t going to see each other until you came back?”
“It’s been forty-four hours”—Antony looked at his watch—“and ten minutes since I last saw you. I couldn’t wait.” There was the squeak of leather as he leaned closer to her. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “This is not about hockey, is it?”
She concentrated on keeping her voice level. “How can we be together if thin beautiful women are lining up to feel your ass after every game?” She cringed. “That sounded different in my head. It’s just that…well, you lied to me about hockey, and you know my past with Johnny.” Maxine rubbed her forehead. “I’m nervous, I suppose, of what’s happening between us.”
Antony’s face stayed somber. “Those girls want pictures for Facebook—not me. I don’t remember what they look like. Not important.” He handed her the small shopping bag. “But I do remember you not kissing me goodnight.”
Maxine took the bag and lifted out the small plastic container. “You brought me a brownie? You’re always feeding me.”
“I want to make you happy,” he said. “I want you in my life.”
“I don’t belong in your world.” Her voice sounded small and unsure.
“Look in bag again,” he instructed.
Maxine put the brownie on the counter and pulled out a key.
“I’ve never had anyone to my apartment but you,” he said. “Come and stay anytime you want.”
“But—”
“Je te veux,” he interrupted. “I want you. How can I convince you?” he said.
Maxine dropped her gaze. A part of her brain had convinced her heart this was all a joke and soon the gag would be revealed. She could almost see the headline; Fat girl falls for hockey player’s fake love.
Then his lips brushed against hers and his hands smoothed down her side.
“We can’t—” she began, but her words were lost as he started kissing her, soft but insistent.
His hands moved to her back, then slipped around her in a solid embrace. “Je suis fou de désir pour tu,” he breathed into her ear. “I’m mad with desire for you.” His tone coupled with his words and strong embrace were too powerful to ignore.
Maxine sighed in his arms, feeling like she was slipping into a second skin. What other proof did she need before she let herself believe him?
He was her perfect fit. Nothing had ever felt so definite. Maxine felt like she was free falling and flying at the same time, euphorically petrified. She was in love with a man who loved her back, unconditionally—he could never hurt her, she was sure of it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“And they’re sure it’s not a concussion?” Jax’s voice was husky and on edge.
“Oui.” The phone was pinched between Antony’s shoulder and ear as he reached for his wallet. The clerk in the duty free shop packed the bottle of Dior perfume for him. He thought Maxine might find it funny or at least charming in a clumsy kind of way. He usually felt a shade goofier around her, more relaxed.
“Because it could mean losing the rest of the season if you get hit like that again.”
Antony rolled his eyes. A wave of nausea hit him, making him regret the movement. “I know, Jax,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I’m fine…looked worse than it felt.”
“Good thing you got up right away,” she said. “I have a few more gray hairs now, you tough bastard.”
Antony took the package from the clerk and made his way through the airport to his gate. “I’m not one who got game misconduct,” he said.
“You should have heard the radio show after the game. Toronto is ready for blood the next time Philadelphia plays here. You’re their golden boy now, and no one wants to see Laurent illegally hit.”
Antony smiled despite the ache settling across his forehead. “How’s contract looking?” he asked. Visions of a more stable life in Toronto with Maxine had begun to take root in his imagination. He didn’t realize how much he needed her to anchor him. All this time he’d been flailing from one game to the next, nothing solid to hold on to, nothing to care about.
“Listen, nothing is final, but you’re going to be set—for a long time. Keep playing well and for Christ’s sake don’t get hit again.”
By the time Antony had settled into his seat and closed his eyes, ready to sleep off the dizziness, a clear plan had formed in his mind. He’d asked Sasha to check into journalism college programs for Marc, or some kind of community television courses, anything to get him motivated to leave the apartment to help him get a life…so Antony could have one too with Maxine. She was never far from his thoughts. He’d even begun to picture the store front for Beauty Full. Her dreams were now his.
The night before he left for Philadelphia he took a chance and surprised her at work. She resisted slightly, then she let him take her home where they spent the next few hours on her bed in each other’s arms.
“What’s the best thing about hockey?” she’d asked, rubbing her nose against his as they shared a pillow.
“Getting rebound,” he’d said. “Better than slapshot. Goalie can always see first shot, but second shot, the rebound…he’s not expecting.”
“So, you always score on a rebound?” Her voice had a flirtatious but secret quality.
“Non,” he’d said. “They use experience to stop puck. But that’s why rebound is so great. You are denied over and over. Then finally, you get rebound. And is amazing feeling because you never expect it.”
“Oui,” she said. “Rebounds are amazing.
”
Then Antony wrote more French flashcards for her, rewarding her with kisses every time she got one right.
And then later, when they made love with the lights on, she straddled him, rocking her hips, her thick wavy hair cascaded past her shoulders, ending just above her breasts. He felt like he was with Venus from that Botticelli painting. He reached up, tracing her lower lip with his thumb.
She took it in her mouth and sucked before saying, “Je suis à vous.”
I am yours.
Antony came soon after that, repeating the phrase as he thrust his hips upward.
By the time he got back to his apartment that night, Marc was completely pissed that he’d stayed out late without texting him.
“You chase her around like starving dog,” Marc had said. His words were slurred. Antony could see a beer bottle on its side on the kitchen floor. “You need a life,” Antony replied, too tired to play this game. He started down the hallway to his bedroom.
“I had one,” Marc said, wheeling behind him. “But you took it away.”
Antony put his hand on the doorknob and counted to five. The urge to push his brother out of that goddamn wheelchair was so strong sometimes it scared him.
There was a sniff from Marc. “Je voudrais être morte.”
The fist around Antony’s heart tightened its grip. The fingertips digging in, puncturing over and over. “Don’t wish you were dead.” There was a pause of silence then Antony turned, his palms facing Marc in a repentant gesture. “Early tomorrow, before I go, you tell me stats for Philadelphia. Who will score, who will hit, who I watch for…oui?”
Marc’s pout dissolved. He shrugged in his chair. “Oui. Et après chaque jeu trop?”
“Oui, after every game, too.”
Antony stayed good on his promise and had talked with Marc after every game, listening and taking notes, but mostly looking at the clock waiting for the hour to be over so he could call Maxine.
The only time Marc hadn’t contacted him right away was after the last game when he’d suffered the hit from behind.
After the medical staff cleared him, he’d called Marc right away knowing that he would have been watching the game on TV. But his brother didn’t sound concerned, there was only a mild irritation in his voice.
The Right Fit Page 17