The Right Fit

by Daphne Dubois

  “This auction is kind of disgusting,” Rose said. “I’m a bit perplexed by the whole thing, actually. What woman would buy her date?”

  “You’re so cynical,” Crosby touched her bohemian braid, her hair was so long it snaked over her shoulder and down her chest. “Everyone knows it’s for charity.”

  “You’d be cynical too if your boss asked you to make coffee and pick up his dry cleaning.”

  “My boss does ask me to make coffee and pick up her dry cleaning,” Crosby said.

  “You’re an assistant. I’m a reporter—a journalist!” She took a long sip of wine. “Maybe I should start tagging along with the cops on all night stakeouts or something.”

  Maxine choked on her wine. “What?”

  “I want to get ahead at the paper so I have to start getting real stories.” Then she added with a hushed tone. “I’m secretly investigating one of Toronto’s better known judges.”

  Crosby stopped typing mid-stroke. “Which one?” she asked.

  “Like you’d know.” Rose snorted and took another handful of mix.

  “Stakeouts? Crooked judges? Rose, this sounds too dangerous,” Maxine lectured. “Mom would be so worried if she knew.”

  “I’m going to be doing the horoscopes if I don’t get a major scoop soon.”

  Maxine paused. “They actually say ‘scoop’ at the Globe and Mail? I thought that was movie lingo.”

  “What’s wrong with horoscopes?” Crosby looked genuinely insulted. “I read them every day.”

  Maxine’s cell buzzed from the side table by the lamp. She jumped, all nerves and butterflies under her skin.

  Rose reached for it first. She looked at the caller ID and gave Maxine a sad smile. “Sorry, it’s just Westley.” She answered the phone. “Greetings, Maxine’s answering service.”

  A new kind of tremor ran over Maxine’s skin. True to her word, she kept his secret from their sisters, but Westley still hadn’t found the courage to tell Stuart his feelings. He’d told Maxine that each time he tried, his stomached knotted up and the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Stuart asked if he was coming down with the flu or something. But maybe tonight the timing would be right. This could be it, Maxine thought, studying Rose’s expression. She crossed her fingers behind her back, saying a silent prayer for Westley’s heart.

  Rose huffed at the phone. “We’re doing that stupid bachelor thing. What? No, of course we’re not watching the hockey game!” she said, indignantly. She reached for more party mix then her expression went blank. She turned to Maxine. “Oh no.”

  “What?” Maxine’s pulse quickened.

  “Westley and Stu are at the sports bar watching the hockey game,” she sputtered. “Antony’s been hurt.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Here we go, sport!” the orderly’s cheerful voice unnecessarily announced Antony’s arrival at his own hospital room. He pushed Antony’s wheelchair into the generic space; light green walls, one window, a small paper bag taped to the edge of the bedside table, and a box of tissues. The only distinct item was a fruit basket from Jax; half-eaten and now going spoiled.

  “Merci,” Antony said automatically. Then he added, “Thank you.” Jax hadn’t been exaggerating, Florida was far from anything French—anything familiar.

  The orderly patted him on the shoulder and slipped out of the room, whistling as he walked down the hallway, his footsteps squeaking dully on the polished tile.

  Antony pulled at the edge of the hospital gown down, trying to make it longer. They gave him another one to use as a housecoat, but the coverage was minimal. He wished Marc would get there soon.

  For the past few days, Antony been carted back and forth to the x-ray department several times. This last visit took an hour. He had to stay completely still for the MRI. The spinal specialist had insisted on another one before he could be allowed to go home.

  Home.

  Antony never thought he’d be so anxious to get back to the condo with its stacks of boxes and nearly empty fridge. He didn’t have enough time to find a good market before the accident.

  He’d worried about Marc the first day after the accident. The caregiver Sasha had arranged only lasted two days. Marc fired her, insisting she had a bipolar disorder, plus terrible body odor.

  It’s not like Marc couldn’t take care of himself, but it gave Antony peace of mind. He barely slept that first night. But the next morning Marc arrived before breakfast, cleanly shaven and in an ironed dress shirt. He stayed at the hospital while Antony underwent all his tests. A new solidarity had begun to form between them.

  When Antony first woke in emergency, he was strapped to a stretcher with a neck brace in place and securely fastened. Bright penlights shone in his eyes, questions were coming from blurred faces. The first thing he choked out was his brother’s name. “Marc…?”

  They took him directly to x-ray, every nudge of the stretcher felt like a jolt through his whole body. By the time they were done, Antony had been gritting his teeth for so long that his jaw felt locked. On the way back, he heard Marc’s voice above the din of the triage center.

  “Où est mon frère? Who’s in charge? What’s being done?” His tone was stern and combative.

  After a spinal cord injury had been ruled out, they loosened Antony’s neck brace and allowed him to turn his head. Marc wheeled up close to his stretcher, his face inches from Antony’s.

  His eyes were red. “Regarde moi. Look at me, Antony. They have top guy looking after you.” He squeezed Antony’s hand. “You feel this?”

  “Oui.”

  “Bien. I won’t let go.”

  “J’ai peur,” he whispered.

  “Don’t be scared. Doctor said spine is fine. Feeling will come back.” Marc squeezed his hand again and this time Antony squeezed back.

  The following day, Antony had full feeling of his legs and started on physiotherapy to get up and walking, but all other physical exercise had to be closely monitored due to his concussion. Marc was there, watching every specialist come in the room with a razor sharp stare, listening to their own diagnosis of Antony’s temporary condition. It was Marc who asked all the questions and insisted Antony be followed by a team of rehab specialists.

  “If you’re going to be on injury list, you go back stronger, better,” Marc reasoned.

  “Oui.” Antony smiled. “Tu es raison.”

  You are right.

  A switch had taken place in their roles, allowing Marc to step in and act as the big brother he used to be. Antony looked back at the car accident with different eyes. Marc had to go through everything on his own that first night with Antony and his parents too much in shock to go back and demand answers. Instead of a brother staying steadfast by his side, he had to look into the eyes of strangers, giving him weak smiles and vague encouragement. It was something Antony had never considered until now. He’d been too busy feeling guilty and growing bitter at how his life was changed forever.

  Waiting to be discharged, Antony checked the clock on the wall. Where was Marc? He tapped his slipper on the footplate of the wheel chair. He wanted his clothes. He wanted to leave. The hospital bed was miserable. He dreamed of his king size mattress at home.

  Weary of sitting, he shuffled to the window, watching for the Access-A-Bus Marc was taking this morning. Antony insisted he was fine to drive home, but the specialist just laughed. He watched the traffic, squinting into the distance. Where was Marc, he wondered again.

  Antony wished he’d brought his cell phone. Marc tried looking for it through his gear bag that had been dropped off by the team assistant, but he couldn’t find it. Not being able to reach Marc had been the most frustrating thing in this whole process.

  “Who’s sex slave now?” Marc had teased when Antony chastised him the other day for not answering when he called from the hospital phone. The irony of the moment was not lost on Antony.

  Now, waiting in the room and wearing a too small hospital gown, Antony pictured his phone, dead on batter
y life, probably wedged between a pair of shin pads. But it wasn’t only Marc he was hoping would show up.

  Every time a set of heels clicked down the hallway, his heart stopped, waiting for Maxine to appear in the doorway, but she never came, and she never called. There was the slimmest possible hope that maybe she was trying to reach him through his missing cell phone, but Antony realized he had to start accepting she didn’t want to be part of his life.

  Had he imagined the intensity? How could she walk away from what they both felt? Antony replayed all their conversations over again in his mind. During the most passionate moments, there was always a mutual trust, he thought. And one of the last times they made love she’d said. “Je suis à vous.”

  I am yours.

  He should have told her about the hockey when he’d gone back for his cell phone the first time. The good luck charm catastrophe wouldn’t have been an issue and maybe he’d still be in Toronto with her by his side. When she told him about being her rebound, he should have vowed to do everything in and out of the bedroom to make Johnny a distant memory.

  But that was too many maybes. A dull ache settled between his ribs sending a chill down his arms. How could any other woman compare to her?

  A whistle broke through Antony’s daydream. Marc grinned at him, with a duffle bag in his lap. “Not your size,” he said, pointing to the hospital gown. “Nice legs, though.”

  “About time. Bring my jeans?” Antony couldn’t keep the impatience from his tone.

  He handed the duffle bag over. “Dr. Kensington in yet?”

  “Non.” Antony had slipped behind the curtain and already pulled on his boxers and jeans. He tugged the t-shirt over his head and tossed the hospital gowns on the bed.

  “Monsieur Laurent,” Dr. Kensington’s familiar voice rang out. He couldn’t speak French, but when he tried he always talked with a French accent. Antony smiled to himself, Marc really liked Dr. Kensington, but he secretly loathed the accent thing.

  “I looked at your MRI,” Dr. Kensington said from his wheelchair. “You’re all clear. I just signed your discharge papers.”

  “Merci,” Antony said, extending his hand to shake Dr. Kensington’s. When Antony first met the spinal specialist the morning after the on-ice hit, he couldn’t keep the shock from his expression. Dr. Kensington was completely comfortable telling Antony his own story of a diving accident during his third year of medical school. No longer able to be a surgeon, he almost gave up school all together. Then a professor at the University of Orlando convinced him to become part of a team researching the latest advancements in spinal cord injuries. The treatment of anti-inflammatories and extensive physiotherapy being the cornerstone of their care. Now he worked out of Tampa, heading his own team.

  “I want you followed closely over the next three months.” Dr. Kensington withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote down a number. “This is the physiotherapist who will be doing home visits for the first two weeks then you’ll come here. I’ve given your file to Kayla. She has a lot of experience. You’ll meet her soon.” He handed the note to Antony.

  Antony shifted his weight, eager to leave the hospital.

  Dr. Kensington stayed in place, almost blocking the doorway. “This isn’t your first concussion, Antony. The MRI doesn’t lie.” He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s partly responsible for the way your body reacted to this hit. Make sure the team trainer knows if you’re having any of those symptoms we talked about.”

  “Uh-huh.” The heat from his embarrassed blush warmed Antony’s cheeks.

  “You’re officially off the game roster for three months,” he told him. “And it’s my call if you’re able to go back to full practice. So”—he smiled—“it’s in your best interest to be honest with me. Like I said, the MRI doesn’t lie.”

  Antony nodded. If Dr. Kensington was in Toronto, he wouldn’t have been able to play after the first concussion. Despite the well-meaning threat, he felt safe for the first time in years. Not only physically, but financially too. He’d signed his contract pre-injury and the coach for Tampa Bay made it clear he’s interested in keeping Antony for the long term. Being off wouldn’t affect his salary.

  “What are we going to do in Florida for three months if you can’t play hockey for rest of season?” Marc teased. He seemed more relaxed these days.

  “You can play hockey in a few weeks,” Dr. Kensington explained, “just not NHL style.” This time it was the specialist’s turn to blush. “I was going to suggest you take up sled hockey.” Then he turned to Marc, “You probably played in Toronto. Believe it or not, we have a fairly sizable league here. A lot of surfers find it works great for the core. I'm sure you'd be able to borrow a sled at the rink. It would take no time to get you fitted for one.”

  Marc’s expression wavered between sullen embarrassment and contained excitement. “Um…never played,” he said.

  Dr. Kensington turned to Antony. “I’d appreciate it if you gave it a thought; one of the physio students is doing a study. Think about it, all right? You wouldn’t be on the ice for at least another month. But Marc, you could start any time.” Then his voice went a little high. “I might even be able to get you on my team, if you’re interested.”

  Marc’s mouth set in a thin line. “Je pense…I think, uh…”

  “Morning!” A slight blonde woman in white capris and a stripped top entered the room. Antony thought she looked ready to go sailing.

  “Kayla,” Dr. Kensington smiled. “I was just telling Antony about you.”

  “Hiya!” She reached out and shook Antony’s hand. “I’m super excited to be working with you. Has Dr. Kensington told you about the sled hockey? It’s awesome. I’ve been playing for six years! I started back in high school as part of a volunteer program, but then I was totally creaming everyone so I kept at it. People think it’s easy, but you use muscles you never thought you had.”

  Antony was reminded of a butterfly. He was sure he missed half the words; she spoke so quickly.

  She took a breath and noticed Marc. “Whoa, dude.” She crouched in front of his wheelchair. “When did you get this detailed last? Are you sure this is the right arm height? Do you get a pinch in your shoulders at night? Because those armrests are completely putting off your spine alinement.”

  Marc stared back at the blonde moving about his chair, her ponytail swishing as she bent over, contorting herself around him. There was a snap on one side as the armrest lowered. She straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “Try that,” she asked him.

  “Feels better…I guess,” Marc said, unsure.

  In a flash, Kayla had adjusted the other armrest. She was crouched by his side and then she looked up at him. Antony noticed they stared at each other for a moment. “While I’m doing home visits for your brother, I could see if you need anything else adjusted,” she offered. “Like the shower or the kitchen or your bedroom.” She paused and smiled. “You cook, right? Because if you’re going to play on my sled hockey team you have to bring food once in a while for after the game.”

  “Oui,” Marc answered, sounding a little dazed. “Okay.”

  “Awesome,” she said more softly this time.

  Another staring contest started. Antony cleared his throat.

  After a few more discharge instructions and another prompt by Dr. Kensington about his sled hockey team, he and Kayla left.

  Antony slipped her number in his duffle bag and then motioned to the door, but Marc stayed in place. “I can’t let you leave room without saying something.” He swallowed. “When I watched you get hit on ice, I felt like I was in car again, but instead of lying upside down on roof, I was strapped into seat. I never saw accident from your view. I never gave you a choice.”

  Antony’s words came out rushed and painful, like someone walking on hot coals, “I could have said no. I let you lie.”

  “Je suis désolé, et merci…for saving me. That day and every day since. I didn’t mean life to get bad between us.”

&nbs
p; Antony nodded and they began to make their way to the elevator. A period of silence went by marking the definitive moment for the brothers. Marc was the first to break the silence. “Sled hockey, huh?”

  “Marc Laurent scores,” Antony teased in an announcer’s voice. He hit the button to call the elevator.

  His older brother stayed quiet, but Antony could see he was fighting a grin.

  Marc said, “She’s cute, oui?” A bell sounded and the elevator doors opened to an empty car.

  “Kayla?” Antony said. “Oui, mais je t’aime redheads.”

  And there it was again—that instant when Maxine popped up just when he’d forgotten about her. How long would this go on? But part of him didn’t want it to stop, he knew he’d be happier being miserable missing her than forgetting about her altogether. He’d check his gear bag as soon as he got home. She might have left a message.

  “Wait.” Marc put an arm on his hand. The elevator closed and left without them. “I need to give you this.” He handed Marc an envelope he’d pulled from his back pocket. It had been folded over in half. “Arrived yesterday. I don’t want to take away any more choices for you.”

  Antony saw the envelope’s return address. “It’s from Maxine?”

  “It’s pretty thick, n’est pas? Good sign. Not many girls write long goodbye letter to guy they don’t want to see again.”

  Antony held the envelope in his shaking hands, scared to open it.

  “Go for it. Elle a de beaux seins.”

  “Beaux seins? How do you know she has nice breasts?”

  Marc’s cheeks lightened. “Um…ask her.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Maxine snapped the compact closed and slipped it into her makeup travel bag. Her cosmetic stash felt much lighter. She was certain she’d put a few pounds of makeup on every one of Crosby’s coworkers helping out with the bachelor auction tonight. Even Rose, who was covering the event for the Globe and Mail, had conceded and let her put on a little concealer and lipstick.