Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 01
CHAPTER 02
CHAPTER 03
CHAPTER 04
CHAPTER 05
CHAPTER 06
CHAPTER 07
CHAPTER 08
CHAPTER 09
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
PRAISE FOR DEIRDRE MARTIN’S ALL-STAR DEBUT, Body Check
“A story that will delight lovers of sports heroes.”
—The Romance Reader (4 hearts)
“Ms. Martin’s story is sparkling in creativity and spunky dialogue. It melts our hearts, not the ice, and uncovers the true meaning of the word winner. What a delight.”
—Suzanne Tucker, Old Book Barn Gazette
“Heartwarming.”—Booklist
“The promising Martin gives this debut story punch by adding a realistic feel for the high-stakes, high-pressure world of major-league hockey.”—Romantic Times
Titles by Deirdre Martin
BODY CHECK
FAIR PLAY
TOTAL RUSH
THE PENALTY BOX
CHASING STANLEY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
FAIR PLAY
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2004
Copyright © 2004 by Deirdre Martin.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-04358-5
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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For T. Edward Connors,
the Merv to my Eva
THANKS TO:
My editor, Allison McCabe, and my agent, Elaine English,
for their hard work and faith.
Binnie Syril Braunstein, publicist extraordinaire.
Steve Haweeli, president of Wordhampton PR,
for giving me a glimpse of what
goes into doing PR for a restaurant.
My husband, Mark Levine,
for his hockey expertise and willingness to read
the manuscript numerous times to make sure I
“got the hockey stuff right.”
Paula Epps for use of her impressive collection
of New Age and occult books.
Susan Lerner, for her insight and compassion.
Daniela Gobetti for her book, Dictionary of Italian Slang,
and Roland Delicio for Merda!
The Real Italian You Were Never Taught in School,
both of which were invaluable resources.
Mom, Dad, Bill, Allison, Beth, Jane, Dave and Tom
for all their love,
support and patience.
CHAPTER 01
Some women fantasize about being wed on the beach at sunset as the warm surf gently laps at their bare, tanned feet. Others picture floating down the aisle in a cloud of ivory tulle. Theresa Falconetti’s dream wedding was exchanging vows at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, followed by a horse-drawn carriage ride to a reception at The Plaza Hotel.
And now it was happening.
Gazing rapturously into the eyes of her true love as two proud, white stallions conveyed them up Fifth Avenue, Theresa couldn’t believe her good fortune. One year ago, she had been the co-owner of a struggling PR firm. Now she was the wife of Miles van Dusen, architect, equestrian and collector of Sumerian pottery. They met at the wedding of Elizabeth Taylor to Nicholas Cage, one of Theresa’s premiere clients. All Miles had to ask was “Fancy a prawn cocktail?” and Theresa was smitten, the deep, sonorous tone of his voice its own aphrodisiac. By the time the lemon sorbet was served, she knew he was The One.
“Happy, my sweet?” Miles murmured into her hair as the cool night air embraced them.
“Ecstatic.” Theresa sighed, laying her head to rest on his shoulder.
“Theresa?”
“Yes, beloved of my heart?”
“Geez. That’s a new one.”
Startled, Theresa blinked. She wasn’t in a horse-drawn carriage, but an Aeron chair. And the person calling her name wasn’t the imaginary Miles van Dusen, but Janna MacNeil, her business partner.
“You okay?”
“Fine, fine,” Theresa replied breezily, mortified at being caught conjuring a romantic fantasy so riveting it unmoored her completely from the present.
“Walking up the aisle again, huh?” Janna observed wryly.
“Maybe,” Theresa said, anxious to steer the conversation back to business. “You said you had a lead on a possible new account?”
“It’s a restaurant,” Janna said as she sipped her coffee, a mutual addiction. This had been their routine ever since opening FM PR two years earlier: come to the office, check in over coffee, then split up and get down to work.
“A restaurant,” Theresa repeated thoughtfully. “Since when do we handle restaurants?”
“Since our accountant told me we need to drum up as much business as we can.”
Theresa sighed. “Hit me.”
“It’s a mom-and-pop place in Brooklyn,” Janna began, reading the details from a piece of paper on her oversized desk, which d
warfed her. At five feet tall, with short blond hair, she was the physical opposite of Theresa, whose long legs and dark curls made her the envy of countless women. “It’s got a strong local following, but the new owners, two brothers, are looking to expand the clientele,” Janna continued. “They want to start pulling in the foodies from Manhattan.” She raised her head to look at Theresa. “Are you free this afternoon?”
“I think so.”
“Then would you mind going out there and meeting with these guys? I’ve got to meet with Mike Piazza.”
“Mike Piazza? Of the Mets?”
“No, Mike Piazza the plumber. Of course Mike Piazza of the Mets.” Janna looked hopeful. “If we could get him, it would be huge.”
Theresa sank back in her chair. It always seemed to work out this way: Janna meeting celebrities, Theresa dispatched to check out what was probably a glorified pizzeria. Before starting their agency, Janna did PR for one of the NHL’s New York franchises, the Blades. Theresa had haunted her long and hard about meeting the team’s hottest new player, Alexei Lubov. She still suffered night-mares when she recalled what happened when her wish was granted: She and Lubov had gone out, and he had tried to rape her. When she dared to press charges, Theresa’s self-esteem and reputation were nearly destroyed, but she persevered, and finally settled out of court. She used the money to set up the firm with Janna and swore off professional athletes entirely, except for a friendly relationship with Janna’s husband, Ty, the former captain of the Blades. Well, Janna could deal with Mike-Piazza-the-Met, that was more than fine by her. “What time do the Brooklyn brothers want to meet?”
“Around two.”
“That’s doable. Where’s the restaurant?”
“Bensonhurst.”
“Really?” Theresa was surprised. She was born and raised in Bensonhurst. Her family lived there still, constantly making it clear they wished she did, too. Bensonhurst . . . She wracked her brains, trying to figure out what family restaurant Janna might be talking about. And then it hit her.
“You’re sending me to Dante’s, aren’t you?”
Janna glanced away guiltily. “Yes.”
“I don’t believe you!”
Dante’s was the restaurant where the Blades held all their private parties. One of its co-owners was Michael Dante, a third line winger for the team. He’d made a lasting impression on her two years ago when he asked to buy her a drink, failing to realize he didn’t have his two front teeth in. At Ty and Janna’s wedding, he’d hounded her endlessly to dance. She had a hard time being around him, since he reminded her of everything she’d like to forget: an athlete who refused to take no for an answer.
“You tricked me,” she accused.
“I know,” Janna confessed. “But I knew it was the only way to get you to agree. Besides, his brother will be there, too.”
“Can’t you switch your meeting with Piazza so that you can handle it?”
“It’s business, Theresa.” Janna sounded weary, despite the early hour. “Besides, you’re better at this stuff than I am.”
Theresa regarded her friend warily. “Better at what stuff?”
“Assessing potential clients, deciding what direction to go with a campaign, if they decide to hire us. You know you are. I’m better at the ego-stroking and damage control.”
“If that’s the case, then let me meet with Piazza and you can go stroke Michael Dante.”
“That’s funny, Ter. You know, I’ve never understood what you have against him. He’s a nice guy.”
“A nice guy who reminds me of every Italian Brooklyn boy I grew up with and moved to the city to avoid.”
Janna gave a small grimace. “Well, try to keep an open mind when you’re meeting with them, please. We could really use this account.”
“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 l
ike 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.
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