Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “So, I guess the big question is: What do we do now?” asked Janna.

  “Figure out how to cut expenses?” Theresa suggested.

  “Well, we could fire Terrence, close the office, and work out of my apartment.”

  Theresa blanched. “Do you really want to do that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that solves that.”

  “I don’t think we should come right out and tell Ted Banister we’re not going to bite on Butler’s offer,” said Janna, thinking aloud. “If we do, Butler will get very nasty very fast and start trying to steal clients, which is the last thing we need. I say we keep stringing them along while we really bust our butts trying to expand our base.”

  “I agree.”

  Expand our base. Cut expenses. Accounts receivable. Accounts payable. This is why I should have become a writer, Theresa thought miserably. All this business and money talk gave her a headache. The thought of trying to drum up even more business exhausted her, and she knew Janna had to be feeling the same way. They were both dancing as fast as they could, and there were only so many hours in a day. But if ensuring their company remained just that—their company—then they’d just learn to dance faster. It was as simple as that.

  “What about the Ty option?” asked Theresa.

  “Let’s pretend it doesn’t exist right now, okay? This is our baby. Let’s try to do it our way, with our money, for as long as we can. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good.” Looking more relaxed than she had all morning, Janna finished the biscotti, then pressed Theresa to reveal how her “Get off my back” date with Michael had gone.

  “It went great,” Theresa said forlornly.

  “So why the long face?”

  “Because he’s not what I pictured for myself, okay?” She dug the heel of her palms deep into her eye sockets. “I mean, I don’t think he’s what I want. I don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand,” Janna replied impatiently. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve talked about wanting to meet a nice guy who’ll treat you right. Now you have and you’re running from him. What’s the problem?”

  Theresa pulled her palms from her eyes. “It’s him. He’s so . . . Brooklyn.”

  “So?” Janna’s voice was sharp.

  “Don’t get annoyed with me, Janna, I’m feeling pretty confused right now.”

  “Well, so am I,” Janna countered testily. “He’s so Brooklyn—what does that mean? Do you have any idea how snobbish that sounds?”

  “I know, I know,” Theresa groaned, “but I can’t help it. I worked my whole life to get away from guys like that—”

  “Guys like what?” Janna snapped. When two women at a nearby table glanced over she lowered her voice, but it was still impassioned. “Guys who happen to come from the same place you do? Guys who are nice and stable and care about their families?” She took a quick sip of her latte. “No offense, Terry, but your ‘He isn’t what I envisioned for my life’ spiel is getting old. He’s a great guy. He clearly adores you. What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Theresa groaned again, feeling herself shrink under Janna’s scolding. “I guess I’m just scared.”

  “Of what? Of being happy? Of finding out that after all is said and done, what you really crave is love and family and stability, just like everyone else?”

  Theresa’s gaze drifted to the window, where busy New Yorkers hustled down the broad gray sidewalk to destinations unknown. She recalled her mother once asking if she was ashamed of where she came from. The question had shocked Theresa, because she didn’t know how to answer it. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by her family’s insularity or working class ethos. It was just that she saw there was so much more out there, and she wanted it. Badly. She wanted the money, and the freedom, and the fast track. She wanted glamour. But she also wanted love.

  “I always wanted to be extraordinary,” she said in a small, bewildered voice as she looked back to Janna. “I always wanted an extraordinary life.”

  “Well, you have one. We all do. You, me, Joe the garbage man, Sally the dog walker, everyone. That’s the big secret they never tell you in ‘You Can Have It All 101.’ ”

  Theresa flinched. “You really think I’m being an idiot, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I really do,” Janna replied without hesitation. “According to you, I’ve supposedly found the last, good straight man in New York. Well, another one has come along, yet you refuse to go for him for reasons that are completely beyond my comprehension.”

  “I’m scared,” Theresa repeated quietly.

  “I know you are, Terry. But you’ve got to get back into therapy or get over it or something, or else you’re going to throw up roadblocks every time a nice guy comes within two feet of you.”

  “I didn’t throw up roadblocks with Reese,” Theresa pointed out quickly.

  “That’s because he’s a Ralph Lauren ad come to life.

  He’s not real.” Janna leaned forward. “Who has treated you better so far: Reese or Michael?”

  Theresa’s face froze in displeasure.

  “Answer me,” Janna insisted.

  “Michael,” Theresa muttered into her coffee cup.

  Janna leaned back in her chair triumphantly. “I rest my case.”

  “So what am I supposed to do, then?”

  “Well, how did you leave things with Michael?”

  Theresa frowned. “Not well. He told me that one of these days I was going to get tired of running away from myself.”

  “So call and tell him you’re tired of running.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Then be confused and alone,” Janna replied irritably. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I know,” said Theresa, scrambling to defuse Janna’s frustration, which she knew was justified. “I know I’m driving you crazy. I know it’s time to give up this fantasy that when I meet The One, it will be like being hit with a lightning bolt. Just be patient with me, okay? I’m trying to sort things out, I really am.”

  “Well, sort quicker. Michael’s not going to wait for you forever.”

  With what looked to Theresa like a final glare of annoyance, Janna drained her paper cup. Chastened, Theresa did the same. She knew everything Janna said was right. She just wished Janna weren’t so blunt. Then again, there were times when she’d been equally honest. That’s what real friends did for each other: They cut to the chase, no matter how painful. She made a vow right there and then: I will try to sort things out as fast as I can. And when I’m sure about what I want to do, I’ll take action.

  “DANTE !”

  The anger in Ty’s voice was made all the more ominous by its echoing off the high dome of the practice arena. Skating over to the bench where his coach stood, Michael knew what was coming. He braced himself.

  “Coach?” he asked.

  “You got lead in your skates or what? My grandfather skates faster than you and he’s been dead for twelve years.”

  “I know,” Michael muttered. There was no jump in his legs at all this morning. “I’ll pick it up.”

  “You better. Where’s that guy who was on fire a few weeks back?” asked Ty, snapping his gum.

  Michael stuck his chin out. “He’s here.”

  “He is?” Ty looked to his left and to his right. “That’s funny, ’cause I don’t see him.”

  Michael’s grip tightened around his hockey stick. “You made your point.”

  “Don’t let me down. I need your level of play to be where it was a few weeks ago, Mikey, and I need you to keep it there.”

  “I will,” Michael swore, itchy for the reprimand to end so he could get back out on the ice and finish practice.

  “Good,” said Ty. “Everyone here is dealing with crap of one kind or another off the ice. It’s no excuse for slacking off.”

  “I’m not slacking off,” Michael replied irritably. “Can I get back out there to show you?”

  T
y’s head bobbed approvingly. “Be my guest,” he challenged.

  Michael rejoined his teammates, who had just started their two-on-two drills. Screw Theresa Falconetti, he thought angrily, as he and Barry Fontaine staved off an offensive rush from Kevin Gill and Tully Webster. Screw Anthony. And screw van Dorn while we’re at it. Screw everyone.

  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?”