“Sure.” Michael paused to think. “Follow me.”
He led her to the players’ lounge, careful to use the alternative entrance circumventing the actual locker room. He knew a couple of the guys might wander in and out in towels, picking at the muffins and fruit laid out on the long banquet table adjacent to the huge ceiling-mounted TV, but there was nothing he could do about it. Short of asking Ty if he could use his office, the players’ lounge was the best he could manage on such short notice.
Eager to put Theresa at ease, he gestured towards the table. “Coffee?” Theresa shook her head.
“Muffin?”
“No, thank you, Michael.”
Her voice was overly polite. Cautious now, he peered at her, attempting to decipher her expression while trying not to give anything away with his own. Her demeanor was tense and businesslike. In fact, it was downright standoffish. Michael’s guts began to churn.
Since she didn’t want anything to eat or drink, the only thing left to do was sit. He escorted her to the couch closest to the TV. Distracted by the chattering voices of women coming from the set, he turned it off before sitting down beside her.
He forced a smile, determined to sound upbeat. “What’s up?”
Theresa was uncharacteristically poker-faced as she extracted a copy of the New York Sentinel from her briefcase and handed it to him. Confused, Michael’s eyes scanned the page until he spotted his own name in bold type, carefully reading what was printed there. When he was through, he handed the paper back to her.
“Everyone knows half the stuff that’s printed in that column is bullshit. Don’t let it get to you.” Seeing his words had no effect, he gently pried the paper from her fingers, dumping it in the trash.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Theresa stared at him. “Not only does that witch Lynette Homes insinuate that Lubov might not have assaulted me, but she makes me sound like a goddamn puck bunny!”
“So?” Michael repeated. He couldn’t believe she was getting bent out of shape over what some low life, muck-raker had written. “Who cares what this bimbo says?”
“I do! Janna and I are trying to expand our business,” Theresa said in frustration. “We’re trying to drum up new clients. What do you think the odds of us succeeding are if the public thinks I’m some slut who brings frivolous lawsuits and bangs jocks for fun?”
Michael blinked with incredulity. “Who’s going to think that?”
“Anyone who reads that column!” Theresa railed. “Jesus, Michael!”
Her voice was loud enough now to draw the attention of a couple of his teammates, who poked their heads around the door in curiosity. When Michael leveled them with a look that could curdle milk, the heads disappeared. He turned back to Theresa. “What’s going on?” he asked.
His aim was to sound patient, but he could hear the edge in his voice, defensive, challenging. Theresa’s eyes grazed the floor, the opposite wall, anywhere but his face. “Look at me, Theresa,” he commanded. Every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for her to force her glistening eyes to his.
“I’m really sorry, Michael, but I can’t go out with you right now. My career’s at stake, and I just can’t risk it.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Theresa squirmed uncomfortably. “Michael—”
Instinctually, his left hand shot out in a gesture meant to silence her. It worked. The only sound in the room was that of their breathing.
Michael just stared. Theresa’s face seemed to break up right in front him. Fragments of eye, delicate nose, sensuous lips—all of it broke apart like a puzzle being slowly dismantled while behind his eyes, the red of anger pushed at the sockets, insistent, threatening to blow his head open.
“Career—?”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. Maybe she hadn’t said it. Maybe his mind had manufactured it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to put her face back together again, trying to hold back the red baying for blood, but it was no use. Something inside him broke, and it wasn’t just his heart. It was the dam holding back months of frustration at being told to wait, being told to woo, being told that no matter what he did, whether on or off the ice, it simply wasn’t good enough.
He began laughing. Quietly, at first, then loudly, uproariously, the sound harsh to his own ears, tinged as it was with a hint of mania. He was laughing so hard tears rolled down his face; so hard he thought his sides would split open. “My career’s at stake!” he howled, barely able to breathe as he punched the words out. “Oh, that’s good! That’s the best one you’ve come up with yet!”
“Michael.”
He forced himself to look in the direction of her voice, watching as her face reassembled itself. She was staring at him with frightened eyes that said You’re behaving like a lunatic. Well, maybe he was. Maybe this was what months of being repeatedly kicked in the balls did to a man. Even so, in the interest of civilized conversation, he thought it might be wise to try to get his rage under control.
“What?” he said, angrily panting his way back to normal breath. He wanted to hear what she had to say, really he did, but when she opened her mouth to talk he was surprised to hear his own voice coming out instead.
“Wait, let me guess: You changed your mind and now you can go out with me?”
Theresa looked away, shamefaced.
“What, did I say the wrong thing?” Michael challenged. “Did I say the right thing? Because, with you, I never know whether I’m going to get kissed or kicked.”
She turned back to him, her expression pained. “Listen to me, Michael.”
“No, you listen to me.” A hot stream of long unspoken words shot up his throat, impossible to ignore. “First you won’t go out with me because I’m a toothless gavone. Oh yeah, I heard you say that at Ty’s wedding. Then you won’t go out with me because I’m Italian. Now you won’t go out with me because it’ll screw up your career. Do you have any idea how fucked up you are?”
He knew he was shouting, but he didn’t care. Righteous indignation was screaming through his veins, and he was determined to give it full vent. After all she’d put him through, months of watching and waiting and behaving, and for what? For this? “You know what your problem is, Theresa?” he asked, as he jumped up from the couch. “You’re a head case.”
“Michael.” Her voice was trembling. “Let me just—”
“Explain?” he finished for her contemptuously as he paced back and forth like a caged beast. “Explain what? You’re a mess. You don’t know who you are, you don’t know what you want, and you don’t know where you’re going.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of his teammates still hovering nervously in the doorway, but he didn’t care. They wanted to see a show? They craved some drama in their lives? Well, they’d come to the right place. “I thought that if I was nice enough, and romantic enough, and patient enough, that eventually I’d win you over.” He slapped himself in the forehead. “Ubatz! What the hell was I thinking? Why couldn’t I see what was right in front of my face? You might be beautiful, but Madonn’, you are batshit crazy!”
He heard some chuckles but ignored them. Theresa, meanwhile, was slowly turning red, her normally beautiful face—a face he had tenderly cradled in his hands just two nights before—twitching with mounting humiliation.
“I am not crazy, Michael,” she hissed up at him through clenched teeth.
“No?” He stopped pacing and rounded in on her. “You’re not? What’s the word you would use to describe someone who swoons in your arms one minute and two days later tells you they can’t see you?”
“Confused,” Theresa tossed back angrily.
“Confused.” Michael rocked on his heels, mulling this over. “Hmm. Someone who does that to you once might be called confused. But twice?” He shook his head. “Sorry. Confused is not the word that comes to mind. Try cruel. Try crazy.”
“I never meant to be cruel, Michael. Honestly.”
“I don’t give a damn what you did or didn’t me
an, Theresa.” He snorted. “I thought the concussion I suffered last week left my brain scrambled. But you know what? That was nothing compared to the mind games you’ve been playing with me. You don’t want to see me?” Michael shrugged. “No problem. I need you like I need an effing hole in the head. We can deal with each other on a purely professional basis. Otherwise, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to hear from you, I don’t want to know you. Capisce?”
Theresa nodded shakily.
“Glad we understand each other.” Nothing left to say, he stalked off in the direction of the locker room. His eavesdropping teammates remained clustered around the doorway, watching wide-eyed as he approached them. “What the hell are you bozos looking at?” he snarled, shoving past them.
No one answered.
Back in the locker room, Michael’s heart was still pounding. He took a few deep calming breaths, working to ignore the irrational feeling that everyone was staring. Now that he’d unloaded, all he wanted to do was hit the shower and get the hell out of Met Gar as quickly as possible, the better to get his head back on straight before tonight’s game. But no sooner had he made it to his locker than van Dorn came slinking over, his smug face incandescent with scorn.
“Girl trouble, huh?”
Michael’s mouth twitched. Ignore him, he told himself, humming a happy tune in his head in an effort to distract himself. Don’t get into it with the little prick.
“What, she come down here to ditch you?” van Dorn needled.
“Vaffanculo, eh?” Michael returned, refusing to even make eye contact.
“Riiiight. Whatever the fuck that means in Wopspeak.” Van Dorn took a step closer, giving Michael a knowing, fraternal nudge in the ribs. “That girl in the players’ lounge—you know, the one you were just yelling at? Isn’t she the chick who sucked off Lubov? Too bad we’re not playing his team again this season. You two could compare notes.”
Michael wasn’t sure what happened next. One minute he was staring at his shampoo bottle and humming. The next his right fist was connecting with van Dorn’s jaw, sending him sprawling backwards over the bench. If van Dorn had any intention of fighting back, it was never realized. Michael was on him so fast, punching him so furiously, that it took three guys to tear him away.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”
Kevin Gill’s voice boomed through the locker room, rendering it instantly silent. Still being restrained by his teammates, Michael spat on the floor and looked away, knowing all the captain had to see was van Dorn’s bloodied lip and rapidly swelling eye and he’d know what had gone down, though not necessarily why.
“Gentlemen?” Kevin went to van Dorn first, helping him up onto the bench. “Get him a towel,” he commanded no one in particular. A clean white towel appeared, courtesy of Tim Halifax, which van Dorn pressed to his mouth.
“What happened?” Kevin demanded.
“Nothing,” van Dorn replied blankly.
“Dante.” Kevin’s voice rang with disapproval. “You want to tell me what the hell happened here?”
“Nothing,” Michael replied, glaring down at van Dorn in disgust as he folded his arms angrily across his chest. The locker room was dead silent as he, along with everyone else, waited to hear what Kevin had to say. The captain seemed to be taking care to make eye contact with both Michael and van Dorn as he spoke.
“I don’t give a damn about what started this, okay? What I care about is the team. You two just undermined everything we’re trying to create here. I won’t have it. And neither should you.” He looked to the other players. “Just in case it has slipped some of your minds, let me remind you all: What goes on in this locker room stays in this locker room. I don’t want to open the paper tomorrow and read about a fight between two members of the New York Blades. Am I making myself clear?”
The team muttered its understanding. When Kevin’s gaze flicked specifically to Michael, he jerked his head in an approximation of answering yes. There was small comfort when Kevin did the same with van Dorn, whose response was to simply stare down at the floor.
“Good. I’m glad we’re all on the same page. Now let’s get some rest. We have an important game tonight.”
It seemed to Michael as if no one moved or spoke for the longest time. They all appeared rooted to the spot, embarrassed not only by the reprimand but by what had caused it. Irritated by the lingering silence, Michael picked up his shampoo bottle and soap and headed for the showers, eager for the release hot water beating down on his body would bring.
That afternoon, while back at his apartment “resting,” as if he could, Michael thought about Theresa. He was upset with himself for losing control. But what the hell did she expect? She’d ambushed him at work, for Chrissakes. Ambushed him on the heels of a Saturday night spent dancing in his arms. Not only had she caught him unaware, but at the worst possible time. His entire morning had been one long, unmitigated disaster from start to finish.
Maybe he should call and apologize for wailing on her that way? No. He’d meant what he said. He just wished he hadn’t expressed it so colorfully.
His mind flashed on the news item she’d shoved beneath his nose. Two stupid sentences in a gossip column and their romance was over before it even really began. It was astounding, the more so when he considered what she did for a living. Shit, half the time she was the person feeding this kind of junk to the media just to get her clients’ names in print! He was no shrink, but he knew fear when he saw it, and Theresa was afraid—of herself, of what other people thought, of getting close, of her own fucking shadow.
Maybe he’d done them both a favor by reading her the riot act, because now she could go get her head shrunk or whatever the hell it was she wanted to do to help herself, and he could concentrate on hockey and the restaurant, period. What had happened between them was actually positive, then.
Yeah. Right.
It was getting dark when he arrived at Met Gar at four-thirty for the Blades game against Toronto. His teammates, even those closest to him, regarded him cautiously, as if one false look might set him off. Their unease made him realize the damage he’d done.
Tradition held that after the pre-game warm-up, the team returned to the locker room to learn the lineup and listen to whatever words of wisdom and inspiration Ty cared to share. Tonight, Ty’s notes for the team were few: Watch out for the long center ice passes Toronto is famous for; don’t let up on the forecheck. He didn’t say a word about the fight. Michael worried that Ty might keep him off the ice, but he was to resume his usual spot on the third line, relegating van Dorn to his former status as thorn in his side and permanent threat.
He waited until Ty had finished before asking if he might say something to the team. The sense of shock rippling through the warm locker room was palpable.
“Go ahead,” Ty urged.
Acutely aware that all eyes were on him, Michael paused to collect himself before he opened his mouth. He wanted to make sure he had the words straight in his head. When he was finally ready, he drew a deep breath of air. Then he started talking.
“One of the things I love about being a professional hockey player, apart from the money, of course”—that brought a few laughs, easing his nerves—“is that it brings together twenty guys who might not have anything else in common apart from their love of hockey. Guys who might even hate each other’s guts. But when they get out on the ice, they’ll risk their necks for each other.”
He swallowed, surprised at how quickly his mouth had become dry. “I owe all of you an apology. I was wrong. It won’t happen again.”
The room was silent. Then, one by one, they each took their sticks and began tapping them on the floor as a show of support as Michael walked toward van Dorn and extended his hand. The younger player looked momentarily stunned before returning the gesture, the two enemies stiffly shaking hands as the tapping continued. Michael felt a huge weight lift from him as he strolled back to his locker to put his helmet on. He might not have handled things
well with Theresa, but at least he had repaired what damage he could here. For that, he was grateful.
CHAPTER 13
She hated needing to be here. The soothing, familiar cadence of Dr. Gardner’s voice should have put her at ease. Instead, she was tense as her old therapist asked her why she was back. Isn’t it obvious? she longed to scream. Theresa leaned forward to keep from sinking into the plush recesses of Dr. Gardner’s couch. “I’m here because I’m a mess,” she declared, shocked at how quickly tears threatened.
“How so?” Dr. Gardner wanted to know. A stout, motherly woman with a taste for tweeds, her face was open, yet impassive. Theresa wondered if she ever secretly wished her clients would just shut up and get a grip.
“I . . .” Theresa halted. Where to begin? With Michael’s pursuit and her initial refusals? Her post-Rainbow Room meltdown? The business? Her dad’s cancer? Her continuing attraction to Reese, who was due back in New York in two weeks’ time? Flummoxed, she waited for a definitive answer to present itself.
Dr. Gardner also waited.
No prompting. No helpful clues about where to start.
Theresa decided to start with Michael’s upbraiding. I’m not going to cry, she told herself, but the minute she started to speak, her eyes began watering. Before she knew it she was jamming tissues to her dripping nose. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she told the therapist what had happened. Her narration was punctuated with unavoidable sniffles and sporadic silences.
Throughout it all, Dr. Gardner smiled benignly with her trademark detachment that always amazed Theresa. Eventually she asked, “What upsets you the most about your run-in with Michael?”
Theresa bowed her head, the crumpled tissue in her hand reduced to the size of a pellet as she crushed it repeatedly while mulling the question over. “That his anger at me was completely justified.” She wiped her nose on her hand thoughtfully. “And that I didn’t think before I acted.”
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