Seated at “Ty’s table,” he waited for the man himself to show, surprised to find he was feeling nervous. When Ty finally appeared, ten minutes late, Michael noticed the way he casually waded through the dining room, exchanging pleasantries with diners who clearly knew him as a regular and as a New York sports celebrity. It seemed everyone who dined there loved him.
“Sorry I’m late,” Ty apologized, pulling up a chair. “It took me forever to get off the phone.”
“You didn’t sound too happy,” Michael observed.
Ty frowned. “It was Capesi, trying to talk me into some interview for Sports Illustrated on coaching styles.”
“Are you gonna do it?”
“My ass,” Ty griped. “I’d rather lop off my left ball than sit down to an interview.” He flashed a chagrined smile. “Can’t blame the guy for trying to do his job, though.”
A pert waitress appeared, wanting to know where Kevin was.
“Back spasms,” Ty murmured with a grimace. He motioned toward Michael. “This is Michael Dante, Ginger. He plays for the Blades as well.”
Ginger smiled, friendly. “Hello, Michael.” Her gaze bounced back and forth between both men. “Do you know what you want for lunch?”
Michael looked to Ty for guidance. “What do you recommend?”
Ty sank back in his chair. “Everyone raves about the burger and onion rings but if you ask me, it’s the grilled salmon that takes the prize.”
“Grilled salmon, then,” Michael said. “And onion rings.”
Ginger scribbled on her pad. “Two grilled salmons.” She tapped Ty’s shoulder with her pencil. “The usual salad?” Ty nodded. “And to drink?” she concluded.
“Two Heinekens,” Ty answered, eyes catching Michael’s to make sure that was acceptable.
Michael nodded.
“You got it,” said Ginger, walking away.
Anxiety mounting, Michael glanced around the dining room. “Nice place,” he said with an approving nod.
“Yeah, it is. So, what’s on your mind?” Ty asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
Since Ty never beat around the bush, Michael decided to return the favor.
“What do I have to do to get more ice time?”
Ty said nothing as he reached for the bread basket at the center of the table. “Go on.”
“You know me,” Michael declared simply, glad when Ginger quickly reappeared with their beers. It gave him something to occupy his hands, which he tended to wave around when he was speaking, especially if the subject matter made him emotional, which this did. “You know what kind of a player I am. For me to really be my best, I need ice time. That’s not happening on the fourth line.”
Ty took a long, slow sip of his brew. “You haven’t been having the greatest year.”
“I know that,” Michael admitted. “The concussion was a setback.”
“It wasn’t just the concussion,” Ty continued bluntly, breaking off a crust of hard, seeded bread.
Michael looked away. This was harder than he thought. “I know I’ve been distracted, and I know my play has been erratic. But we’ve been through two playoff runs together. You know that in the playoffs, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Ty seemed to be considering Michael’s words carefully as he swallowed down a chunk of bread. His brown eyes were probing, direct. “What are you asking for, Mike?”
“I want back on the third line.”
Michael tried not to be deflated by Ty’s lack of immediate response. He waited with mounting unease as Ty stared at him through narrowed eyes, assessing him. Finally, after an interminably awkward silence, Ty spoke. His voice was grim.
“I know you’re a pro; that’s never been in doubt. If you really want back on the third line, you have to forget about your broken heart and your restaurant, and concentrate on hockey. Every spare second you have, you’re out at Dante’s. I heard you on the cell phone in the locker room the other day ordering flowers for the reopening.”
Michael jolted with embarrassment. “So?”
“It’s a distraction you can’t afford.” Frustrated, Ty leaned toward him, his voice one notch above a passionate hiss. “April’s here, Mikey. You need to live hockey. You have to eat it and breathe it. It has to be the only thing you think about. The only thing you dream about.”
“Right,” Michael muttered, fighting mounting restlessness. Everyone in the league knew Ty’s “Live, eat and breathe” hockey speech by heart. It was the NHL equivalent of the Gettysburg Address. Michael wasn’t sure he could sit through it again. Yet he knew without the kind of singularity of focus Ty insisted upon, there was no hope of winning the Cup. And, apparently, no hope for him to regain his place on the third line. He was about to tell Ty he was well aware of what he needed to do, but Ty wasn’t done talking.
“It’s do or die time, Michael. Not just for the team, but for you personally.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Ty, pausing politely as Ginger deposited their meals in front of them, “that you need to decide whether you want to be a professional hockey player or a restaurateur. You can’t do both.” He cut into his salmon, the intense expression on his face momentarily melting away as he put a forkful in his mouth, clearly relishing it. He waved his fork at Michael. “Try it. It’s fantastic.”
Though Michael’s appetite had vanished, he forced himself to eat a piece of fish. Ty was right. It was good. It could have used some rosemary, though. He gave Ty the thumbs up.
Spearing a forkful of salad, Ty continued, “Look, I was once where you are now, okay?”
Michael’s curiosity was piqued. “How so?”
“Two years ago, when we won that second Cup, I was at the top of my game. But I had also fallen in love with Janna. I had to make a decision: keep playing hockey or have a personal life.” He downed another mouthful of beer before continuing his extemporization. “Some guys can do both. Look at Kevin: He’s got a wonderful wife and kids, and he’s a great hockey player. But me? I could never split my concentration like that. And unless I’m wrong, neither can you. You need to focus on one thing, either hockey or the restaurant. You can’t do both.”
Michael sighed, acquiescent. “I hear you,” he murmured, knowing that Ty had spoken the truth.
“Good,” Ty said. His furrowed brows finally relaxed, indicating to Michael that the serious part of their discussion was over.
They talked golf over the rest of the meal, but Michael’s mind was elsewhere: on his level of play, and, unavoidably, on the restaurant. He cursed himself for being an idiot. He should have waited until after the reopening to have this discussion with Ty. Now he would spend the next few days stressing about both. He scolded himself as his appetite slowly returned. You can juggle both for just forty-eight hours more, can’t you? Confident he could, he dug into his lunch.
His teammates were right. The onion rings were amazing.
Standing in the middle of Dante’s expanded dining room an hour before the grand reopening, Michael felt as though he’d taken speed as adrenaline sizzled through his system like demon electricity. He was tense and snappish. He wanted everything, from the placement of the flower arrangements to the final check of basic china and silver-ware, to be done better, faster, now. He could hear the wait staff bitching about him behind his back, but he didn’t care. He wanted this night to go off without a hitch. He wanted it to be perfect.
And if that meant riding their asses, so be it.
His nerves weren’t helped by his family.
Anthony, never calm under pressure, had become preternaturally silent. He reminded Michael of a volcano whose benign surface belied chaos and destruction roiling beneath. And then there were the rest of them, calling his cell phone every five minutes to question his seating arrangements. Nonna Maria and Aunt Gavina weren’t speaking. Gemma wanted to sit with Nonna, but Gemma’s mother, Aunt Connie, was afraid Gemma would wear a pentacle and give Nonna a stroke. So now Gemma and her mother wer
en’t speaking. Plus, cousin Robbie wanted to know if he could bring his Honduran girlfriend, and Uncle Jimmy needed a special chair for his back. On and on it went until Michael wished he’d been raised in an orphanage.
A poor day at practice didn’t help, either. Hard as he tried to concentrate, he was distracted, his mind going over lists of last minute preparations when it should have been focused on the drills. Ty saw it, too. Michael tried not to feel abashed, but it was hard. He was fucking up and he knew it. He comforted himself with the fact it was just temporary.
After tonight he’d be back on track, hockeywise.
Finally, there was Theresa. His guts twisted in abject misery when she came strolling into the restaurant. Dressed in black from head to toe with ankle high stiletto boots and a sharp red leather bag that made Michael think of his own heart, she was a vision of urban sophistication and aplomb. She soon made it clear that as the publicist, she was running the show. She was so smart and witty, gorgeous and spirited—and she didn’t want a thing to do with him. Instead, she’d chosen Little Lord Fauntleroy, who thankfully appeared to be MIA. Every time Michael saw her, he felt a stab of regret over the way things had played out. Worst was the pain of remembering how magical it felt when he was able to break through her defenses and get her to laugh or smile. So beautiful. So scared.
“Michael.”
He turned as the object of his daydream tugged urgently on his arm.
“What?”
“Go change into your tux and hang out in the kitchen until I need you.”
“Why?”
Theresa pulled a face. “You’re driving me and everyone else out here nuts. You’re behaving like a crazy person, barking orders and moving things around. It’s not fun.”
“So you want to get rid of me?”
“In a word? Yes.”
“Where’s Preppie Boy?” he asked, unable to resist.
Theresa pressed her mouth into a hard line. “Out of town on business.”
Michael studied her face, hard and defensive now after his unwarranted barb. “You happy?” he asked softly.
“Very. Now go.” Grabbing him by the shoulders, she gently turned him in the direction of the kitchen.
Resigned to his fate, he obeyed, shuffling through the swinging doors. The heat of the kitchen smacked him like a steaming towel to the face. But the smells . . . He perked back up, unable to decide which was more enticing: the aroma of bread baking, the tart, aromatic smell of fresh basil being chopped, or the comforting, familiar scent of the family sauce simmering on the stove. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as Anthony and the rest of the kitchen staff chopped, baked and stirred. Almost unconsciously, he found himself edging toward his brother. Anthony took one look at him, glared, then went back to filling the cannoli shells he had laid out on a papered tray.
“What’s the problem?” Michael asked, coming to rest against the steel table where his brother was working.
“Get out, Mike,” Anthony commanded. “I’m very, very busy.”
Ignoring him, Michael dipped his finger in a nearby bowl of cannoli filling. Anthony growled something about unsanitary practices under his breath but continued filling the pastries nonetheless.
Michael frowned. “We open in less than an hour, Ant. Can’t you get someone else to fill those?”
“No.”
“I’ll do it,” Michael offered. If he had to stand around doing nothing while Theresa ran the show out front and Anthony was boss back here, he’d lose his mind.
Anthony’s left eyelid twitched. “Get the hell out of here before I murder you, Mike.”
“I can’t,” Michael informed him. “I’ve been banished from the dining room until further notice.”
“Then keep out of my way.”
Michael slunk to the nearest stove. Grabbing a clean wooden spoon, he dipped it into one of the large vats of simmering sauce and took a taste, pausing to get the full flavor. He took another small spoonful. Something was missing.
“I think this needs more sugar, Anthony.”
“GO FUCK YOURSELF, MIKE!” Anthony barked loudly. The kitchen staff laughed nervously.
“I mean it, Ant,” Michael said seriously. “I think it needs more sugar.”
“You think it needs more sugar?” Anthony repeated. “You think it needs more sugar? Fine. I’ll add more sugar.”
He disappeared into the supply room, returning with a five-pound bag of sugar. Violently tearing open the top, he dumped the entire contents into the pot of sauce, his mouth twisted in a perverse smile. “How’s that, Mike? That enough sugar?”
Michael’s mouth fell open.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he yelled.
“Yeah, I am!” Anthony shouted back, the lid blowing off the anger he’d been trying to control all day. “I’m out of my FUCKING MIND to have agreed to let a HOCKEY PLAYER tell me what to do with MY RESTAURANT!”
“Your restaurant?” Michael thundered. “Listen, you SOB, who’s laid out all the money for PR, who paid for the renovation, who—”
“Who asked you to?” Face mottled purple with rage, Anthony tore off his apron, hurling it at Michael’s feet. “You want the big, new, improved restaurant? Take it. It’s yours. I QUIT.”
With that, he stormed out the back door of the kitchen, kicking it once for good measure before disappearing completely.
No one was laughing now.
“Fuck,” Michael whispered to himself. Face burning, he swallowed hard, crouching down to pick up the apron before braving a glance at the petrified kitchen staff. “Uh, carry on,” he said lamely, sounding like a mortified monarch. “I’ll be right back.”
Carrying the crumpled apron in his hand, he followed his brother out the back door. He found Anthony behind the restaurant dumpster, puffing furiously on a cigarette.
“Fuck off,” he snarled.
“Anthony.” Michael approached him carefully, the way you would a rabid animal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes.”
“You’ve been stepping on my toes since September, Mike. And I’m fucking sick of it.”
“I know, I know,” Michael apologized. As discreetly as he could, he glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until Theresa opened the doors. Jesus H. Christ. Sweat began beading on his brow as he imagined the disaster that would ensue if Anthony refused to return to the kitchen. There was only one thing to do: grovel.
“Please don’t quit,” he begged his brother. His request was met by stony silence. “Dante’s needs you.”
“I don’t know, Mike,” Anthony replied, drawing obstinately on his cigarette. “I don’t know if I can take you acting like you’re the one who’s been cooking for twenty years, like you’re the one who knows how to run a restaurant.”
“Anthony, please.”
“We’ve got some issues, Mike,” Anthony prattled on. “Stuff I’ve been holding in that I don’t think I can anymore.”
Michael looked down at the ground, praying for patience. He wants to have a heart-to-heart NOW? Be cool, Mikey. Say and do whatever needs to be said to get him back in his friggin’ apron. Michael slowly lifted his gaze to Anthony. “I hear what you’re saying,” he told him calmly. “And I promise you we will talk about this. But right now, I need you to come back and cook. Please. I swear on Mom and Pop’s graves that I will keep out of your hair and that I will listen to everything you have to say. But please . . . go cook.”
For a split second, it looked as if Anthony’s top lip was ready to curl into a sneer, the prelude to turning down his brother’s desperate request. Instead, he tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his shoe. “All right,” he agreed sullenly. “But on one condition.”
Michael was so thrilled he would have agreed to castration. “What’s that?”
“You never fucking tell me the sauce needs sugar again.”
Michael put his hand over his heart. “Done.”
“And.”
“What?”
Michael bit out impatiently. He couldn’t believe there was more.
The scowl faded from Anthony’s face as he clasped an arm around Michael’s shoulder. “You take a freaking chill pill and try to enjoy yourself. This is our night, buddy boy. Let’s knock ’em dead.”
It had been drummed into Theresa’s brain in Catholic school that the deadliest of the seven deadly sins was pride. But tonight, watching the ecstatic faces of the crowd as they stuffed themselves with the best food they’d ever tasted, she didn’t care if she was sinning. She could-n’t have been more proud if she’d owned the restaurant herself.
Women who normally picked at their food looked like they might lick their plates. The men ate heartily, un abashedly, as the wait staff circled the room, impeccably professional and attentive. Theresa couldn’t believe she’d ever been nervous about putting together a PR campaign for a restaurant. If the bottomless appetites of the partygoers were any indication, she had a bona fide success on her hands.
She couldn’t take complete credit, of course. None of this would have been possible if Anthony wasn’t a dynamite cook, or if he and Michael hadn’t been willing to follow the plan she’d drafted back in the fall. She took another look around the room. They had maintained the same decor despite the expansion, with pictures of Popes, gondoliers and prominent Italians beatifically beaming down on the diners from the red walls. She was glad they hadn’t gone with her initial impulse to go more upscale.
She wished Reese were here to witness her success, but he was in Chicago, closing yet another deal on behalf of Butler Corporation. She took a sip of her bellini; he’d be back tomorrow, and she could share the good news with him then. She knew he wasn’t much of a celebrity watcher, but maybe even he would get a kick out of the picture of her between Danny Aiello and James Gandolfini.
She continued scouring the room, checking to make sure everyone was having a good time. Her mother had insisted on staying home with her father, but there was her idiotic brother Phil, red sauce splattered on the white napkin tucked beneath his chin while he virtually inhaled ravioli . . . Ty and Janna, laughing and joking at a long table set up especially for some of the Blades and their wives . . . and Michael, tucked away discreetly in a corner with a petite, curvy woman whom Theresa had never seen before.
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