Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  Michael slowly returned his gaze to her, seeming to ponder the question. “She’s okay.”

  Theresa’s pulse picked up expectantly. Now he would ask how her boyfriend was, the jerk who didn’t show up for the wake and funeral, and she’d tell him they were finished, and he would nod, maybe even say he’s sorry, but he would also understand the message she was trying to give him.

  But Michael didn’t ask.

  Since there was no way she was going to casually volunteer the information that she and Reese had split, for fear of looking desperate, she just stood there like a big twit, saying nothing. Michael stopped twirling his stick, cleared his throat and checked his watch.

  “I should probably head into the locker room soon.”

  Theresa understood dismissal. She braved a smile. “It was good to see you,” she told him, trying to sound as pleasant and undevastated as she could.

  “You, too. Take care.”

  He leaned in, chastely kissing her cheek. Theresa barely had time to catch his scent before he was off down the hallway to join his teammates. She watched him walk away, the broad shoulders that had sheltered her when she was most vulnerable, squared and strong, his stride slow but sure.

  I’ve lost him, she thought.

  Overcome with sadness, she waited for Janna to join her so they could go upstairs and watch the game.

  “Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph,” Michael groaned to himself on the bench as the Blades gave up another quick goal to Ottawa, putting them down 2 to 0 at the bottom of the second period. They were now down two games to one, Ottawa having mopped the ice with them two nights before, winning 4-1. The home crowd at Met Gar had actually booed them, a phenomenon Michael understood but didn’t appreciate. He himself had only seen one shift per period during that game, and even then, it was only after penalty kills when the other forwards needed breathers. He noticed Ty never put him on the ice at the same time as Torkelson.

  They should have come out tonight energized, ready to wreak havoc. Instead their game was flatter than soda left standing overnight. Were it not for their goalie, Pierre LaRouche, the Blades would be out of it completely. Thanks to his “standing on his head,” Ottawa only scored twice despite an endless flurry of scoring chances.

  If they lost tonight . . . Michael didn’t care to finish the thought.

  The crowd, as restless and frustrated as the players, groaned loudly when one of van Dorn’s shots hit Ottawa’s goal post rather than sailing into an open net. Michael hated giving the little bastard any credit, but he was generating energy. The whole third line was. He watched as van Dorn and his two former linemates endlessly cycled, trying to create scoring chances, only to be kept on the perimeter by Ottawa’s defense. When the horn blew at the end of the second period, Michael followed his dejected teammates off the bench and back into the locker room, where Ty yelled at them using language strong enough to blister paint.

  Back on the bench at the top of the third, the mood in the building was tense. Ty started the third line. New York won the face-off and dumped the puck in the Ottawa zone. Van Dorn skated into the corner to dig it out. That was when Torkelson cross-checked him into the boards.

  “SON OF A BITCH!” Michael yelled in disbelief, his shout blending with those of his irate teammates and indeed, the entire Met Gar crowd, who were howling for justice at the top of their impassioned lungs. The Blades bench tensed as they waited to see whether the referees would call it this time, or let Torkelson get away with the cheap shot.

  “Number Eight, Ottawa, two minutes for cross-checking.”

  The crowd erupted in a roar of pleasure.

  “Asshole!” backup goalie Denny O’Malley yelled at Torkelson as he was led to the penalty box located to the far left end of the Blades bench, where Michael was sitting. Michael refused to even look at him.

  Instead, he kept his attention on the ice. This was it. With Ottawa down a man while Torkelson sat in the sin bin, this was probably the Blades best chance to come back. Michael watched, tense, as the power play did everything short of selling their souls to the devil to score. But the Ottawa penalty killers played smart. By the time the power play came to an end, the Blades had failed to get off even one shot.

  “All right. Time’s short,” Ty growled. He tapped Michael on the shoulder. “Get out there and keep your gloves on, you hear me?”

  Michael nodded, eager for his chance on the ice. His face still hurt, but most of the swelling had gone down, though severe bruising remained. Ty had been true to his word: He hadn’t made him wear a shield. Skating into Ottawa’s zone, Michael made a beeline for Ottawa defenseman Thad Durgin, who was desperately racing after the puck as it skittered along the boards. Using the full force of his weight, Michael gritted his teeth and checked him. The crowd went berserk.

  Michael dashed after the loose puck, centering it to Guy La Temp, who deflected it wide. This time the crowd didn’t boo; they cheered. Michael and his line were doing exactly what Ty had sent them out to do. They were bringing some life back into the building and inspiring their teammates to a higher level of play.

  Their shift ended and they skated, panting, back to the bench. No sooner had they mopped the sweat from their brows and squirted some cold water into their mouths than Ty sent them back out a minute later. This time Torkelson was on the ice. A frisson of excitement crackled through Michael as he jumped over the boards. He heard Ty’s voice in his mind—Keep your gloves on!—as he waited for the puck to be dropped. Ottawa won the face-off and shot the puck into the Blades zone.

  Michael skated along the blue line as Blades defenseman Barry Fontaine dug the puck out from behind the net, sending it along the boards into the neutral zone where Michael picked it up. He hustled toward the Ottawa’s zone, looking for someone to pass to. But a spear to his side from Torkelson caught him up short, causing him to cough up the puck.

  Furious, Michael whipped around and hooked Torkelson between the legs so he couldn’t get to the puck. The whistle blew as players from both teams seemed to stream in from all directions, surrounding the two adversaries.

  “Hey, goomba, nice face,” Torkelson taunted.

  “Stay cool, Mikey.” Barry Fontaine’s voice was more a plea than a piece of advice.

  But Michael couldn’t stay cool. He was pissed, and he was sick and tired of Torkelson’s antics. The Swede needed to be taught a lesson. “Fuck it,” Michael rasped, dropping his gloves.

  Chuckling, Torkelson did the same. Michael could hear the blood beating in his ears, a loud whooshing noise that seemed to come from deep within his head. The two squared off, slowly circling each other as the arena fell silent and the players and officials gave them space.

  Torkelson launched a right. Michael, expecting it, stepped inside and connected with two short, quick rights of his own. As Torkelson grabbed on to his jersey, Michael could hear the crowd at Met Gar roaring their approval, their cries of support and blood lust ringing in his ears.

  He and Torkelson were locked together now in a violent embrace. Both were exhausted as the two linesmen finally broke them apart. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael could see his teammates standing along the bench, banging their sticks in unison against the boards in support of him. Both referees glared at him, then Torkelson, their displeasure obvious as one blew the whistle.

  “Number Eight, Ottawa, two minutes for spearing, five minutes for fighting, and a game misconduct. Number Thirty-three, New York, two minutes for hooking, five minutes for fighting, and a game misconduct.”

  The crowd booed the call, choice words sailing down from the blue seats to the ref’s ears or so they hoped. Shaking off the linesman still holding him back, Michael skated off the ice, heading not to the bench but to the locker room, where he had been banished for the rest of the game.

  “Where the hell are your brains?” Dr. Linderman yelled as soon as he spotted Michael coming down the hallway. “In your ass?”

  Michael ignored him, heading straight for the locker ro
om so he could watch the rest of the game on TV. All he wanted was to be left alone to watch in peace. But Linderman followed him.

  “Didn’t I tell you what could have happened if that goon punched you in the face? The left side of your face could have shattered! Your entire summer would be spent getting reconstructive surgery! Tell me: Was it worth the risk?”

  Michael looked directly at the doctor.

  “Yes.”

  Muttering something beneath his breath, the doctor stormed away, leaving Michael alone. Pulling off his skates, Michael watched as Ty put the first line back out on the ice.

  “C’mon,” Michael urged, his eyes glued to the set. “Do something.”

  His teammates appeared to have heard him. Within ten seconds of the puck being dropped, New York scored. They were finally on the board. Anxious, Michael watched the momentum build as the Blades fought to tie it up, every man appearing to pull the urge to win from deep within himself. But it wasn’t enough. In the last two minutes of play, New York pulled their goalie for an extra skater. Within forty-five seconds a turnover in the neutral zone led to an Ottawa empty net goal. The Blades lost the game 3-1. They were down in the series by the same score. If they lost the next game, they’d be out of the playoffs.

  Dejected, Michael awaited the return of his teammates. Everyone’s face told the same story. Exhausted, embarrassed silence prevailed as the players listlessly undressed, no one seeming to have the energy or inclination to speak.

  The locker room door creaked open, and Ty stepped inside. Tension rippled through the room as Michael and his teammates anticipated their well-deserved dressing down.

  “Gather around.” Ty climbed up on to a bench as the Blades numbly, dumbly, did what they were told. “I want you all to look around at every other player in this room so that in years to come, you’ll remember who you shared this night with. This was a game New Yorkers will talk about for years.

  “Tonight you saw what a real hockey player is made of. Michael’s left cheekbone was fractured in game two in Ottawa. But did that stop him from going after Torkelson? No. When we were challenged, he didn’t stop to think. He stood up for us. He didn’t worry whether he’d wind up having to get a new face. He thought only of the team. You want to lift the Cup? Then play like Michael Dante. The man has the heart of a lion.”

  Ty stepped down from the bench. The locker room remained momentarily silent. Then a French Canadian voice called out, “The heart of a lion but the breath of a baboon!”

  Everyone laughed, Michael included. It was Pierre LaRouche, breaking the awestruck tension in the only way he knew how. Michael was glad of it. Ty’s speech had been completely unexpected, moving him more deeply than he thought possible. I’m back, he thought triumphantly, every cell in his body pulsing with life and a sense of revitalization. Ty clapped him on the back before leaving the players’ midst. “Fuckin’ A, Mikey,” said fellow vet Guy La Temp, voice thick with admiration as he made his way toward his own locker.

  “Uh, Mike?”

  Michael turned at the sound of Paul van Dorn’s voice. “Yeah?” What the hell did the little prick want with him?

  Van Dorn nervously licked his lips, his gaze bouncing off the nearby players. “I guess you’re not ready for the retirement home yet.”

  “Fuck you too, kid,” Michael lobbed back with a big, happy, self-satisfied smile he’d been holding at bay. Goddamn, life was good! He had no complaints except one, which was a helluva lot less than most people had. Feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks, he grabbed a towel and went to take a shower, pausing once to check his reflection in the mirror. He had to admit, the left side of his face still looked pretty bad. But his place on the team and his ego had both been restored. Definitely worth it.

  CHAPTER 20

  Either Dante’s was robbed, or it had burned to the ground. Those were the only reasons Anthony would call on the spur of the moment and ask if he could stop by. Something had to be wrong. If someone in the family had died, Anthony would have told him straight out on the phone. Putting up the coffee he knew his brother would want to drink, Michael sighed. He and Anthony would either have to handle the insurance or fill out a police report. Either way, it would probably end up in a big, heated debate.

  But he wouldn’t let it bother him. No, he was still feeling too good about Ty’s speech the night before. No more distractions, no more worries about the restaurant unless it was a pile of ash. Now it was just him, using his talents to play the game he loved, pure and simple. The only thing missing in his life—and he felt like a selfish bastard even dwelling on it because so much of his life was blessed—was love.

  Helping Theresa through her father’s death had been a mixed bag. It gave him the chance to show her what a good guy he could be, especially compared to that testa di merda boyfriend of hers. But holding her close and helping her cope had been rough on him, too. There were times during the two days of the wake and funeral he had longed to pull her aside and say, “I’m sorry I yelled at you and called you a psycho. I take it back. Forgive me and let’s give this thing another chance.”

  But he didn’t.

  His pride wouldn’t let him.

  She’s moved on, he’d reminded himself, and thinks you have, too. Hadn’t she asked him about his girlfriend yesterday, before the game? What was he supposed to do? Admit Anthony had made her up? He should have said they’d broken up, but that didn’t cross his mind until afterwards. He’d deliberately refrained from asking about Fleece, because he didn’t want to know. He was livid the bastard wasn’t there for her when she truly needed him, and he was royally pissed Fleece was the one who got to hold Theresa night after night when he, Michael, was the one who truly cared for her. “Ah, fuck it,” he muttered to himself, getting two mugs out of the cabinet. What was done was done. No use getting his guts in a twist over it.

  The buzzer sounded and he hustled to let his brother in. Anthony didn’t look particularly distraught, so maybe the restaurant was all right, after all. They hugged, Anthony taking a step back to peruse Michael’s face.

  “Jesus. I didn’t think you could look any uglier, Mikey, but obviously I was wrong.”

  Michael held his tongue. He’d already heard this joke countless times from his teammates.

  “Does it hurt?” Anthony asked.

  “Not as badly as it did.”

  “Don’t let Nonna see you. She’ll have a heart attack.” He scoped out Michael’s living room. “Nice place,” he murmured approvingly.

  “If you’d come by more often, you’d have known that,” Michael ribbed.

  “Yeah, I know,” Anthony admitted, embarrassed. “Time gets away from you, you know?” His eyes continued traveling the room, stopping to linger on the large white and red candles sitting on Michael’s coffee table. Startled, he turned to his brother. “Uh, Mike, where did you get those candles?”

  “I don’t remember,” Michael lied.

  “Did you get them from Gemma?”

  “I might have,” Michael said carefully. “Why?”

  Anthony looked mortified. “’Cause I have the same ones.”

  Michael looked at the candles, then his brother, then back to the candles. “What do you mean you have the same ones?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Don’t laugh, okay? But when I was first starting to like Angie, I went to Gemma to see if she could give me some advice. She gave me the same candles as you’ve got over there.”

  “Wait a minute.” Michael’s mind was reeling. “You took candles from Gemma? You? The man who used to make the sign of the cross when she entered the room?”

  “I was desperate, Mikey,” was Anthony’s plaintive reply.

  “Did she read your cards?”

  “No.” Anthony looked horrified. “She wanted to, but I wouldn’t let her. That’s devil stuff, bro.”

  “Oh, but burning candles to attract love isn’t?” Michael shook his head and asked the next, inevitable question, even though he felt sure he already
knew the answer. “Did she give you a moonstone, too?”

  Anthony nodded, and Michael sighed in resignation. “Well, I’m glad her hoodoo voodoo worked for one of us.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Joe?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Leading the way, Michael walked with Anthony into the kitchen. He felt pissed at Gemma. Did she hand out the same candles and rocks to every poor, lovelorn schnook who came boohooing to her store? He was under the impression—mistaken, obviously—that Gemma had selected the moonstone and candles to work specifically for him. The fact she gave the same talismans to Anthony made him feel faceless, somehow. Generic.

  He poured their coffee, trying to ignore the way Anthony’s gaze was crawling over every surface of the kitchen. He knew what his brother was thinking: that he didn’t utilize space well. That he needed a bigger stove and the cooking implements he kept in a ceramic jug on the counter were woefully inadequate.

  “What?” he finally asked, sounding irritated as he handed his brother a mug.

  “This is a really nice kitchen, Mike.”

  Jesus. Anthony was just full of surprises these days.

  Anthony took a sip of his coffee, his lips disappearing into a thin, disapproving line. “What kind of coffee is this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Starbuck’s.”

  “You don’t go to Miraglia Brothers?”

  “Anthony,” Michael replied patiently as they headed back out into the living room, “I live in Park Slope. Miraglia Brothers is in Bensonhurst. No offense, but I’m not making a special trip for coffee, especially since I’m not around a lot of the time.”

  “I’ll buy it for you,” Anthony offered, sitting down. Michael did the same. “I get it at a discount for the restaurant.”

  “Whatever.” If his brother wanted to buy him coffee, that was fine with him. Whatever floated his boat.