Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

“So.” Michael gingerly opened his mouth, sipping some coffee. It wasn’t only his cheek, but the whole left side of his face that still hurt, right down to his jaw. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

  “It’s Angie,” Anthony replied portentously.

  “Yeah?” Michael prompted, starting to get worried. The gravity in his brother’s voice . . . Was she sick? Pregnant? Shot in the line of duty?

  Anthony peered down into his coffee mug. “I think I’m going to ask her to marry me, Mike.”

  “Holy—” Michael put his mug down and clapped his brother on the back. “That’s great, Anthony!”

  Anthony looked uncertain. “Yeah?”

  Michael was incredulous. “What do you mean, yeah?” He did an imitation of Anthony’s sad sack face. “What’s the problem here?”

  “No problem,” Anthony hastened to assure him. “I just . . .” He shrugged.

  “What?”

  “I wanted you to be the first to know,” said Anthony. “But I felt kinda nervous about telling you, since things aren’t going too hot for you in the romance department right now.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t still be happy for you!” He clasped an arm around Anthony’s shoulder, pulling him close and causing coffee to slosh over the edge of the cup. “Shit. Don’t worry about that. This is great news, Anthony!”

  Anthony still appeared dubious. “Yeah? You really mean it?”

  “What do I have to do to convince you, stand on my head and spit wooden nickels?”

  Relief rushed to Anthony’s face. “I’m so glad you’re okay with this, Mike. I was really afraid you’d be upset.”

  “Don’t be a jackass.”

  But Michael was upset.

  His brother’s news, though he refused to show it, made him feel as if his insides were a slowly deflating balloon. Gone were the feelings of elation over Ty’s speech. They were replaced by an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and envy. The one thing lacking in his own life, his brother now had. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, he thought stupidly. I’m the successful one, the social one, the famous one, the good-looking one. It should be me celebrating, not him. His meanness of spirit surprised him. Yet he was genuinely happy for his brother. How was it possible to feel two conflicting emotions so strongly at once?

  “So when’s the wedding?” he forced himself to ask.

  Anthony looked like a rabbit trapped in headlights. “Geez, I don’t know, I mean I haven’t even asked her yet. I haven’t even gotten her a ring.”

  “You better hop to it, then.”

  “If she says yes, you’ll be my best man, won’t you?”

  Michael felt his throat constrict with emotion. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d get teary, and Christ knows that was the last thing he wanted, because it would set Anthony off. Before you knew it they’d be the Amazing Weeping Dante Brothers of Brooklyn, New York.

  “Of course I’ll be your best man,” Michael managed, trying not to get choked up. “It would be an honor.”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  What else could there be? Michael wondered. Maybe Angie was pregnant. Or maybe Anthony was one of these people who wanted to get married in a hot air balloon or something crazy like that. He waited.

  “I was thinking of asking her to live with me.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t mind? I thought you might have a problem with it, you know, it being Mom and Dad’s house and all.”

  Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was he some kind of monster, that Anthony worried he’d have a fit over stupid stuff like this? He couldn’t care less if they lived together. He supposed Anthony was just trying to be supersensitive to his feelings. Michael couldn’t fault him for that, even if his fears were completely misplaced.

  “Anthony.” Michael grasped his brother’s shoulder tightly. “It’s not Mom and Dad’s house. It’s your house. And if you want to invite Angie to move in before you get married, I think that’s great. Maybe you’ll finally redecorate the place.”

  A smile crept onto Anthony’s face. “Maybe. Angie’s got good taste.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Now we just have to find the one for you, Mike.”

  “Yeah,” Michael agreed wistfully. There was no point telling his brother that he’d found The One then lost her. It was too complicated. Too painful. So he kept his lip buttoned, trying to enjoy his brother’s happiness instead.

  As if his brother’s impending engagement wasn’t bad enough, Michael got the phone call he’d been expecting from Ty: He’d been given a one-game suspension. Still, he flew with the rest of the team to Ottawa the next day for Game Five. He watched from a skybox with the rest of the players who hadn’t dressed for the game, gratified to see the Blades fly out onto the ice pumped and ready. From the second the puck was dropped, it was clear his teammates were giving it their all.

  But Michael noticed, as did everyone else, that the third line wasn’t performing as well as before. They were perpetually a step slow or a second late. They weren’t winning the battles in the corners or controlling the loose pucks. van Dorn in particular was out of sync. In the end, it didn’t matter: Goalie Pierre LaRouche stole the game for them, shutting out Ottawa 1-0. New York had clawed their way back and were now trailing three games to two. Still, if they didn’t win the next game, they’d be eliminated from the playoffs.

  Two days later, circling the ice during the pre-game skate, Michael could feel the nervous energy crackling through the building. The pressure was on. The players’ usual joshing and bantering in the locker room was unusually subdued. Skating past the bench, he saw Ty and Kevin call van Dorn over. The younger player nodded his head yes, and then it was Michael they were calling. Puzzled, Michael approached them.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re playing the third line tonight,” Ty informed him. “I’m shifting van Dorn to right wing and giving you back your old spot on the left. Any questions?”

  “Nope.”

  Michael rejoined his teammates gracefully gliding around the rink, wondering if the elation he felt inside showed on his face. One shift at a time, he kept saying to himself. We just need to win one shift at a time.

  By the time the game began, Michael was pumped, especially when Ty decided to open with the third line. Taking to the ice to the crowd’s heady chant of “Mikey D! Mikey D!” he watched in near breathless anticipation as the puck was dropped at center ice. Then he was flying, weightless, his body pure motion, making it impossible for him to tell where he left off and the ice began.

  Getting a regular shift, he felt like he was in the zone. He hit, he back checked, he scrambled fearlessly into corners. Six minutes in, he dug out a cross corner dump-in by defenseman Alfie Shields and threw it to van Dorn in the high slot for a one-timer. The crowd roared as one as the first goal of the game blazed on the electronic scoreboard.

  The Blades kept up the pressure, but were unable to score for the rest of the period. Michael could feel the building growing restive as Ottawa came out for the second period clearly loaded for bear. They played their hearts out, eventually tying the game 1-1 after a mad scramble in front of the Blades net.

  Both teams were playing it close to the vest, not wanting to make any stupid mistakes or take any unnecessary penalties. Michael felt he and van Dorn were meshing well on the ice, so well that Ty short-shifted them twice. Their line was out on the ice at the end of the second period when an Ottawa player took a slap shot from the point. The puck deflected off defenseman Alfie Shields’s skates, caroming into the Blades net.

  Ottawa was ahead 2-1.

  Michael tried to hold his pessimism at bay. It ain’t over yet. One shift at a time, he repeated to himself, his words echoing Ty’s as the coach tried to whip the enthusiasm back into his players in between periods. By the time the Blades returned to the bench for the start of the third period, Michael was convinced he and his teammates could turn the game around.r />
  “Let’s win this period,” Ty roared at them.

  Every time he stepped out onto the ice, Michael played full tilt, knowing their backs were against the wall. Van Dorn had a good chance to score, but his deflection went wide. Ottawa’s goalie was on fire, warding off shot after shot as the Blades tried desperately to put another number up on the board.

  With a minute left in the game, Ty pulled their goalie LaRouche. “Get on the ice,” he barked at Michael. “Crash the net.” When the puck was dropped, Michael fought his way to Ottawa’s crease and camped there, doing his best to screen the red hot net-minder. But before he knew it, the horn sounded.

  The season was over.

  The Blades were out of the playoffs.

  Exhausted, Michael and his teammates comforted each other. They stood on their side of the red line, dejectedly leaning on their sticks as they quietly watched Ottawa celebrate. When they were done, both teams lined up for the traditional end-of-series handshake. No matter how long he’d been playing the game, it always hurt like hell to lose, and tonight was no exception. Sucking up his disappointment, Michael extended his hand to each Ottawa player who came down the line, pleased when some of them praised his play and even kidded him about his ugly mug needing plastic surgery. When it came time for him to shake hands with Torkelson, he was gratified when the hulking Swede put one hand behind his head and pulled him close. “You’re one tough guido, Mikey. Always have been.”

  “Good luck, Ulf,” Michael returned warmly.

  Van Dorn, standing behind Michael, was dumbfounded. “You two know each other?”

  “We were in juniors together. We go way back.”

  van Dorn blinked uncomprehendingly. “But . . .”

  “The game comes first, Paul,” Michael explained to him. “The game always comes first.”

  “Everybody doing okay? You have enough to eat and drink?”

  Circulating the banquet room at Dante’s, Michael wanted to make sure all his teammates and their wives were having a good time. Ever since he’d returned to New York, it was an end-of-season tradition for the Blades to finish up with a meal at Dante’s. Coming off the ice after their defeat with Ottawa, no one wanted to discuss the depressing prospect of returning the next day to clean out their lockers and say their good-byes for the summer. Instead, they talked about how they couldn’t wait to get to Brooklyn to stuff themselves with pasta. Michael had forewarned Anthony they might be coming the next night if they lost the game, so Anthony was prepared for the onslaught. Even so, he complained loudly when they all walked in. Michael knew it was all guff. If there was one thing Anthony loved, it was cooking for an appreciative audience.

  Satisfied that the first table of players and their families were all happy with their meals, Michael moved on, pausing behind Abby Gill with a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Your lasagne okay?”

  Abby rolled her eyes in mock ecstasy, tapping her fork on the edge of her plate. “I want this recipe.”

  “I don’t know,” Michael teased good-naturedly. “It’s a family secret. You might have to sell one of the kids to my brother.”

  “Done,” said Kevin. Everyone at the table laughed as he pulled up an empty chair. “Mikey, why don’t you sit down and enjoy yourself?”

  “In a minute,” he promised.

  He checked with the next table, and the next, always getting the same answer. The food was great. They had enough to drink. Why didn’t he sit his butt down and relax?

  Finally, he took their advice. Sliding into the empty chair beside Paul van Dorn, he tucked into Anthony’s famous lasagne with mushrooms and ham, listening intently to the debate being waged over whether a certain sports-caster’s toupee was tacky or convincing. Van Dorn turned to him.

  “You’re brother’s a great cook, Mike.”

  Michael smiled. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  Van Dorn shook his head disgustedly. “I can’t believe that deflection went wide.”

  “Let it go,” Michael advised. “Season’s over. You’ll drive yourself nuts if you dwell on that stuff.”

  “I guess.” Van Dorn pushed a half-eaten piece of ravioli around his plate. “So, will you stick around the city for the summer?”

  “On and off.” Van Dorn’s attempt at making small talk touched Michael. “I’ve got a place on the Jersey shore I try to get to as much as possible. You?”

  Van Dorn looked forlorn. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll head up to my family’s summer place in Sharon and figure out what to do from there.”

  “Well, some of the guys sometimes come down to the shore. If you ever want to come down, or use the house on a weekend I’m not, feel free.”

  Van Dorn flushed, grateful. “Thanks, Mike.”

  “Glad to see you two putzes are finally bonding.”

  Michael and van Dorn both turned to see Ty standing behind them, beer stein in hand.

  “How’s it going, coach?” Michael asked jovially.

  “Tell your brother that anytime he wants to drop off an order of scungilli at my house, he should feel free.” He took a sip of beer. “It’s important you two get along. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together next year.”

  Michael’s pulse spiked. “Coach?”

  “I’m giving you back your spot on the third line, moving Paul here to right wing full-time. You two worked well together out on the ice.”

  Michael turned back to the table, stunned. His old position back on the third line . . . Madonn’.

  “Coach?”

  Ty, walking away, turned back.

  “Thank you,” said Michael humbly.

  Ty nodded and continued on to his table. But Michael was transfixed. In his mind’s eye he was already imagining next season. He saw himself whipping the puck to center Barry Fontaine and Fontaine scoring . . . saw himself hustling towards the net on a breakaway, the red light above the goal flashing on after he’d gone five hole and scored.

  “Michael?”

  Janna’s voice snapped him out of it. Sheepish, he stood, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Hey, Jan. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to come to your table yet. I was eating my dinner.”

  “Hockey player and maître d’. You’re a talented man,” Janna quipped.

  “I’m just a hockey player, thank you very much.”

  “A good one, too.” She tugged distractedly at one of her earrings. “So, where’s your girlfriend? I was hoping to meet her.”

  “She’s out of town,” flew out of Michael’s mouth, prompting immediate regret. That was your chance to say you’d broken up. What the hell is wrong with you?

  Janna looked sympathetic. “That’s too bad.” She sipped her drink, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Theresa and her boyfriend just broke up, you know.”

  “You mean the Invisible Man?” Michael replied, trying not to sound angry. “Nice, the way he showed up for the wake and funeral.”

  Janna’s mouth tilted down into a frown. “I know. I’m so glad she dumped him. She could do so much better, don’t you agree?”

  There was no mistaking the not-so-subtle subtext in Janna’s voice.

  Michael nodded. “I do agree.”

  “Well, you go finish your dinner.” Janna smiled. “And the next time your girlfriend’s in town, let’s all get-together.”

  Michael swallowed hard. “Sounds great.”

  Watching Janna return to her place beside Ty, Michael wondered, Does she know the girlfriend story is bull? Is she baiting me? Why can’t women just be direct? Hell, for that matter, why can’t I? Shit.

  So Theresa was free. Now what? He knew the answer before his brain even had a chance to fully formulate it.

  He would talk to Gemma.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  Michael’s voice was stern yet affectionate as he approached Gemma, who was sitting behind the counter at the Golden Bough. It was Saturday morning, but he’d been up and about for a while. He had stopped by Met Gar to
clear out his locker and say good-bye to teammates leaving New York for the summer. Then he’d headed up to the Blades practice facility in Armonk, to pick up the rest of his stuff there. By the time he made it back down to the Village, he’d been obsessing about Theresa for three hours. He was relieved to see Gemma’s shop wasn’t crowded.

  “That’s a nice way to greet your favorite cousin.” Gemma smiled.

  Michael slipped behind the counter and after a quick peck to her cheek, perched on the stool beside hers. “I’m not sure you’re my favorite anymore.”

  “No? What did I do?”

  “Those candles you gave me? The moonrock?”

  “Moonstone,” Gemma corrected.

  “Whatever. You gave the same things to Anthony!”

  Gemma shrugged, unruffled, while her eyes carefully followed a skulking teen in black Goth gear. “You were both seeking to attract love.”

  “But I thought that stuff was a special prescription you cooked up just for me.”

  Gemma cast him a sidelong glance. “I never said that.”

  “True.” Michael sighed, his eyes on the teen now as well. If he needed proof he was getting old, this kid was it. Black nail polish, black eyeliner, spiked hair—how the hell could this kid’s parents let him walk out of the house like that? “Kids today,” he muttered.

  Gemma laughed. “You sound just like your father.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m starting to think he had a point.”

  Sensing he was being watched, the Goth slunk out of the shop.

  Gemma breathed a sigh of relief, turning to Michael. “I was so sure he was going to steal that dragon flagon.”

  “Yeah, everyone needs one of those,” Michael observed.

  Gemma pinched him then said, “You didn’t come here to bitch about candles.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Michael confessed. He hesitated.

  Gemma peered at him, her gaze concentrated. “Theresa?”

  Michael nodded. He felt pathetic.

  “She’s jealous of you,” Gemma announced. “Her aura was pulsing red at the reopening.”

  Michael swallowed, not wanting to dwell on the idea of Theresa pulsing in any way. “You got your cosmic wires crossed. She wasn’t jealous of me,” he informed his cousin miserably. “She was jealous of you. Anthony told her you were my girlfriend.”