Body Check

by Deirdre Martin

“Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph, you’re worse than my wife,” Lou grumbled. “Come on in!” he shouted.

  The door opened to reveal not a coffee-bearing intern, but Ty Gallagher holding the Stanley Cup. Behind him, Janna could see Jack Cowley’s smirking face, as well as the stunned face of Lou’s secretary and the remaining intern, who looked as though she’d just witnessed the Second Coming.

  “Gallagher!” Lou crowed, hitching up his pants as he came out from behind his desk. “Been out all night, eh? You look like six miles of bad road. Your boys behave themselves?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “But not you. You’ve been a bad boy.”

  Ty put the Cup down on the floor and looked at Lou questioningly. “What are you talking about?”

  Lou looked sly. “You got something you wanna tell Uncle Lou in PR?”

  A slow smile spread across Ty’s face. “What have you heard?”

  “Salo called me not five minutes ago, foaming at the mouth. He says he has it on good authority that you gave the big arriverderci speech last night at Dante’s. That true?”

  Ty’s eyes went straight to Janna. “Yup. I’m retiring.”

  “What are you, out of your mind?” Lou barked. “You’re at the top of your game!”

  “Which is why I want to retire now.” His eyes remained fixed on Janna. “I want to go out on top. Plus there are some other things I’d like to do with my life.”

  He smiled at Janna then, a happy, weary smile that she returned despite a sudden feeling of shyness in his presence. It was obvious he had indeed been up all night: he was wearing the same khakis and blue oxford shirt as the night before, though his clothing was rumpled now, and his face bore the beginnings of a beard from not having shaved. But his eyes were luminous, not bloodshot, and there was a calmness about him that belied any sense of having struggled to make such a monumental decision. The way he was looking at her—so openly, with such quiet affection, told Janna that Lou wasn’t the person he had come to speak with.

  The look was lost on the Bull, who was busy looking Ty up and down like a mother inspecting her child before his first day of school. “You’re gonna shave and change before the photo session, right?”

  “Of course I am.” He came toward the couch, lightly resting his hand on Janna’s shoulder. Janna swallowed, trying to remain nonchalant, but it was hard. A touch from Ty, any touch, was still like contact with a live wire. She wondered if he knew that.

  “Lou, would it be possible for me to have a couple of minutes alone with Janna?” Ty asked politely. “I know it must be nuts in here today, but this really can’t wait.”

  “No problem. I have to hit the can anyway.”

  Janna tried to ignore the wink Lou gave her as he left the office, quietly closing the door behind him. They were alone now, just she and Ty—and the Cup. She rose and went to inspect the magnificent silver trophy up close. It smelled of booze.

  “Show me where your name’s been etched on it before,” she asked self-consciously.

  Ty crouched down, pointing out his name in three different spots.

  “Pretty impressive,” said Janna. Ty stood, and she could feel him watching her as she distractedly read the hundreds of other names ringing the Cup. “I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you at The Grill last night,” she began.

  “And I didn’t get a chance to thank you. If not for you, that Cup wouldn’t be sitting in this office right now.”

  “Yes it would,” said Janna, uncomfortable with the credit he was giving her.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Ty insisted. “Listen to me, Janna. Your telling me what Kidco had planned for me was a wake-up call in a lot of ways.” He took her by the shoulders and gently turned her so they were facing one another. “Do you remember telling me way back in the beginning of the season that you would be the pebble in my shoe that I couldn’t get rid of, the annoying song lyric I couldn’t get out of my head?”

  Janna looked down. “Yes.”

  “Well, you were right. You are the song lyric I can’t get out of my head. Except the lyrics are those of a love song.”

  Janna took a shallow breath, wanting to hope, wanting to dream, but still feeling the need to guard herself.

  “Are you listening to me?” Ty asked when she didn’t respond.

  Janna nodded.

  “In the past, I’ve never been able to maintain a relationship and make a run for the Cup. The personal stuff always interfered with the concentration I needed to win, or vice versa. I know there are guys who can balance both—Kevin, for example—but I’ve never been one of them. So I had to choose. I could either continue dedicating my life to hockey, or I could finish out my career on a high note and pursue a life with the woman of my dreams.”

  He reached for her hand. “Winning last night was glorious, but it was nowhere near the happiness I felt when you and I were together.” He paused, pensive. “I know I hurt you when I ended things. I also lied—to you and to myself. Our relationship was never a casual thing to me, never. But I couldn’t admit it, because admitting it meant giving my heart over to you. Look at me, Janna. I’m a jock. I thrive on making myself impervious to pain and vulnerability. But you . . .” He reached out and tenderly touched her cheek. “You really got to me, lady. And it scared the life out of me.”

  Janna could barely find her voice. “It scared me, too. I’m scared now.”

  He drew her into a tight, protective embrace. “I know you are, but don’t be. I will never, ever hurt you again. I swear it.”

  Warmth flooded her. It felt so good to be held by him, so right. And yet . . . She drew back just enough to look up into his face. “What happens now?”

  “Now I ask you to forgive me for hurting you. I tell you that I love you and hope to God to hear you say you still love me. I tell you that I want to build a life with you.”

  Tears blurred Janna’s vision. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Absolutely,” he assured her, once again pulling her close. “I’ve accomplished what I set out to achieve. Sure, I could keep playing, maybe even win another Cup, but what would be the point? I want a life, Janna, a real one. And I want it with you.”

  “Looks like we’re both making some career changes,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t say anything to anyone, but I’m going to resign soon.” She hesitated. “Theresa and I are opening our own PR firm.”

  “Way to go!” Ty looked delighted. “I’m really glad to hear that.”

  “We’ll see how glad you are when I’m panicking because we don’t have enough clients.” Her heart gently tapped against her ribs. “Have you thought about what you’ll do instead?”

  “I don’t know. Open a restaurant, I guess,” he joked. “Coach. Become a GM. Something will present itself. Maybe I’ll just spend hours on end making love to my wife.”

  Wife. The word made Janna’s head snap up in shock. “Is that . . . are you . . . ?”

  Ty laughed softly. “Let me do the questioning, okay? Janna MacNeil, will you marry me?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to kneel?”

  Ty shook his head and sighed. “A backbreaker to the end, aren’t you? You want me to kneel? Fine, I’ll kneel.” He knelt down and took her hand. “Janna MacNeil,” he repeated reverently, “will you marry me?”

  “Mmm . . . yes.” She yelped with joy as Ty rose and scooped her up in his arms, spinning her around. “Yes, yes, yeeesss!!!”

  “Hey, no funny stuff in my office, ya hear me?”

  Janna was still giggling and giddy as Ty put her down at the sound of Lou’s voice.

  “You kids done yet?”

  Janna beamed. “We’re done. We—” She looked to Ty, unsure of how much to reveal. “We’re—”

  “Getting married,” Ty announced proudly, squeezing her tight.

  Lou rushed towards them, pumping Ty’s hand furiously before covering Janna in paternal kisses. “Congratulations! This calls for some sfogliatelle, don’t y
ou think? Sit tight. I’m gonna use your phone, doll, and order up a big box from a place I know in Little Italy. They’re to die for. Won’t be a ’mo.”

  Once again Lou disappeared. Ty and Janna looked at each other and shrugged. What was there to say? Janna thought. That was Lou for you. Leaning in to softly kiss her lips, Ty took her back in his arms, the only place she ever wanted to be.

  “So,” he said.

  “So,” Janna echoed, settling back into the exquisite security of his embrace.

  “That’s that. There’s just one more important question I need to ask you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What the hell is sfogliatelle?”

  Janna laughed. “You got me. But then, you already knew that.”

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  Theresa Falconetti hated lots of things: waterproof mascara that really wasn’t; cheese you could spray from a can; and people who didn’t give up their subway seat for the elderly or pregnant, to name a few. But number one on her list was doing something she didn’t want to do. That’s why Janna MacNeil, the partner with whom she ran her PR firm, was sparing with details about a new potential client.

  “It’s a restaurant,” Janna explained as they shared morning coffee, a mutual addiction.

  “A restaurant,” Theresa repeated thoughtfully, sinking down into one of the plush leather chairs in Janna’s office. She didn’t want to think about how much they’d shelled out on furniture. “Since when do we handle restaurants?”

  “Since our accountant told me we need to drum up as much business as we can.”

  Theresa sighed. “Hit me.”

  “It’s a mom and pop place in Brooklyn,” Janna began, reading the details from a piece of paper on her oversized desk. “It’s got a strong local following, but the new owners, two brothers, want to start pulling in the foodies from Manhattan.” She raised her head to look at Theresa. “Are you free this afternoon?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then would you mind going out there and meeting with these guys? I’ve got to meet with Mike Piazza.”

  “Mike Piazza? Of the Mets?”

  “No, Mike Piazza the plumber. Of course Mike Piazza of the Mets.”

  Theresa sank back in her chair. It always seemed to work out this way: Janna meeting celebrities, Theresa dispatched to check out what was probably a glorified pizzeria. “What time do the Brooklyn brothers want to meet?”

  “Around two.”

  “That’s doable. Where’s the restaurant?”

  “Bensonhurst.”

  “Really?” Theresa was surprised. She was born and raised in Bensonhurst. She wracked her brain, trying to figure out what family restaurant Janna might be talking about. And then it hit her.

  “You’re sending me to Dante’s, aren’t you.” she said flatly.

  Janna glanced away guiltily. “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  Dante’s was the restaurant where the Blades held all their private parties. One of its co-owners was Michael Dante, a third-line winger for the team. He’d made a lasting impression on her two years ago when he asked to buy her drink, failing to realize he didn’t have his two front teeth in. At Ty and Janna’s wedding, he’d hounded her endlessly to dance. She couldn’t stand to be around him—he reminded her of everything she’d like to forget.

  “You tricked me,” she accused.

  “I know,” Janna confessed. “But I knew it was the only way to get you to agree. Besides, his brother will be there, too.”

  “Can’t you switch your meeting with Piazza so that you can handle it?”

  “It’s business, Theresa. . . .”

  “I really don’t want to deal with him.”

  “I’ve never understood what you have against Michael. He’s a nice guy.”

  “A nice guy who reminds me of every Italian Brooklyn boy I grew up with and moved to the city to avoid.”

  Janna gave a small grimace. “Well, try to keep an open mind when you’re meeting with them, please. We could really use this account.”

  “I’ll be the consummate professional,” Theresa assured her while mentally stockpiling insults to use on Dante if he dared flirt with her. She’d meet with him, fine. They needed the business, so she’d do it.

  But she didn’t have to like it.

  Theresa pushed open the large, carved wooden door to the restaurant and slipped inside, out of the warm September air. The lights and air-conditioning were on, but there was no one behind the long, polished wood bar, and every linen-covered table in the large room was empty. Trying hard to ignore the bad paintings of Venetian gondoliers and pictures of local priests gracing the red walls, she loudly called out “Hello?” A minute later, Michael Dante appeared through the swinging steel doors of the kitchen. He was scowling, but upon seeing her, the tension melted from his face and was replaced by a big smile. Here it comes, thought Theresa.

  “Theresa. It’s great to see you.”

  Theresa smiled politely. “Nice to see you, too. I see you’re wearing all your teeth today.”

  “For you, a full mouth,” he kidded back. Theresa noticed him subtly checking her out and bristled. Get over it, ice boy. It’s never going to happen.

  “So . . .” she began, anxious to get the ball rolling so she could get the hell out as quickly as possible. “Should we wait for your brother to arrive?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Michael said stiffly, ushering her to a table for two. “You want anything to drink? Pellegrino, a glass of wine?”

  “Pellegrino would be great,” said Theresa, watching his back as he sauntered away and slipped behind the bar. Objectively speaking, he was not unattractive: black, tousled hair, tan skin, and green-blue eyes, which seemed to change color depending upon what he was wearing. A decent body, too: strong arms and a muscled chest tapering down to a perfect V at the waist.

  Filling two glasses with ice, over which he poured mineral water for both of them, Michael tried to hide his disappointment at the change in Theresa’s appearance. She was still gorgeous, but looked nothing like he remembered—or fantasized about. Clad in black from head to toe, her long, wavy hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, and her eyes were obscured by those chic, heavy framed glasses all the hip people seemed to favor nowadays. Her manner was different, too. Polite, formal. How could this be the same woman who, just two short years ago, was fun, flirty, and enjoyed cursing at him in Italian? Maybe she wasn’t The One after all.

  Michael handed Theresa her Pellegrino and slipped into the chair opposite her. “You look nice today,” he noted.

  Theresa frowned. “Can we stick to business, please?”

  “Sure,” he said, seeming to suppress a smile. “My brother and I need your help. We want to turn Dante’s into an upscale, Manhattan-style restaurant.”

  “Okay,” Theresa said cautiously, taking out a legal pad and pen. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  She listened carefully as he outlined the reinvention he envisioned. Just as she was about to ask him if they planned any renovations, boom! one of the kitchen doors flew open and out stormed an older, 1970s version of Michael, pointedly glaring at them as he strode across the restaurant and out the front door.

  Theresa turned to Michael questioningly. “Was that—?”

  “My brother?” Michael supplied. “Yeah, that was him, all right.”

  “He doesn’t seem very . . . happy.”

  “He’s not. He thinks upgrading the restaurant is a cardinal sin on a par with jarred gravy and Godfather III.” Michael shook his head dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. I’ve got him covered.”

  Trying to regroup, Theresa posed the question she’d meant to ask before they’d been interrupted. The answer was they were planning to expand both the dining area and the banquet room within the next couple of months.


  “What about decor? What have you got in mind there?”

  “I don’t know.” Michael looked around the restaurant blankly. “Some more paintings, I guess. A couple more pictures.”

  “If you want to attract a more upscale clientele,” Theresa began gently, “the restaurant may need a more . . . polished . . . look.”

  “Okay.” Michael drained his Pellegrino like a man needing fortification for what might come next. “What else?”

  “The food has got to be exceptional if you want to draw from the other boroughs.”

  “It is,” he said confidently.

  “You’re sure it is or you hope it is?”

  “It is,” he repeated stubbornly. “You know it is. You’ve eaten here.”

  “That was over a year ago.” At Ty and Janna’s wedding, when you were such a noodge I wanted to shove a square of lasagna down your throat just to get you to shut up and leave me alone.

  “Well, nothing’s changed. If anything, the food’s gotten better.” He jumped up from the table. “Hang on a minute, I want you to taste something.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a small dessert plate that he placed in front of her.

  “What’s this?” Theresa asked suspiciously, staring down at puffy pancakes drizzled with honey.

  “Just try it,” Michael urged. “Go on.”

  Uncomfortable with being watched but trapped, Theresa reached for a fork and cut off a small piece of the pancake, popping it in her mouth. It was good. Okay, it was very good. No, she had to be honest, it was great. If he wasn’t there she’d snarf down the whole thing.

  “Well?” he asked expectantly.

  “BTS,” she declared rapturously.

  “BTS?”

  “Better than sex.”

  Michael laughed. Now that was the Theresa he remembered: blunt, funny, unself-conscious . . . obviously, the girl who haunted his dreams was still in there somewhere, lurking behind the crisp, clipped demeanor.

  “Careful. Your roots are showing, and I’m not referring to your hair.”

  Theresa’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Your Brooklyn accent,” Michael said affectionately. “It was there in full force just a moment ago. As for BTS,” he added with a devilish grin, “are you sure about that?”