But if he wanted to get Theresa, he might have to learn.
A sharp pinch to his arm let him know it was time to sit back in the pew again. Grimacing, he slid back, his knees throbbing with pain. Talk about penance. People were rising from their seats and walking towards the front of the church to receive communion. His grandmother eyed him expectantly but he shook his head no. He knew it disappointed her, but in this case, it was too bad. It did-n’t feel right, especially since he’d been sitting here feeling angry with God.
He watched the parade of parishioners slowly make their way towards the brass altar railing, where they waited patiently for the priest to feed them their wafer and wine. He had pushed, he decided. He’d ruined a perfectly romantic moment by nudging that one extra inch. Gavone, he chided himself. When are you going to learn? But he’d meant what he’d said about not giving up on her. The tarot cards had explicitly said—okay, maybe not explicitly—that she might be The One. It was going to take a lot of time, patience and energy, and there would be lots of obstacles to overcome. Maybe this was just one of the minor setbacks predicted in the cards; the universe telling him “Cool your jets, buddy boy, take it slow.”
“Psst, yo Mikey.”
The stage whisper made him turn. There was Theresa’s brother Phil and his two oldest kids shuffling up the aisle. Not wanting to disturb other parishioners, some of whom were obviously deep in contemplation, Michael just winked. “Meet me outside after,” Phil continued, his daughter rolling her eyes at her father’s irreverence during a solemn moment. Michael nodded yes, waving to little Vicki, who happily waved back. He waited for his grandmother to return to her seat.
The rest of the service passed in an interminable blur.
“Phil, Little Phil, Vicki, I want you to meet my grandmother, Maria Grimaldi.”
After a pointed barb from Father Clementine about how happy he was to see “this young man” back in church, Michael was finally able to escort Nonna outside, where Phil and his kids were waiting. Phil politely shook Nonna’s hand while the two kids stood there, smiling nervously and backing away slightly, unsure what to do.
“We go to Gavina’s,” Nonna said impatiently.
“I know,” Michael soothed. “It’ll just be a minute.”
As if she didn’t hear him, Nonna started toddling away, up Benson Street to where the car was parked.
“What’s up?” he asked Phil hurriedly, keeping an eye on his grandmother.
“What are you doing two Sundays from now?”
Michael ran through the team’s schedule in his head. “We’re home. We’ve got an early afternoon game against Toronto. Why?”
“Why don’t you stop by after the game for coffee and dessert? Debbie and I are giving Mom and Dad a break. Theresa’s going to be there.”
Michael hesitated. “I don’t think Theresa would be too happy to see me there. She didn’t react too well last time.”
“Don’t let her scare you. She’s all bark and no bite. Whaddaya say?”
It didn’t take long for Michael to make his decision. “Sure, why not? I’ll call when it gets closer so you can tell me what I should bring.”
Phil clapped a hand on his back. “Good man.”
“I gotta run, Phil, my grandmother is trying to get into someone else’s car.”
Waving his good-bye, Michael jogged off in the direction of Nonna, shouting for her to wait. Maybe accepting the invite was a mistake. Maybe it was pushy.
Or maybe Phil’s being in church today was divinely ordained.
Pointing Nonna in the direction of his own car, Gemma’s admonition to “have faith” seemed to resonate. He felt lighter, more confident; all previous traces of soul wrestling vanished into the frosty morning air. Once he’d dropped Nonna off at his aunt’s, he would swing back to his place and check the gutter to see if maybe the moonstone had rolled into it.
Then he’d fish those candles out of the garbage.
Monday morning. Theresa had contemplated calling in sick to avoid Janna’s third degree. But she couldn’t. They had too much work. Plus, it was simply postponing the inevitable.
The sooner she spilled, the sooner she could forget the whole evening.
Forgetting was high on Theresa’s “To Do” list.
She’d spent most of Sunday working at home, putting the final touches on a press kit for an actress on Jailbirds, a new network comedy taking place inside a women’s prison. The show might not last, but if Theresa did her job right, interest in her new client would. Revising the press release, she’d picked up the phone to call Reese a half dozen times, always deciding at the last second not to go through with it. Conversely, every time her phone rang, she tried not picking it up on the first ring to keep from seeming desperate.
Unfortunately, all that did was give her three-second respites from talking to her mother, her brother, and four different solicitors.
So much for self-restraint.
Arriving at work, she was surprised to find Terrence absent. The world’s nosiest man was usually there before both she and Janna, tidying his desk and sharpening his barbs. Meandering down the hall, she could hear Janna’s fingers flying furiously across the computer keyboard. Her door was open, so Theresa walked right in. Janna’s fingers went silent as Theresa plopped down in the nearest chair.
“All right,” said Theresa. “What do you want to know first?”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yeesss,” Theresa replied slowly. She was surprised; she thought Janna’s first question would be “Have you heard from Reese since Saturday?”
“So, have you heard from Reese since Saturday?” Ah. It was the second question. Janna wasn’t slipping.
“No.”
Janna tapped a pen on the edge of her desk.
“Refresh my memory. What was wrong with him again? A bad case of bullshititis?”
“Not funny.”
“C’mon, Terry, lighten up.”
“People do suddenly get sick, you know.” Though I didn’t believe him either.
“I know,” Janna allowed. She stopped tapping and put her elbows on the desk, cupping her chin in her left hand. “You and Michael seemed to be having a pretty good time together.”
Theresa remained silent.
“Even Ty noticed it,” Janna continued, with a sly smile. “He thought you and Michael looked cute together.”
“So did Spanky and Alfalfa. That didn’t mean they were a love match.”
“Why are you so touchy about this?”
“You know why.” A great jet of frustration was hissing up inside her. “Why does everyone treat me like an idiot who doesn’t know her own heart and mind?”
Janna looked baffled. “What do you mean?”
“You, my mother, Michael—you all think he’s The One for me and I’m too stupid to see it!” Hot, angry tears threatened. “I’m sorry,” she choked, trying not to cry. “I’m just tired of everyone thinking they know what’s best for me.” I’m tired of thinking I’ve found a nice man only to have him turn around and kick me in the teeth.
Janna slid out from behind her desk and, crouching beside Theresa’s chair, wrapped a loving arm around her shoulder. “This is about Reese Banister, isn’t it?”
“No!” Theresa yelped. “I—okay, I was disappointed he didn’t come with me, all right? I really wanted you to meet the real him.”
“When did the real him call you to cancel?” Janna asked pointedly.
“Does it matter?” Theresa sniffled.
“Ladies?”
Theresa and Janna both turned to see Terrence standing in the doorway, holding aloft a gorgeous spray of flowers and a huge, gold box of Godiva chocolates.
“These arrived seconds ago for a certain Ms. Falconetti.” He rattled the chocolate box. “Come and get it, girl.”
Theresa flew from the chair and fetched the flowers and candy from Terrence. She opened the tiny white envelope pinned to the flower arrangement, all frustration and doubt
fading away as she read aloud: “Theresa. Sorry about Saturday night. Will call soon and we’ll have dinner. Reese.”
“Well,” Terrence purred. “What’s all this about?”
“Thanks,” Theresa said, ignoring his curiosity. “You can go now.”
“Would you like me to put those in water for you?” he asked politely.
“Oh.” Flowers. Water. Right. “Sure.” She handed them back to him.
“That’ll be one Godiva chocolate, please.”
Theresa grinned. “Later. If you behave.”
“Define behave,” Terrence replied brazenly.
“Good-bye,” said Theresa loudly, smiling as she pushed him out the door. She turned back to Janna, beaming. “See? See how nice Reese is?”
When Janna simply nodded, Theresa knew she was holding her tongue, but didn’t care. Let Janna think what she wanted. She knew what a wonderful person Reese was, and if Janna chose to believe otherwise, that was her problem. Once Janna spent time with Reese and saw what a sensitive, intelligent man he was, she’d give up her pathetic campaigning for Michael Dante.
“Want a chocolate?” she asked.
The mood in the Blades locker room was more pumped up than usual as the players began dressing for their game. They were playing Dallas, who were leading the Western Conference. It would be a real test for the team, and the sellout crowd would be especially stoked.
Fastening his lucky shoulder pads with the same old lucky skate laces he’d used for five years, Michael mused on his new superstitions. Not only had he managed to retrieve the gemstone, but it was in his locker, hidden in the pocket of his pants. Who knows? he thought, sitting down on the bench to affix his shin guards next. Maybe it will bring luck on the ice as well.
His metaphysical reverie was broken not by backup goalie Denny O’Malley cranking up the pre-game music to an almost deafening level—though that was annoying—but by a preppie thorn in his side.
“You sure you’re up to playing tonight?” van Dorn asked. “I thought you might have thrown your back out over the weekend, attempting to get it on with that girl from the party.”
Michael ignored him and continued dressing.
“No answer,” van Dorn observed aloud. “Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have his hearing aid turned on.”
Pissed but self-controlled, Michael regarded his nemesis pitifully. “Do yourself a favor. You’re in the pros now. Start acting like it.”
“Right on, Mikey,” said defenseman Barry Fontaine, whose locker was beside Michael’s.
Embarrassed, van Dorn sneered and walked away.
“Still gunnin’ for ya spot, eh?” asked Barry.
“Guess so,” said Michael. Slipping on his padded pants and tying down his sweater, Michael found himself getting worked up. With van Dorn breathing down his neck, Anthony breaking his balls and Theresa screwing with his head, it was a miracle he hadn’t landed in a mental hospital. He could fully imagine himself behind bars after murdering van Dorn with his bare hands. Arrogant little shit. Did he really think insults were going to rattle him? Mr. Ivy League obviously hadn’t heard the kind of trash talk dished out on the ice in the minors. Lacing up his skates, he vowed that from now on, nothing the little twerp said would get under his skin.
On the ice, Michael transformed his anger into aggression. On his first shift, he nailed one of Dallas’s defensemen in the corner with a punishing body check. On his second shift he broke up a cross-ice pass that could have easily turned into an odd man rush against the Blades. His energy wasn’t lost on Ty, who gave him more ice time during the second and third periods than he’d seen in a year, double-shifting his line. Inspired, Michael made another great defensive play, stealing the puck and flipping a perfect saucer pass to Kevin Gill, who was just off the bench. Gill went in alone and scored the game winner.
After the final horn, as the team gathered around goalie Pierre LaRouche, Michael finally allowed himself to relax. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so high, so invincible. He’d played the entire game “in the zone” and was named one of the “Stars of the Game,” along with LaRouche and second-line center Thad Meyers. He reveled in the adulation of the Blades fans, especially those way up in the blue seats chanting “Mikey D, Mikey D,” when he stepped back out onto the ice after the game.
These were his people. God, he loved New Yorkers.
In the locker room afterwards, he basked in the compliments of his teammates: “You were on fire out there, Mike!” Gilly shouted. “Over the hill my ass!” yelled fellow vet Nick Roberts. Their appreciation was made all the more sweet knowing that Golden Boy heard every word of it.
Emerging from his shower relaxed, yet still energized, Michael found himself being flagged over to the coach’s office by Ty.
“You played a helluva game out there tonight, Mike.”
“Thanks, coach.”
He winked at Michael. “You must have been inspired, huh?”
Michael laughed ruefully, vigorously toweling his head. “Pissed off was more like it.”
“Things not going well with Theresa?” Ty asked.
“Things aren’t going, period.”
“Want to talk?” Ty offered.
Michael hesitated. It embarrassed him, spilling his guts to Ty, especially after already talking to Kevin. Whenever he’d had “girl trouble” in the past, he’d been able to figure things out on his own. But this was different. This wasn’t just any woman, this was The One. “You sure?” he double-checked, stalling. “Don’t you have to talk to the media?”
“A few minutes wait won’t kill them. Go on.”
As briefly as he could, Michael filled Ty in, emphasizing how he had followed Kevin’s advice on wooing, but omitting his visit to Gemma. He couldn’t believe he was telling all this to his coach, but what the hell. Good advice often came from unexpected places. When he told Ty about Theresa’s brother asking him over for dessert, Ty’s response was immediate.
“You’re going, right?”
“I said yes, but . . .” Michael frowned uneasily.
“But what?”
“I’m worried about looking pathetic, you know?”
“You won’t look pathetic,” Ty assured him. “You’ll look determined.”
“Yeah?” Michael wasn’t so sure.
“Yeah. Look: Why are you in the NHL?”
“What?”
“Why are you in the NHL?” Ty repeated patiently. “Why are you in the pros when so many other guys with more natural ability never made it out of the minors?”
Pride burgeoned in Michael’s chest. “Because I don’t give up.”
“That’s right. You’re a warrior, Michael. You do whatever it takes. That’s what you have to do with Theresa.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.” It was comforting to hear his coach echo the revelation he himself had had in church the previous weekend. In the end, it all boiled down to determination, didn’t it? Determination to win the game. Determination to get the girl.
And faith. He couldn’t forget about that.
But there was still something gnawing at him.
“Why did she let me kiss her, then freak out when I asked her out for coffee?”
“I think Theresa might have a lot of issues around intimacy after what happened,” Ty said carefully, his gaze seeming to penetrate Michael’s in an effort to make sure he knew what was being referred to. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“It’s kind of hard not to.”
“I know, but you have to realize that she’s probably scared shitless by the thought of being vulnerable to you in any way. Go slow. Be patient.”
“I can do that.”
“Then go for it,” Ty encouraged. He picked up his sports jacket and swung it up onto his shoulder. “Anything else?”
“You could give me more ice time from now on,” Michael joshed.
“Keep playing like tonight and I will. Have a good night, Mikey.”
“You,
too, Ty.”
“I have an idea,” Theresa said enthusiastically. “Why don’t we go out back and play wiffle ball until your mom calls us for dessert?” Though she loved spending time with Vicki and Little Phil, watching the same movie over and over was not her idea of fun. Hitting the remote, she stopped the video.
“Cool,” said Little Phil. He was off the couch in a shot. Vicki didn’t look so sure.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Theresa asked.
“Philly’s gonna hit me with the bat.”
“Philly will not hit you with the bat, I promise,” Theresa said, rising from the couch and extending a hand to her niece. Together they walked through to the kitchen, where Theresa’s mother and sister-in-law were busy loading the dishwasher and getting out the tableware for dessert.
“We’re going to go in the back for a while,” Theresa announced.
“Sure, anything to get out of KP patrol,” Debbie teased.
“It’s good for her to play with children,” Theresa’s mother declared.
“As opposed to burning them at the stake like I usually do?” Theresa offered.
“We’ll call you for dessert,” Theresa’s mother continued, deliberately ignoring Theresa’s comment. “What’s Daddy doing? Is he still asleep?”
Theresa peered back through the kitchen doorway to look at her father, who was indeed asleep on the far end of the couch. Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, Theresa’s own breath hitched. He had once been such a robust man. But now he was little more than a shell, his skin gray, his body stooped and failing. He’s dying from the cancer, she thought. The truth of it made her throat close to the size of a pinhole. Not yet, God, please, she prayed.
Collecting herself, she turned back to her mother. “Still sleeping,” she reported.
Fair Play Page 13
