Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  No!

  She pushed Michael away, gasping, the room around her reduced to the suffocating blackness of her own mind, where joy and pleasure curled up and died when faced with it—him—the shadow.

  “I can’t,” she whimpered, shaking uncontrollably. “I can’t.”

  “Theresa?”

  Michael’s bewildered voice seemed to be coming from far away. Embarrassed, she lifted her head, shocked by the helpless expression on his face.

  “Baby, what can I do?” he asked, sounding pained.

  Theresa just shook her head, groping for her glasses.

  “Talk to me,” he coaxed in a concerned whisper. “Please.”

  Theresa choked back a sob. “I thought . . . I was ready. I thought . . .”

  “Sshh.” He went to take her in his arms, then stopped himself. “Can I hold you?” he asked softly. “Is that all right?”

  Theresa nodded mutely as he slowly, almost gingerly, wrapped his arms around her. You’re safe now, she thought. Relax. But she couldn’t and began to cry. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed into his chest.

  “Don’t be silly,” Michael chided, holding her fast.

  “It was fine,” she said, talking more to herself than him as he stroked her hair. “Everything was fine. I was enjoying it so much. And then . . . it was like I was back there again, and he was shoving me down onto to the couch and tearing at my blouse . . . the fringe of his straight black hair hanging in his face . . . not hiding his leer . . .” She broke off, unable to continue.

  “Motherfucking little bastard,” Michael railed beneath his breath. Theresa could feel the anger fanning through him, sensed his struggle to keep his ire in check. She waited for him to relax, overwhelmed with relief when he carefully drew her even closer. “Just let it out, angel. It’s okay. No one can hurt you now. Not while I’m here.”

  Grateful, Theresa remained nestled in the shelter of his arms, her frantic heartbeat gradually returning to normal as he gently rocked her. Feeling better, she slowly straightened up, swiping at her eyes which she was sure were now ringed with smeared mascara. “Still want to date me now?” she asked bitterly.

  Michael angled his head, looking completely baffled. “Of course I do.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Of course.” His fingers found her hair, pushing the few stray strands away from her face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because I’m damaged goods, Michael. I’m emotionally crippled. I haven’t dated since it happened and judging by tonight, I’ll never be able to handle a relationship again.”

  “You are not damaged goods,” he countered ferociously. “You’re someone who had something horrible happen to them and you’re frightened. I understand that.”

  “Do you understand it might be months before I’m ready for anything more intimate than a kiss?”

  “Yes, I do.” His hand found hers. “And I can deal with that, Theresa. My main concern is you. That you feel safe and happy. That you’re not afraid.”

  “Why?” she demanded, her entire body inflamed with confused anger. “Why are you so good to me? Why are you so patient and kind? Any other guy would have been out the door ten minutes ago.”

  “I take it you haven’t figured out yet that I’m not any other guy.”

  “Why?” she repeated, tears threatening to erupt again. “I’m not worth it. I—”

  “Stop.” His index finger flew to her lips to still them. “I don’t want to hear you putting yourself down, okay?”

  Theresa nodded. Exhaustion overtook her, making her feel as if someone had filled her brain and body with wet, heavy sand. All she wanted was to crawl into her bed and sleep for years. “I’m tired,” she said in a small voice.

  “Me, too. It’s pretty late.” Michael searched her face. “Is there anything I can do, Ter? Here? Now?”

  Theresa shook her head.

  “Are you sure? I could sleep on the couch if you’re scared of being alone. I swear on my mother’s grave I won’t try anything funny.”

  Despite all that had just happened, Theresa found herself smiling. “I know that, Michael. No, I’ll be okay.” She reached out to caress his cheek. “You’re so sweet.”

  “Uh oh,” Michael replied guardedly. “Sweet is just one cut above nice. Sounds like the big brush-off is coming.”

  “Not at all,” Theresa swore, looking at him earnestly. “I had a wonderful time tonight and I would love to see you again—if that’s what you want, after, you know . . .” She looked away, face hot with a sense of shame she couldn’t quite get a handle on.

  “I would love another date.”

  Relief gentled Theresa’s body, momentarily appeasing the heaviness that had her fighting to keep her eyes open. “I really like you,” she hesitated. “And I—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” he cut in gently.

  “I’m going out to my folks’ tomorrow. My dad’s not doing too well. Do you want to come?”

  “I can’t,” he said. Damn. “The ‘Hunks On Ice’ benefit is at Wollman Rink and I have to go. How about this? He pressed her hands between his. “You call me Monday and maybe we can catch a movie during the week? That sound good?”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Okay. It’s a deal then.” He rose. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked, slipping his jacket on.

  “I’ll be fine,” she swore. Seeing him to the door, she was glad he was such a trusting soul.

  Because if he wasn’t, he would have known she was lying.

  It had been a long time since she’d been afraid to go to sleep.

  Months, maybe even a whole year.

  Yet every time she felt herself nodding off, some impulse would jerk her awake, protecting her from the night-mares she feared would ensue if she succumbed to her subconscious. The fact that it was happening again unnerved her, but at least she understood why.

  The hard part would be dealing with it.

  She spent the next day with her parents, working hard to cover the distress she felt over her father’s deteriorating condition and her own confusion. One minute she was certain she could handle her intimacy problems on her own; the next she was mentally rearranging her schedule to make time for an appointment with her former shrink. The thought of returning to that earth-toned office and being asked to remember things, and how she felt about them, was unnerving.

  Another night of tossing and turning ensued, resulting in her oversleeping for an important meeting she was slated to handle on her own.

  The previous week, she and Janna had received a call from the manager of Notorious Devil D, requesting a meeting. Notorious was sniffing around for new representation. The call should have been perceived as a godsend, in light of the recent meeting with their accountant. But both she and Janna hated Notorious Devil D’s music. All his lyrics referred to women as “ho’s” and “bitches.” Not that anyone else seemed to notice or care; the public couldn’t get enough of him. Janna and Theresa agreed they’d be idiots not to take the meeting. Theresa would be handling it alone since Janna was meeting with Roberto Alomar, who Mike Piazza had steered their way.

  And now she was running late.

  Fueled on adrenaline rather than her usual caffeine, Theresa came flying through the office door at breakneck speed.

  “Are they here?” she asked Terrence breathlessly, they being Notorious and his manager, Albert Groveman.

  “Thankfully for your late ass, they just got here a few minutes ago,” Terrence informed her. “I told them you were still at a breakfast meeting, gave them both coffee and sent them to your office.”

  Theresa nodded, grateful, tugged her skirt down and raked a hand through her hair, which was still damp. “Do I look okay?”

  “You look fine,” Terrence replied quickly. “Listen, before you go in there, you might want to take a look at today’s paper. There’s—”

  “I’ll look at the paper after,” said Theresa, starting down the hall.

 
“Theresa—”

  “After,” she called over her shoulder. Arriving at the closed door of her office, she took a deep breath before plunging inside. There, sitting behind her desk, was Notorious Devil D himself, playing with a rubber band. Across the desk from him sat Albert Groveman, a nervous, mousey man who rose politely when Theresa entered the room.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing at his client whose collection of necklaces probably cost more than the GDP of some small country. “But D always goes for the most comfortable seat in the house.”

  “No problem,” Theresa lied amiably. Shaking both men’s hands, she took the seat next to Groveman. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “D is unhappy with his current publicist,” began Groveman. “Isn’t that so, D?”

  D nodded.

  “Who’s repping him now?” Theresa asked.

  Groveman named a large entertainment conglomerate which, ironically, had just been purchased by Butler Corporation.

  “And what’s the problem?” Theresa continued, leaning forward to snatch a legal pad and pen from her desk.

  “D doesn’t feel they’re doing enough to push his image in Hollywood. Ice-T, Snoop Dogg, Sean Combs, Eminem, Kid Rock, Mark Wahlberg—they’re all movie stars now. D wants a piece of that action, too. Am I right, D?”

  D nodded.

  “I see,” said Theresa as she took notes, wondering if D realized that in order to be a movie star, you had to talk. “Go on.”

  “D was also unhappy with the lack of damage control surrounding his recent divorce.”

  Theresa chewed the tip of her pen thoughtfully. “He tried to get out of the prenup by saying they weren’t legally married, because the wedding was performed by a Samoan wrestler/priest, correct?”

  “It wasn’t legal!” D exploded, lunging across the desk. “I told that bitch from Day One—”

  “D!” Groveman barked. “Let me handle this, all right?”

  D nodded, slumping down behind Theresa’s desk muttering.

  “The case was somewhat controversial,” Groveman admitted smoothly as he regarded Theresa, “but it would have been less so had D’s PR people handled it differently.”

  “Certainly,” Theresa said. “Well, let me begin by explaining to you how we work here, and what I think we can offer you.”

  With as much enthusiasm as she could muster, she gave Groveman and his client the standard “Why you want FM PR to work for you” spiel. Groveman actually seemed to be listening. D, on the other hand, had returned to teasing his brain with the rubber band. When she was done, she asked if they had any questions.

  “A few,” said Groveman. “Question One: Do you have any other musicians on your roster?”

  “We do.” Theresa named two, an alterna-chick who was currently in heavy rotation on MTV, and an aging British heavy metal band experiencing a resurgence in their fan base thanks to the inclusion of three of their songs in the latest Cameron Crowe film. Groveman nodded, impressed.

  “So you don’t just devote yourself to hockey players?” D asked with a smirk.

  “Uh, no,” said Theresa curtly, caught completely off guard.

  “Well, that’s good,” Groveman cut in. “Would it be possible for you to put in writing what you just laid out for us, along with an estimate of what your services will cost?”

  “I’d be glad to. When would you like it by?”

  “Is the end of next week all right?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll have it to you by the beginning of next week.”

  Groveman turned to Theresa’s desk. “D?”

  D nodded.

  “Then it’s a wrap,” Groveman declared, standing. Theresa rose at the same time he did. She couldn’t wait for them to leave. Keeping a pleasant smile plastered on her face, she escorted them to the elevators. Reentering the office, Terrence accosted her immediately.

  “Well? How did it go?” he asked anxiously.

  “Fine, if you ignore some non sequitur about hockey players.” Terrence winced. “How is it possible that Notorious Devil D is a gazillionaire and I’m not?” Theresa wondered aloud.

  “It’s one of those mysteries of the universe, hon, like, ‘How many face lifts can Joan Rivers endure before she starts resembling a hammerhead shark?’”

  “Mmm.” Despite his delightfully forked tongue, Theresa noticed he looked distinctly troubled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Here’s why they made a crack about hockey players,” Terrence said, slowly pushing his copy of the New York Sentinel towards her. “Read it and scream,” he sighed, pretending to busy himself with some paperwork in front of him.

  Heart in throat, Theresa opened to the Sentinel’s notorious gossip page, “Eye Spy.” She scanned it, stopping when Michael’s name jumped out at her in bold letters:

  “Spotted Canoodling at the Rainbow Room: New York Blades’ own Mikey D with publicist Theresa Falconetti. Two short years ago, Falconetti won an out-of-court settlement in a case of alleged sexual assault against one of Mikey’s former teammates, Alexei Lubov. Looks like Miss F just can’t resist men on skates.”

  Theresa closed the paper. She stood still, mouth filling with sand while invisible talons dug deep into her chest, making it hard to breathe. She pushed the paper back towards Terrence.

  “Are you okay?” he asked uneasily.

  Theresa opened her mouth to say something, but the right words wouldn’t come. In fact, no words would come. It was as if the conduit between her brain and her mouth were blocked.

  “It’s bullshit, Theresa, you of all people should know that,” Terrence said fiercely. The phone rang. “Oh, shit. Let me get that.”

  Theresa nodded. While Terrence took the call, she quietly folded up the newspaper, then grabbed a piece of scrap paper on his desk and began scribbling. When she was done, she handed it to him. “I’m going out, but I’ll be back after lunch,” it read. “There’s something I need to do.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Michael. How’s it going?”

  Exhaling slowly as he released his left leg from a standing quad stretch, Michael turned to see Ty standing beside him. This evening would be his first game back following his concussion, and everyone, from the trainers to the coaching staff to his teammates, was keeping a careful eye on him. Michael appreciated their concern, but there was no need: He’d gotten clearance to play from both the team doctor and a neurologist.

  “It’s going well,” he told Ty.

  “Good. Don’t want you to push it if you’re not feeling one hundred percent.”

  “I’m feeling great,” Michael answered.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Ty repeated. He patted Michael’s shoulder before crossing to talk to Kevin Gill. Michael tried not to stare as the two of them conversed, occasionally turning their heads to glance back at him. It was another minute or two before they separated and moved on to talk to other players.

  Chest tight, Michael squirted a shot of Gatorade into his mouth and sat down on a mat, resuming his stretches. He wasn’t an idiot. In the space of one week, van Dorn had seized his opportunity and had dazzled the shit out of everyone. He was a better skater. He was better with the puck. He scored goals. Obviously Ty and Kevin were deciding who to dress for tonight’s game.

  Resentment roiled through him, though he knew it was misplaced. He’d been a professional athlete long enough to know this came with the territory. It was an old story: A veteran player gets hurt, a rookie waiting in the wings finally gets the chance to show his mettle and—bam!—be fore you know it, the vet finds himself crying into the bubbly at his retirement party at the advanced old age of thirty-five. Just thinking about it made him grind his teeth. He’d be damned if he’d let it happen to him. He still had two, maybe three good productive years left if he maintained his focus and drive. No way was he going to roll over and die for Dennis the fucking Menace.

  He was midway through his second set of one hundr
ed stomach crunches when the sound of Tully Webster’s voice cut through his fantasy of boarding the little bastard.

  “Yo, Mikey. There’s some girl out there who wants to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”

  Gemma? Theresa? Puzzled, Michael grabbed his towel and draped it over his neck, ignoring the catcalls and off-color comments of his teammates as he strode across the weight room. He found Theresa waiting for him out in the hallway, leaning against a concrete wall.

  “Hey, you,” he said, bad mood dissipating at the mere sight of her. He leaned in for a small peck to her cheek, then thought better of it, slick as he was with perspiration. His sweaty appearance embarrassed him, but there was nothing he could do about it, apart from toweling off as best he could and praying he didn’t have killer BO. He pressed his towel first to his face, then to his neck. “This is a surprise.”

  “I know.” Theresa’s expression was grim, her hands dug deep in her coat pockets.

  “Everything okay?”

  “No.”

  “Is it your dad?” He remembered she’d gone out to Brooklyn the day before specifically to spend some time with her old man. Maybe he was in the hospital?

  Appreciation flickered briefly across Theresa’s face. “My father’s fine.” She smiled wanly. “I mean—relatively.

  You know.” Peering past him, she gazed anxiously up the long, neon-lit corridor. “Look, is there somewhere a bit more private where we can talk?”