The Right Fit

Chapter 17

Antony grinned the whole drive back from the Air Canada Centre. He only lived a few blocks away, but it was so damn cold tonight. Plus, walking outside with a head full of wet hair from his post game shower was just plain stupid.

He turned up the volume on the stereo, listening to the sports radio call in show. The host was especially keen on praising him tonight.

“And speaking of guys picking it up a notch, Antony Laurent was on fire against the Red Wings with three assists and was voted player of the game. Why does this happen? How can a guy who has been on the fringe all season, suddenly start taking control of the ice? No one could touch him tonight.”

Banter started between the two other announcers. “This is what happens when the usual leaders fall

away, someone has to step up, lead the team…”

Lead the team? The thought secretly thrilled and terrified Antony.

“I think he’s finally found his place in this line up. The shuffle of the third defense line is why this guy is always close to the puck.”

His phone buzzed with a call from ursexslave.

Antony’s smiled faltered. He checked the rearview mirror and then pulled off to the side, double parking. He tapped the screen.

“Allo?”

“You looked fat on TV.”

Antony snorted at the insult. “Mama would disagree.”

There was a hitch then a groan on the other line. “First interview on Hockey Night. How did it feel?”

“Scary,” he answered truthfully. “My English is…you know.”

“Broken. You sweat like pig, too.” Then a light chuckle. “Good thing you are stud.”

Antony heard his name on the radio. “Almost home,” he said, then ended the call.

He pulled back into traffic and was soon activating the garage door of the underground parking to his condo. With only the ticking of the engine while it cooled down in the background, Antony listened to the rest of the broadcast, leaning his elbow on the armrest with his knuckle tucked under his chin.

It was a rare broadcast when almost every caller was praising the team. Still, there was a sense of cautious optimism. The host ended the show with this final question. “The guy has almost dug himself a hole. If he doesn’t keep up the same caliber we’ve seen the last few games, even a good game will seem like a disaster by comparison. If the team starts to rely on his newly found superior skills, you have to wonder, where can Antony Laurent go from here?”

He clicked off the volume. A napkin from Hot n’ Spicy lay on the car mat by his shoes. He glanced at the passenger seat, wishing Maxine would appear.

Where can Antony Laurent go from here?

The phone rang again. Antony let it go to voice mail.

When he opened the door to his condo, he felt like he was back in the arena. He rolled his eyes, wishing he’d never installed the surround sound with five speakers. He dropped his duffle bag in the entrance way then walked past the kitchen and into the large living

room. The large screen TV was showing the game he’d just played. He took a small conciliation that it was the third period and his interview had already happened.

The frame froze. Antony steeled himself as the silence fell over the room. His brother put down the remote and pointed to the screen. “See that?” he asked. “Luca was out of position. Could have cost goal.”

Antony counted four empty beer bottles on the table.

Marc wheeled back and turned his chair toward Antony. With his rumpled black hair and olive complexion, he could have been Antony’s identical twin if it weren’t for his pale blue eyes. “Good job.” He smiled up at Antony.

“Merci.” He loosened his tie. Marc was in a rare mood to talk mostly in English. He was always the smarter between the two of them—he would have aced that interview. But all Antony wanted to do now was take off his suit and collapse into bed. However, the ritual had to be played out. It was a game between Antony and his older brother, an unspoken pledge that Antony never remembered making but couldn’t break. He stepped around the wheelchair and sank onto the cushy leather couch.

Marc picked up the remote and took the replay to the very start of the game. As always, Marc did commentary and made sure to point out the areas where Antony could have done something different.

“Ah, again…you see?” Marc paused the frame. “If you shoot from too far, no rebound. You have to get rebound.”

“You’re right,” Antony answered automatically. He couldn’t totally tune him out as Marc was usually right. Grueling as they were, Antony always learned something from Marc during these sessions. More than once, he brought up the notion of coaching.

Each time Marc would laugh then his expression would start to crumble a bit, showing the pain he kept buried under years of pretending. “As soon as I get snow tires,” he’d say, slapping the side of his wheelchair.

“I fired Lucy,” Marc announced, almost sounding bored. He brought a bottle to his lips. Then he frowned and shook it. “Empty.”

Antony was too tired to argue. “What was wrong with Lucy?”

“She’s not Sasha.”

“Sasha is in Philippines visiting family. We can’t expect her to be here all the time.”

Marc put the bottle down hard.

The list of care workers that had either quit or been fired had already reached the double digits. The excuses varied; bad breath, incompetent, stealing…it didn’t matter because the excuses rotated on a monthly basis. The only one who had stayed with them the longest was Sasha. Antony figured she must have been doing penance for some long ago sin—just like him.

“So…” Marc’s expression softened. He leaned on the armrest of the wheelchair; his muscular biceps bulged against the sleeve of his t-shirt, a stark comparison to his bony legs. “If you keep winning,

playoffs are next. Every game counts now. The media wonders what Antony Laurent’s secret is?”

“I work out. I practice.” Then he smiled. “I do what my brother says.”

“Non. Something…new.” Marc’s eyes darkened. “We shared bedroom for twenty years, brother. I know you. Why did you go to park today?”

Antony felt a coolness wash over him.

“You left program open on computer.” Marc smiled, but his gaze stayed hard. “I trace cell phone. So… Que faisiez-vous?”

“Game preparation.” Antony ran a hand through his damp hair.

Marc wheeled closer, the kick plate dug into Antony’s shin, but he didn’t move. Marc motioned between their chests with his hand. “Man to man. Hockey player to hockey player.” Then he hit Antony with the expression he saved for his biggest guilt trips. “Frère à frère,” he said.

The heaviness of loyalty was impossible for Antony to challenge. With the least detail possible he confessed how this new woman he’d met might be the reason for his success on the ice.

“Luca thinks she’s my good luck charm,” Antony said, matter of fact. Marc had infiltrated all other aspects of his life. All he wanted was this one small reprieve. “But probably all in my head,” he said tapping his temple. “Superstitious.”

Marc’s lips were pressed together in a hard line. “She sounds nice,” he said.

After taking the empty bottles to the kitchen, Antony picked up his duffle bag from the hallway, the towel embroidered with the networks logo spilled from the opening. Antony had wanted one of those towels since he and Marc were in Pee Wee hockey watching professional hockey players on television. He ran his hand over the logo. They only gave them out to players they interviewed. He looked up. Marc was watching him.

“How tall was the guy who interviewed you?” he asked, nodding to the duffle bag.

Antony shrugged. “Six feet maybe?”

“He had to reach up, eh. Do you think the camera can pull back far enough to get my wheelchair, or will they give me an extra-long microphone to hold?” His tone was achingly light, but his eyes bore a hole though Antony.

“Ne sois pas stupide. I’m turning in.” Antony sighed. He made it down the hallway just outside his own bedroom door.

“Every game huge now,” Marc called out. “Away games in Tampa starting on Wednesday, oui?”

Antony didn’t bother turning around. “Oui.” “Taking good fuck charm on the road?” There

were a few seconds of silence then Marc said, “Probably just head game, eh, Antony.” There was the squeak of the wheelchair being turned around. With a click, the sounds of the recorded hockey game came on the surround speakers again.

Antony closed his bedroom door behind him. His king size bed took up most of the space. There were patio doors that led to a small balcony. A snowdrift, now graying from the city’s air, curved up the side of the long window.

The exhilaration of the game diffused quickly, leaving the usual guilt, but tonight there was a new element, a heavy blackness that tugged on his heart.

Good fuck charm.

Maxine. Maxine. Maxine.

He wanted to share this good news with her, but he was already in too deep with the ACE towing business angle. She thought he was working a late shift to cover for a sick employee. Earlier, after he’d dropped her off at her apartment, they’d exchanged numbers.

He’d put his contact down as ‘Ace.’ She laughed at that, and he felt like a genius.

He glanced at his phone again, but there were no messages from her.

There was a reckless part of him that wanted to drive over to her place right now, surprise her, take her out for real, tell her the truth—but what if she got mad he lied and never wanted to see him again? He told her he didn’t do one night stands either, but that of course, was another lie. All she had to do was Google his name, he kept his love life discrete, but sometimes the women felt the need to post pictures they’d taken with him at the bar or outside the locker room.

No, he couldn’t tell Maxine, it was too much to risk. He needed her. There was no choice; the charade had to continue.