The Right Fit

Chapter 26

Antony stood on the other side of Maxine’s apartment door and wet his lips. The stitches poked out of his lower mouth, scratching his tongue. The fight last night was spectacular, one of those battles where both players held each other’s jersey while they swung like crazy with the other fist—making hay, the announcer had said on the after game broadcast.

“What’s wrong?” Maxine asked.

He could hear the sudden panic in her voice. “I had accident.”

“What kind of accident? Are you all right? Are you in the hospital? Are you still in Florida?”

He waited a few heartbeats then said, “Open your door.”

Antony thought he’d gotten the better of Bachlahov, at least he was sure he landed more punches, his swollen hands and busted knuckles were a testament to that. And it hardly took any time for the medical staff on site to stitch him up, but when he looked at his face this morning, the angry black eye and swollen lip were poor consolation of a trophy for winning the fight.

He put on his suit and boarded the private plane with the rest of his teammates and flew back to Toronto. Usually, he’d wear the damage like a badge of honor for a game well played, a team member who зrotects his line and doesn’t take crap.

But this time was different. Maxine was waiting for

him.

Antony was desperate for some kind of story to tell

her. He whisked into his apartment, distracted and frantic, dropping luggage and peeling off his jacket. Marc wasted no time in barraging him with his critique. “Fight should have happened in first period.” Marc wheeled behind him following around the apartment. “Come out strong, attack him first. I sent text, oui?

J’avais raison?”

“Oui.” Antony stood at his closet, unbuttoning his shirt. “Tu as raison.” He reached for a t-shirt and sweater, then tucked a pair of jeans under his arm. “You are right.”

Marc stayed in the doorway. The familiar weight of obligation forced Antony to slow down. He sat on his bed, listening to his brother review notes from both games. Most of his attention was on his watch, ticking away the seconds. He wished he could stop time, save this for tomorrow. Marc was Antony’s strongest advocate in terms of learning and improving his game, but in life, he was his weakest ally.

“Tu as raison,” Antony said for what seemed like the millionth time.

Marc spoke about the fight again. “Might have saved this,” he said, tapping his lower lip.

Antony touched his mouth. The stitches pulled every time he spoke or smiled.

Marc said, “There’s Italian stew leftover.” His tone was hopeful now. “Good, but not as good as Mama’s.”

“Vrai.” Antony took in his brother’s shaggy hair and sweat pants. There was a button missing half way

down his shirt. “Sasha will be upset to see flabby belly,” he pointed to the opening in his shirt. “She tell you to weight train every day, oui?”

“Home gym broke.”

Antony tossed his suit pants on the bed, then slipped on his jeans. “Quand?”

Marc picked at a loose thread on the waistband of his sweat pants. “Last week.” He shrugged.

“Pourquoi ne me l’as-tu pas dit?” Antony heard the impatience in his voice and adjusted his tone. “You should have told me. I need to fix for you.”

“Tonight?” Marc almost sounded happy.

“Non.” Antony hurried by the wheelchair and went to the bathroom. He groaned at the face staring back at him, the swelling had worsened since this morning. He wished he’d put ice on it during the flight. But even then, the bruises and the black stitches sticking out of his lower lip made him practically into a monster.

He made his way to the front hall, choosing his parka with the hood and a pair of sunglasses. “Don’t eat all stew,” he called out. “And don’t wait up.”

Marc wheeled himself out of the kitchen, there was an unopened can of beer on his lap. He looked Antony up and down. “Date with good fuck charm?” he prompted.

The muscles in Antony’s jaw tightened. “You need English lessons.”

“I need a lot of things,” he said. Then he stared back at Antony, letting the silence build between them, enforcing the invisible shield that encircled them both. Antony had been suffocating in that bubble with Marc for five years. The only way out was with the words he’d never be able to speak. The muzzle was the price Antony paid for having a life as a free man, except his freedom was the chain Marc let out and pulled back in every day.

“Don’t eat all stew,” Antony repeated. Then he left the apartment, making sure to lock the door behind him.

All the way to Maxine’s apartment, he drove with the windows down, letting the bitter wind numb his face. The visceral pain of the chill started to replace the cuts Marc’s words had left on Antony’s conscience.

Shit, he’s right. As much as he wanted to deny it, he was using Maxine as a good luck charm. He came to a stoplight. In the rearview mirror, his bruised and blood shot eye blinked back. His lip looked like a blotted worm. It would be impossible to kiss her. Then the idea hit him with a jolt—he may have found a loophole. By the time Antony had parked and was walking up the stairs to Maxine’s apartment, he’d convinced himself it would work.

Now, standing outside her door, talking on the phone, he was about to find out.

“Open the door?” she repeated. Her footsteps approached from the other side. There was the dull click of the deadbolt sliding back.

He slipped on his sunglasses, hoping to spare her the full onslaught of his disfiguration. As soon as she opened the door and screamed, Antony realized a paper bag over his entire head would have been better.

Her eyes grew round as saucers. “What happened to you? Should we call the police?” she stammered.

“Stupid accident last night,” he said, reaching up and taking off his glasses.

Her jaw dropped. “How?” she asked, still talking to him through the phone.

“I fall down stairs.” His words sounded full to him.

His lips couldn’t move around the letters.

She kept staring. “Can I come in?”

Taking him by the elbow, she gingerly led him into the apartment as if he was too frail to move forward on his own. Antony closed the door behind him and tucked his phone in his jacket pocket.

She pulled him into the kitchen, under the bright ceiling light. Maxine’s fingers lightly touched his cheek. “This happened falling down the stairs?”

“Oui,” Antony was momentarily distracted by her touch.

“It must hurt,” she said. Her gaze traveled along the bruises and then his mouth. “I’d hate to see the damage you did to the stairs.” There was slight intonation of skepticism.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Maxine slid her hands up his arms, resting on his biceps. “I like it,” she said. “Makes you look dangerous.” Then she raised up on her toes and kissed only his upper lip.

Antony winced and pulled back. His hand covered his mouth protectively. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “No kissing.”

A flash of disbelief crossed her expression. “For how long?”

“Stitches,” he said. “Week and a half.” She looked pained. “A week and a half?”

“Mad?” He tucked his head down, getting even with her height.

Maxine pursed her lips and scrunched them to the side. Antony smiled at the familiar gesture, then a wince jolted through him as the stitches pulled on his lip.

“I’m not mad,” she said, rolling her eyes and goofily punching him in the arm.

“Ow.”

She dropped her chin and became interested in studying the tile pattern on the kitchen counter. “I had this image of you walking through the door and me jumping into your arms,” she said, her finger tracing a line of grout. “And we end up in the bedroom,”—she cleared her throat—“and watch Dynasty and eat Winkies.”

“We can still do that,”—he put his hands on her hips—“I should have brought food to make.” He nodded to her oven.

Maxine followed his gaze but made no attempt to take him up on his offer. She was quiet for a moment and then said with a weak laugh, “If you’ve changed your mind about us, you didn’t have to throw yourself down the stairs to avoid having sex with me.”

A hammer smacked into his chest nearly knocking him down. How could she think that? Antony put a finger under her chin, tilting her face toward his. “I want you,” he said. “With lights on. And no Frankenstein face.” Then he winked. “I promise, I’m worth the wait.” Antony felt her relax in his arms. He leaned in, using the tip of his nose to give her an Eskimo kiss. “Oui?”

She linked her fingers behind his neck. “You’re saying we can’t have sex until your stitches come out?”

“Oui.”

“Or kiss?”

“Oui.”

“I’m ready to give you another black eye to match.”

“You are scrappy, Ms. Dior,” Antony grinned, slipping his arms around her waist in a natural hug.

Her cheek rested on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“Moi aussi.” He breathed in her shampoo.

Still in the embrace, she asked, “So now what?” “We survive until stitches come out.” He managed

to keep a straight face.

There was a tease to her voice. “And then?”

He was going to tell her that he was prepared to give her a night she’d never forget, but when he leaned back and looked into her eyes, Antony pictured how she was that first time on the park bench, all alone. Where would they be if he’d gone up to her that day?

“And then?” she prompted, her smile beginning to falter.

“Then, I hope, a new beginning,” he simply said. “For us.”