The Right Fit

Chapter 50

Jax sat across from Antony, pushing the paperwork across the dining room table toward him. “This couldn’t have happened at a better time,” she said.

Antony stared at the endless English words, but he knew what it signified—a new life.

“I’m jealous.” She laughed, the gold bangles on her wrist tinkled as she looked in her brief case, rooting through its contents. “This winter has been miserable. You won’t miss the wind chill.” She withdrew her hand and passed a ballpoint pen to Antony. Then she added more seriously, “You’ll have a better chance of playing longer now. Toronto is in a wild card position for the playoffs, and that’s the best case scenario. You’ll go farther with this team.”

“I know,” he replied. He knew it as a good deal, a great deal actually. Jax had come through for him. Still, when he heard about the trade the unmistakable ache of feeling cheated resonated with him and continued to linger for days, somewhat diminished by now, but still weighing heavily in his heart. In short, Antony felt duped, stabbed in the back—unwanted.

“All that work for nothing,” he muttered, imagining Coach Foster’s poker face as he sat across the desk surrounded by his hockey paraphernalia. “I need you in defense,” he’d said to Antony. Meanwhile the deal was already in the making.

“Are you kidding?” Jax kicked him under the table with her high heel. “Your performance the last month is the reason there’s an extra zero on the end of this number.” She stabbed the paper with a red fingernail. She waited for a moment then added with a touch of sarcasm, “Considering you were coasting to go back to the minors, I think this is like winning the lottery, sir.”

The pen shook in his grasp. Antony switched hands, rubbing his palm on the thigh of his jeans.

“Most people would be saying, ‘Thank you, Jax for all your hard work.’”

“Merci, Jax,” he said.

“You’ve got three years and five million dollars!” She motioned to the still pen. “What’s holding you back?” She searched his face then her features softened. She whispered, “Is it Marc?”

“Non,” Antony said bluntly. “He comes too.”

In his mind’s eye there was a clear path before him, the only path he could take—anything else would be like stepping off the trail and tumbling down the cliff.

But that cliff would be one hell of a thrill ride.

It was stupid to hesitate. He fully acknowledged this was his future, the goal he’d been working toward since Marc had put him in the spotlight. This deal would mean a better future for him and Marc. There was really no choice in the matter.

And yet, he was holding on to his last grasp at hope.

Antony called Maxine a few days ago. There had been a slight glimmer of expectation she may have considered what he’d said to Westley, but when he returned to the store the next day and found out Westley had been fired, it was like a sledgehammer crushing any vision he had of a reunion. He wasn’t sure how he could amend for the brother getting fired.

He finally accepted she was never going to call him back. Maxine believed he lied because he thought so little of her that he didn’t consider her feelings. Antony tried to remember those first rushed days of crashing into each other’s arms, frantic with need.

He didn’t understand why they got together in the first place; they were two people drawn together when there was no reason for them to even be in the same room. She was still in love with her douchebag of an ex-fiancé, and he’d vowed abstinence in hopes of breaking a hockey slump.

But he saw her on the park bench, and she lingered in his memory.

And then she bumped into him. And everything changed.

“Mark my words,” Jax prompted. “You’ll be the spokesperson for some orange juice company before the end of next month. You’re a super star now.”

“I’m klutz.”

She nudged him again under the table, more gentle this time. “But you’re a klutz who can score…unlike your trade,” she said, the condemning edge to her tone was hard to miss.

Antony studied her, it was rare for Jax to compare players in such a common fashion. The trade with his nemesis, the Russian player—Bachlahov, was the final blow of betrayal that twisted in his pride. Jax must have known this was all he had to hear to make the decision. With a few scratches across the dotted line, Antony signed his name.

“Hooray!” she sang out. “You’re stinking rich, darling.”

The pop of a Champagne bottle came from the kitchen. Marc wheeled through the doorway toward them, suds flowing over the neck of the bottle and onto his lap.

“Félicitations,” Marc said. “Congratulations.” “You’re going to need to polish up on your

English. Not a lot of French people in Florida,” Jax teased.

“There’s two more now,” Marc said, cleanly shaved and bright eyed.

“Oui. Yes, it’s a start,” Antony said. He forced a smile as he took a flute of Champagne. But as he watched the ink dry on the paper, it felt like an end.