Fair Play (40 page)

The buzzer sounded and he hustled to let his brother in. Anthony didn't
look
particularly distraught, so maybe the restaurant was all right, after all. They hugged, Anthony taking a step back to peruse Michael's face.

“Jesus. I didn't think you could look any uglier, Mikey, but obviously I was wrong.”

Michael held his tongue. He'd already heard this joke countless times from his teammates.

“Does it hurt?” Anthony asked.

“Not as badly as it did.”

“Don't let Nonna see you. She'll have a heart attack.” He scoped out Michael's living room. “Nice place,” he murmured approvingly.

“If you'd come by more often, you'd have known that,” Michael ribbed.

“Yeah, I know,” Anthony admitted, embarrassed. “Time gets away from you, you know?” His eyes continued traveling the room, stopping to linger on the large white and red candles sitting on Michael's coffee table. Startled, he turned to his brother. “Uh, Mike, where did you get those candles?”

“I don't remember,” Michael lied.

“Did you get them from Gemma?”

“I might have,” Michael said carefully. “Why?”

Anthony looked mortified. “'Cause I have the same ones.”

Michael looked at the candles, then his brother, then back to the candles. “What do you mean you have the same ones?” he asked suspiciously.

“Don't laugh, okay? But when I was first starting to like Angie, I went to Gemma to see if she could give me some advice. She gave me the same candles as you've got over there.”

“Wait a minute.” Michael's mind was reeling. “You took candles from Gemma?
You?
The man who used to make the sign of the cross when she entered the room?”

“I was desperate, Mikey,” was Anthony's plaintive reply.

“Did she read your cards?”

“No.”
Anthony looked horrified. “She wanted to, but I wouldn't let her. That's devil stuff, bro.”

“Oh, but burning candles to attract love isn't?” Michael shook his head and asked the next, inevitable question, even though he felt sure he already knew the answer. “Did she give you a moonstone, too?”

Anthony nodded, and Michael sighed in resignation. “Well, I'm glad her hoodoo voodoo worked for one of us.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Joe?”

“Sure thing.”

Leading the way, Michael walked with Anthony into the kitchen. He felt pissed at Gemma. Did she hand out the same candles and rocks to every poor, lovelorn
schnook
who came boohooing to her store? He was under the impression—mistaken, obviously—that Gemma had selected the moonstone and candles to work specifically for
him.
The fact she gave the same talismans to Anthony made him feel faceless, somehow. Generic.

He poured their coffee, trying to ignore the way Anthony's gaze was crawling over every surface of the kitchen. He knew what his brother was thinking: that he didn't utilize space well. That he needed a bigger stove and the cooking implements he kept in a ceramic jug on the counter were woefully inadequate.

“What?” he finally asked, sounding irritated as he handed his brother a mug.

“This is a really nice kitchen, Mike.”

Jesus.
Anthony was just full of surprises these days.

Anthony took a sip of his coffee, his lips disappearing into a thin, disapproving line. “What kind of coffee is this, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Starbuck's.”

“You don't go to Miraglia Brothers?”

“Anthony,” Michael replied patiently as they headed back out into the living room, “I live in Park Slope. Miraglia Brothers is in Bensonhurst. No offense, but I'm not making a special trip for coffee, especially since I'm not around a lot of the time.”

“I'll buy it for you,” Anthony offered, sitting down. Michael did the same. “I get it at a discount for the restaurant.”

“Whatever.” If his brother wanted to buy him coffee, that was fine with him. Whatever floated his boat.

“So.” Michael gingerly opened his mouth, sipping some coffee. It wasn't only his cheek, but the whole left side of his face that still hurt, right down to his jaw. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“It's Angie,” Anthony replied portentously.

“Yeah?” Michael prompted, starting to get worried. The gravity in his brother's voice . . . Was she sick? Pregnant? Shot in the line of duty?

Anthony peered down into his coffee mug. “I think I'm going to ask her to marry me, Mike.”

“Holy—” Michael put his mug down and clapped his brother on the back. “That's great, Anthony!”

Anthony looked uncertain. “Yeah?”

Michael was incredulous. “What do you mean,
yeah
?” He did an imitation of Anthony's sad sack face. “What's the problem here?”

“No problem,” Anthony hastened to assure him. “I just . . .” He shrugged.

“I wanted you to be the first to know,” said Anthony. “But I felt kinda nervous about telling you, since things aren't going too hot for you in the romance department right now.”

“So? That doesn't mean I can't still be happy for you!” He clasped an arm around Anthony's shoulder, pulling him close and causing coffee to slosh over the edge of the cup. “Shit. Don't worry about that. This is great news, Anthony!”

Anthony still appeared dubious. “Yeah? You really mean it?”

“What do I have to do to convince you, stand on my head and spit wooden nickels?”

Relief rushed to Anthony's face. “I'm so glad you're okay with this, Mike. I was really afraid you'd be upset.”

“Don't be a jackass.”

But Michael
was
upset.

His brother's news, though he refused to show it, made him feel as if his insides were a slowly deflating balloon. Gone were the feelings of elation over Ty's speech. They were replaced by an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and envy. The one thing lacking in his own life, his brother now had.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this,
he thought stupidly.
I'm the successful one, the social one, the famous one, the good-looking one. It should be me celebrating, not him.
His meanness of spirit surprised him. Yet he
was
genuinely happy for his brother. How was it possible to feel two conflicting emotions so strongly at once?

“So when's the wedding?” he forced himself to ask.

Anthony looked like a rabbit trapped in headlights. “Geez, I don't know, I mean I haven't even asked her yet. I haven't even gotten her a ring.”

“You better hop to it, then.”

“If she says yes, you'll be my best man, won't you?”

Michael felt his throat constrict with emotion. If he didn't watch himself, he'd get teary, and Christ knows that was the last thing he wanted, because it would set Anthony off. Before you knew it they'd be the Amazing Weeping Dante Brothers of Brooklyn, New York.

“Of course I'll be your best man,” Michael managed, trying not to get choked up. “It would be an honor.”

“There's one more thing.”

What else could there be?
Michael wondered. Maybe Angie
was
pregnant. Or maybe Anthony was one of these people who wanted to get married in a hot air balloon or something crazy like that. He waited.

“I was thinking of asking her to live with me.”

“So?”

“You don't mind? I thought you might have a problem with it, you know, it being Mom and Dad's house and all.”

Michael couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was he some kind of monster, that Anthony worried he'd have a fit over stupid stuff like this? He couldn't care less if they lived together. He supposed Anthony was just trying to be supersensitive to his feelings. Michael couldn't fault him for that, even if his fears were completely misplaced.

“Anthony.” Michael grasped his brother's shoulder tightly. “It's not Mom and Dad's house. It's your house. And if you want to invite Angie to move in before you get married, I think that's great. Maybe you'll finally redecorate the place.”

A smile crept onto Anthony's face. “Maybe. Angie's got good taste.”

“Well, that's good.”

“Now we just have to find the one for you, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Michael agreed wistfully. There was no point telling his brother that he'd found The One then lost her. It was too complicated. Too painful. So he kept his lip buttoned, trying to enjoy his brother's happiness instead.

 

 

As if his
brother's impending engagement wasn't bad enough, Michael got the phone call he'd been expecting from Ty: He'd been given a one-game suspension. Still, he flew with the rest of the team to Ottawa the next day for Game Five. He watched from a skybox with the rest of the players who hadn't dressed for the game, gratified to see the Blades fly out onto the ice pumped and ready. From the second the puck was dropped, it was clear his teammates were giving it their all.

But Michael noticed, as did everyone else, that the third line wasn't performing as well as before. They were perpetually a step slow or a second late. They weren't winning the battles in the corners or controlling the loose pucks. van Dorn in particular was out of sync. In the end, it didn't matter: Goalie Pierre LaRouche stole the game for them, shutting out Ottawa 1-0. New York had clawed their way back and were now trailing three games to two. Still, if they didn't win the next game, they'd be eliminated from the playoffs.

Two days later
,
circling the ice during the pre-game skate, Michael could feel the nervous energy crackling through the building. The pressure was on. The players' usual joshing and bantering in the locker room was unusually subdued. Skating past the bench, he saw Ty and Kevin call van Dorn over. The younger player nodded his head yes, and then it was Michael they were calling. Puzzled, Michael approached them.

“What's up?”

“You're playing the third line tonight,” Ty informed him. “I'm shifting van Dorn to right wing and giving you back your old spot on the left. Any questions?”

“Nope.”

Michael rejoined his teammates gracefully gliding around the rink, wondering if the elation he felt inside showed on his face.
One shift at a time,
he kept saying to himself.
We just need to win one shift at a time.

By the time the game began, Michael was pumped, especially when Ty decided to open with the third line. Taking to the ice to the crowd's heady chant of “Mikey D! Mikey D!” he watched in near breathless anticipation as the puck was dropped at center ice. Then he was flying, weightless, his body pure motion, making it impossible for him to tell where he left off and the ice began.

Getting a regular shift, he felt like he was in the zone. He hit, he back checked, he scrambled fearlessly into corners. Six minutes in, he dug out a cross corner dump-in by defenseman Alfie Shields and threw it to van Dorn in the high slot for a one-timer. The crowd roared as one as the first goal of the game blazed on the electronic scoreboard.

The Blades kept up the pressure, but were unable to score for the rest of the period. Michael could feel the building growing restive as Ottawa came out for the second period clearly loaded for bear. They played their hearts out, eventually tying the game 1-1 after a mad scramble in front of the Blades net.

Both teams were playing it close to the vest, not wanting to make any stupid mistakes or take any unnecessary penalties. Michael felt he and van Dorn were meshing well on the ice, so well that Ty short-shifted them twice. Their line was out on the ice at the end of the second period when an Ottawa player took a slap shot from the point. The puck deflected off defenseman Alfie Shields's skates, caroming into the Blades net.

Ottawa was ahead 2-1.

Michael tried to hold his pessimism at bay.
It ain't over yet. One shift at a time,
he repeated to himself, his words echoing Ty's as the coach tried to whip the enthusiasm back into his players in between periods. By the time the Blades returned to the bench for the start of the third period, Michael was convinced he and his teammates could turn the game around.

“Let's win this period,” Ty roared at them.

Every time he stepped out onto the ice, Michael played full tilt, knowing their backs were against the wall. Van Dorn had a good chance to score, but his deflection went wide. Ottawa's goalie was on fire, warding off shot after shot as the Blades tried desperately to put another number up on the board.

With a minute left in the game, Ty pulled their goalie LaRouche. “Get on the ice,” he barked at Michael. “Crash the net.” When the puck was dropped, Michael fought his way to Ottawa's crease and camped there, doing his best to screen the red hot net-minder. But before he knew it, the horn sounded.

The season was over.

The Blades were out of the playoffs.

Exhausted, Michael and his teammates comforted each other. They stood on their side of the red line, dejectedly leaning on their sticks as they quietly watched Ottawa celebrate. When they were done, both teams lined up for the traditional end-of-series handshake. No matter how long he'd been playing the game, it always hurt like hell to lose, and tonight was no exception. Sucking up his disappointment, Michael extended his hand to each Ottawa player who came down the line, pleased when some of them praised his play and even kidded him about his ugly mug needing plastic surgery. When it came time for him to shake hands with Torkelson, he was gratified when the hulking Swede put one hand behind his head and pulled him close. “You're one tough
guido,
Mikey. Always have been.”