Fair Play (8 page)

“Apology accepted,” she said.

Delighted to have reached a state of détente, Michael was eager to keep the ball rolling. “So we're friends now?” he ventured.

“I wouldn't go
that
far,” Theresa returned in a tone bordering on affectionate.

“No?” Michael asked, thrilled to witness the return of a more playful Theresa. “How far would you go?”

“Depends. I—”

She stopped herself. Michael could actually see it happening, Theresa willing herself to stop flirting with him. It was like a curtain fell over her face. The transformation was startling, the more so because he didn't understand it.

“Let's stick to business, Michael, okay?” Her tone was brisk.

Michael deflated.
Business. Sure.
“So how's the PR stuff coming?”

“It's coming. I'll call when l have everything ready and we can arrange a time to meet.”

“How about we talk about it over dinner one night this week?” he asked politely.

“I don't think so.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

No, no, always no. What the hell is her problem with me?
“Look, do I have bad breath or something?” he blurted.

Theresa looked at him as if he'd just escaped from Bellevue. “What?”

He followed her up the steps leading to the subway platform. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What do you have against me?”

She stared at him.

“Seriously,” he continued.

“I don't have anything against you,” she assured him, backing away slightly.

“So, then, what's the deal? One minute ago, we were having a nice conversation. Now you won't even go out for coffee with me. What gives?” She peered at him over the top of her glasses, the better for him to feel the full effect of her reserve, or so he imagined.

“Don't take this the wrong way, Michael. But I don't go out with guys whose last names end in vowels.”

“What?” He peered at her quizzically. “Did you just say what I think you said? You won't go out with anyone Italian?”

“That's right.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it's been my experience that Italian guys are not my cup of espresso, okay?”

“You've got to be kidding me.” Utter disbelief overtook him. “What the hell is wrong with Italian guys?” he demanded. Beneath his feet, he could feel the platform beginning to vibrate; the train was coming. He didn't care. He'd get his answer before she hopped aboard if it killed him.

“Answer me, Theresa, c'mon!”

Her expression was pained as the train slowly pulled into the station. “They're macho, arrogant and rude. With the exception of their own mothers, they treat women like second-class citizens.”

“WHAT!”
He was yelling but he couldn't help it. Disbelief was losing the battle to outrage.

“You heard me.”

“Have you ever been out with an Italian guy?”

“Yes.”

“When?” he challenged.

“In high school.”

“So you dated one stupid goomba in high school who treated you badly and you write the rest of us off? Give me a break!”

“The train's here, Michael, I have to go.”

He watched as she stepped onto the train and slid into a seat right by the window. Unable to contain himself, he walked up to the train car and began pounding on the glass.

“You're wrong, Theresa.”

The doors rolled shut and the train slowly began moving. Michael moved along with it.

“You're wrong! Not all Italian guys are Tony Soprano!” he shouted, still banging on the window. She had reached into her bag and cracked open a book. Maybe she was ignoring him, but the other passengers were staring. “You think you can stereotype
me
?” He was jogging along side the train car now. “Wait and see, Theresa! I'm going to make you see what you've been missing! I'm going to wear you down until you agree to coffee with me! I! AM! GOING! TO! WEAR! YOU! DOWN!”

He halted, catching his breath as the train sped out of sight.
Macho, arrogant and rude?
How dare she say that to him! He couldn't believe it. Suppose he'd said all Italian women have big hair and get mustaches after the change? She'd have cut his balls off! But it was okay for her to lump him in with every stupid
paisan
who ever drove a Camaro and wore a gold horn around his neck? Talk about unfair.

Well, he had a mission now, didn't he?

A challenging, off-ice mission.

Turning up the collar of his coat, he bounded back down the subway platform steps and hailed a cab to take him to his own apartment in Park Slope. He was going to prove to that narrow-minded, cynical woman that not all Italian men were created equal. He was also going to draw the real Theresa out of hiding for more than a few seconds at a time if it was the last thing he did.

The question was how?

 

 

“Took your vitamins
this morning, huh?”

Michael turned from where he was pulling up his jeans to see van Dorn watching him from his own locker across the room.

“Bite me,” said Michael, zipping up his fly.

“If I did, at least I'd be using all my own teeth.”

Michael suppressed a smirk as he slid a long-sleeve T-shirt over his head. “All that proves is you're not a pro yet, kid. I wouldn't go bragging about it.” That seemed to shut van Dorn up—for now.

This morning at practice, Michael had kicked ass on the ice. So much so that Ty commented on how focused he seemed. The irony, of course, was that his mind was on the Theresa problem the entire time.
Who knows?
he thought as he finished dressing. Maybe his anger over her refusing to give him the time of day was something he could channel into being a “more productive” player. It certainly seemed to do the trick this morning.

“Hey, Mikey,” called out backup goalie Dennis O'Mal ley, clad only in a towel, which was threatening to fall to the floor at any moment. “Wanna grab a bite?”

“Nah, I gotta talk to Gilly about some stuff.”

“You free tonight?” O'Malley continued.

“Yeah, why?”

“VH-1 is having some party and they invited a couple of us to come down. You game?”

“Sure. Leave the vitals on my answering machine and I'll see you there.”

“Cool. Ciao.”

“Ciao, Denny.”

He dragged a comb through his still-wet hair, then went in search of Kevin Gill, the team's captain. Kevin had been happily married to the same woman for fifteen years and had a great family. Michael admired Kevin and thought he might be able to give him some valuable insight into how the female mind worked.

He found Kevin lying face-up on a massage table, his left thigh being kneaded by the team's top massage therapist.

“Hey, Gilly. Got a minute?” Michael approached the table.

Kevin chuckled. “Does it look like I'm going anywhere? What's up?”

Was it possible he was a total loser asking Kevin's advice on this stuff? Michael cleared his throat, stalling for time. Well, he'd find out in a minute or two. “I need your input on this woman I'm interested in.”

“Anyone I know?”

Michael hesitated. Kevin did know Theresa. He was Ty's best friend, after all. And thanks to the sexual assault case a few years back, the whole team at the very least knew Theresa's name. Kevin was there the first time Michael had offered to buy Theresa a drink and she turned him down, and he'd been there at Ty and Janna's wedding when she'd repeatedly refused to dance with him. If he told Kevin who it was, chances were he'd tell him to get the hint and move on.

“No one you know,” Michael lied.

“What's the problem?”

“This girl—this woman—won't go out with me. Not even for a cup of coffee.”

Kevin gave a small growl of pain as the trainer moved farther down his leg and began massaging his shin. “Any idea why?”

“She says she never dates Italians.”

“Huh?” Kevin looked bemused. “That's a new one.”

“I know that if she'd just give me half a chance, she'd realize we could really hit it off. But I'm not sure how to get her to see that.”

Kevin closed his eyes. “You know, when I first met Abby she didn't want anything to do with me.”

“Really?” This was good to know. It made Michael feel hopeful. “So what did you do?”

“I wooed her.” Kevin's mouth curled into a smile of remembrance. “I sent her flowers, I turned up where I knew she'd be. I was a real pest.”

“And she fell for it?”

“Not right away.” Kevin opened his eyes. “ln fact, I remember her threatening to call the cops to have me arrested for stalking. But eventually, she was flattered. Or maybe just tired.” He turned his head to look at Michael. “I can't believe you need advice—a dog like you, out on the town every night.”

“Yeah, I get around. But I haven't had a serious relationship in . . .” He paused, trying to think of the last steady girlfriend he'd had.
Christine? No, that was four years ago. So, it had to be Dory. Dory was before he met Theresa.
“Two years.”

“What happened?”

Michael shrugged. “She wanted to get married. I didn't.”

“So you've just been screwing around since then?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, if you're serious about this woman, try wooing her in some way.”

“What if it doesn't work? I mean, she seems like a pretty tough nut to crack.”

“If it doesn't work, it's not meant to be.”

“I guess,” said Michael unenthusiastically. He went to the head of the table and patted his friend's shoulder. “Thanks for the advice, Kev. I appreciate it.”

“Let me know how it turns out. Oh, and Mikey?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't be late for warm-up tomorrow night. Ty's loaded for bear.”

“Gotcha.”

Woo her.
Two simple words, a not-so-simple woman. He had a gut feeling that flowers might be coming on too strong when it came to Theresa. But there were other weapons in the romantic arsenal he could use.

 

 

Though it was
not yet nine, Theresa's morning had already been a nightmare. Not only did she wake up to find she had no hot water, but the subway was late, and some lollypop in a sky-high pair of Jimmy Choo's had stepped on her left foot, nearly severing her pinky toe. By the time she limped into the office, she was in a foul mood.

“Aren't we Little Mary Sunshinetti this morning,” Terrence noted as she hobbled into reception.

“Don't start with me,” Theresa warned.

“Maybe this will help.” Terrence tapped the top of a small, white box.

“What is it?”

“Do I look like John Edward?” Terrence drawled. “It came for you about five minutes ago.”

Intrigued, Theresa approached the box, and with Terrence watching, carefully opened it. Inside was a large, luscious square of tiramisu, along with a small white envelope, which she immediately extracted and opened. “Surrender, Theresa,” was all it said. Theresa smiled, delighted in spite of herself as she slid the card back inside the envelope.

“Well?” Terrence demanded impatiently. “Spit it out. Inquiring minds want to know.”

“It's tiramisu and it's none of your business who it's from.”

Terrence's lips pursed in cool assessment. “Oh yeah? Well, I know a thing or two, Madame Mysterioso, and that is that you are
sweet
on whoever sent you that darling little cake.”

“Wrong.”

“Take it from one who knows you: Your sour little face lit up like a G.D. roman candle when you read the card. It's been a lo-o-o-ng time since I've seen you smile like that.”

“I was smiling because I love tiramisu,” Theresa insisted.

“Uh, huh, and Boy George is engaged to Rosie O'Don nell. Nice try.” Terrence pulled the box toward him and looked inside. “Are you going to eat it? Because if you're not, I'll take it.”

“Yes, I'm going to eat it,” Theresa replied with fake annoyance.

Terrence pushed the box back her way. “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,” he trilled.

“Tell me,” said Theresa, closing up the pastry box. “Would you like me to fire you
now,
or should I wait until Friday?”

“Wait until Friday. That way my entire weekend will be ruined.”

“Friday it is, then.”

Walking to Janna's office, Theresa found it hard to keep from smiling. Loath as she was to admit it, she was charmed. But being
charmed
was different from being
impressed.
And she was
not
impressed. Not in the least. Unless, of course, he
meant
her to be charmed, in which case she wasn't. Whatever Michael Dante wanted her to be, she was the opposite.

She arrived to find Janna looking like she was about to lose her breakfast.

“What?” Theresa asked, concerned. “What is it?”

“You will not believe who I just got off the phone with.”

“Who?”

“Robert Turner.”

Theresa groaned as she deposited the pastry box on Janna's desk along with some papers and pulled up a chair. Turner was Janna's ex-boyfriend, a poet whom Theresa had hated on sight when their paths first crossed well over five years ago. He was pretentious, spoke in a fake French accent and claimed to be a “poet of the people.” He was also a jerk.