“Keep playing this way and you won’t have anything to worry about.” Jax leaned back in the leather chair, taking a sip of her scotch. She traced her signature white streak of hair, tucking it behind her ear.
Antony loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Even though he’d stayed in the shower post game for an extra ten minutes, his body was still overheated, acting like he was on the ice, still fighting for the win.
Before the game, the tension in the locker room was thick. Even Luca who was mostly cool, jumped every time Chase cracked a stupid joke, splitting the air with his piercing laugh. Coach Foster was already sweating during the pre-game pep talk.
The Tampa Bay team had been gunning for this series since the last time they’d lost both games in overtime in Toronto. Antony hadn’t been near the puck either of those games last month, but he did have an on ice fight with their new defenseman, a big Russian player, and it got them both ejected from the game. It was worth it though, that guy purposely picked on Luca, one of Toronto’s top scorers.
Antony was nervous enough, busy trying to drone out Chase going on about how hot the puck bunnies were in Florida, but when Jax showed up at the game unannounced, asking Antony to meet her at the hotel bar after the game, his radar had been turned up to the paranoid setting.
Even so, he still managed to score, a miracle he thought, considering his career might be over. Now, he was tired, and hot, and staring at Jax drink while he
nursed an iced tea. “You’ve never come to game before,” he said to her. “I see you, I worry.”
“Worry about keeping up your shooting percentage, I take care of the rest.” She took the last swallow of scotch then raised her empty glass toward the bartender. He nodded then winked at her and made a great display of bringing her fresh order over himself.
“Thanks,” she said. She watched him walk all the way back to the bar.
Antony cleared his throat and leaned closer to her. “You’ve heard something,” he said. “Tell me if I go to minors.”
She shook her head. “Over my dead body. You’re better than half the useless goons on the ice. You’ve got it all, Antony; skating skills, you’re tough, you make plays…you score!” She took a sip, leaving a red lipstick mark on the fresh glass. “The only contract I’ll be getting you to sign will be for three years and five million.”
“Seriously?” The irony left him dumbfounded. Even if he was lucky enough to stay playing for Toronto, he was dreaming of a fifth that much. He’d be able to take care of everyone—for life; his parents back home, and Marc could have his own private care worker… maybe finally move out on his own.
This money meant freedom to Antony.
Jax finished the second drink and picked up her Blackberry. “You’re playing with passion,” she said, her eyes never leaving the screen while she scrolled through her messages. “Coach Foster even mentioned it to me. Don’t lose it.”
Antony stared at the neglected ice tea, the condensation running down its side and dampening the
hotel coaster. His passion was a three-hour plane ride away.
“Good luck tomorrow.” She gathered her leather briefcase and slipped her cell phone in the side pocket. “I’m flying out on the redeye tonight.” The bartender came over with her bill.
She added her signature, then leaned over and gave Antony a kiss on the ear. “Be good,” she warned. “That Chase Stanford is becoming a whore, don’t party with him. Sponsors care about backing a player with a clean reputation. And if I haven’t told you enough, a sponsorship deal is as good as a golden retirement package.”
“Yes, Jax.”
With that final lesson, she sauntered out of the bar. Antony glanced at his watch. It was only ten thirty.
Chase was his roommate this trip and had gone out for supper with a few of the boys from the team. With another game looming for tomorrow, he made his way through the opulent hotel lobby to the elevator.
The VIP status the professional teams enjoyed was a far jump for him. Growing up, the only time Antony stayed in a hotel was for hockey tournaments and that was usually as the guy who carried Marc’s gear, plus his own.
A sharp pain of guilt scissored through his chest. He swept it away, burying it under layers of remorse he knew would always be there weighing him down. He entered his room and sat down on the edge of the hotel bed, taking off his shoes.
He saw Marc had added a new text since the last one he’d sent right after the game. Mostly the notes were about plays he’d missed, scoring possibilities that had gone unnoticed. This new text was about the defenseman he’d fought last month, Bachlahov.
If they put him on other line tomorrow, watch out.
An image of the hefty Russian known for taking out key players had been on the ice tonight, but his line was never on the same time as Antony and Luca’s.
His thumb hovered over the screen, trying to compose a reply. But he imagined the conversation would go back and forth for at least another hour.
Antony closed his eyes. He had to at least get an assist tomorrow while dodging the only guy who was bigger than him.
Don’t lose your passion.
His thumb scrolled past Marc’s name until he found hers. An automatic smile played on his lips. Maxine had been there on the edge of every thought he’d had today, constantly in the periphery. He wanted to come up with a plan to tell her the truth, but he was afraid she’d be upset that he’d lied, that he wasn’t the guy she thought he was. He couldn’t risk it yet…not yet.
He was in this invisible contract with her that she didn’t know about; the relationship could only continue if he kept lying. But he wanted more, he wanted her in his life for real. Antony was desperate to find a loophole.
He glanced at his watch again. There was no time difference between Florida and Toronto. He hit the contact button and hoped she’d still be up.
It rang three times then her voice was on the other end, as flirtatious and warm as she was in person. “Bonjour, Ace,” she said.
“Mademoiselle.” He put a hand over his heart. “Qui est la musique à mes oreilles.” He waited a pause then said, “That’s music to my ears.”
She laughed. “How’s the convention?”
“Ah, bored…boring. It is lot of truck stuff and…yeah.”
“At least you’re in Florida. I saw that it was seventeen degrees and sunny there today. We had a wind chill of minus twenty-four. You win.”
A swell of happiness lifted his sprits knowing she was thinking about him too. “Of course, I win, I scored—uh, I scored this trip at winter time. So…” He slipped off his jacket and tie. “You taking French lessons?”
“No.” She laughed. “Everyone knows bonjour.” There was a crinkling sound in the background.
“What are you doing?”
“Mmm, oh, sorry.” She smacked her lips. “Eating a Winkie. It’s my dessert…sort of.”
“What is Winkie?”
“It’s like a really light cake with a creamy filling.” There was another crinkling sound, then the running of water. “Sorry,” she said again. “I’m in the kitchen.” Dishes clinked then there were footfalls. “Okay, now I’m settled in my bedroom.”
“Winkie sounds like loukoumades,” he said. “Little honey balls of dough, you fry them. Mon Dieu, melt in your mouth.”
“Those sound way better.”
“I make for you, oui?”
Her voice went up a note. “You’d make me dessert?”
“Oui, supper too,” he said. “What you like?”
She snorted. “Um…you’ve seen me. I like everything.”
“French or Greek, or maybe both.” Antony’s words came out rushed, eager. “Poulet Basquaise, Pissaladière, Aligot, Coq au Vin, baklava, and…the cheese and bread…I’ll make all for you.”
Her breathing came across the phone and he placed it closer to his lips.
“Oui?” he prompted.
“Oui,” she said. “Very much, oui. But my kitchen is sort of small, and I’m not sure if the oven works, I use it to store my frying pans.” Her voice changed. “Maybe I could come over to your place?”