The waiter placed the glass of cola with a slice of lemon in front of Antony on the white linen tablecloth. Then he lit the candles and handed over the wine list promising to return shortly, leaving Antony the sole occupant of the Billiard Room.
He straightened his tie and checked his watch for the hundredth time—six-twenty-five. He purposely requested the private room for tonight’s reservation. Luckily, the owner of the Bloor Street Diner was a big hockey fan.
Antony knew he was taking a risk using his celebrity status, but he’d called Maxine back so quickly after hearing her last message that he hadn’t taken the time to come up with a plan. Bloor Street Diner was the first place he could think of that was nice enough to impress her.
Panicked, he’d hung up before she could say no and called the restaurant, praying he could secure a private table for six-thirty. It took the promise of an autographed jersey and pictures with some of the staff, but Antony was happy to make those concessions. He had arrived a half hour early to make sure all the fanfare was over by the time Maxine arrived.
Since he read the wedding invitation last week, everything felt off kilter, like he was constantly walking on slippery wet rocks. When Antony had called her back the day after he’d left her apartment, he wanted to hear her say that she hated the guy, that he was an asshole and that she never thought about him.
But she never said those things about her ex-lover. She only said they had broken up, and that she was no longer engaged.
The Chicago trip was perfect timing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from her if he was still in Toronto. Miserable with images of Maxine reuniting with her lover while he was away, Antony’s stomach was in a permanent knot.
Why did they break it off? Did he have to move somewhere and she’s hoping he’ll come back? Was she still in love with this guy? The endless loop of questions created a constant din of paranoid confusion in the back of his mind.
Unable to concentrate, Antony was a wreck on the ice and failed his team badly. In the locker room, Coach Foster went ballistic, the veins on his forehead were bulging and purple.
After the disastrous third game, Luca joined him in the hotel bar for a late night plate of chicken wings, sensing something was off. Antony told him everything, including the guilt he was battling over lying to Maxine.
“I’m falling in love,” he’d told Luca. “But maybe it’s guarantee of always scoring goals. Is it real or all mixed up in how I need to get contract?” So many things were dependent on him doing well.
“But your last two games sucked,” Luca said. “Sorry, is true. She is good luck charm for you…for whole team.”
Antony dropped a chicken wing on the plate; his appetite had diminished the last few days. How can I convince her to forget about the ex-fiancé and choose me instead?
“You have to tell her truth.” Luca’s face brightened. “Maybe she be happy to date hockey player?”
Antony mulled over the risk of telling her the truth, but Luca had a good point. The team’s players were rock stars in Toronto. Once she’d forgiven him for lying to her in the first place, he’d be able to take her to the best clubs and restaurants—she could even wear that sexy red dress. And he’d even do what he could to help her get that little shop up and running. Beauty Full, the name was the embodiment of Maxine herself.
The ex-fiancé would never be able to compete with that. According to Google, Johnny Delong was no one remotely famous or important. Antony prayed Maxine hadn’t done the same thing with his name.
“Hey,”—Luca slapped a hand on his shoulder— “trust universe. Good things happen when you two are together. It is sign.”
But Antony had lost all hope the next morning on his flight back to Toronto, certain the next time they spoke, Maxine would confess she was still in love with this other guy and that Antony had just been a meaningless fling until he came back. He’d reasoned that’s why she was so adamant about seeing him in person. She struck him as the kind of girl who always broke up with guys in person.
When her caller ID came up on his cell phone in the airport, he refused to answer. He stood at the luggage carousel, staring at the notification that he had a voice mail. Antony decided to wait until he was in the cab on the way home before he listened, but then he caught sight of Luca running to hug his wife who had been waiting for him, their two kids in tow.
He thought of what Luca said about trusting the universe, and took a chance and listened to her message.
…I need you.
A shot of hope impaled his chest, making his heart glow.
Invigorated, he arrived at his apartment, mentally calculating the time until he saw her. Sasha was there to meet him with news that she’d booked a two-day session at the rehab for Marc. She stood with a stern expression and her signature tight bun, chastising Marc for not keeping up with his exercises. She made Antony promise to have the home gym fixed by the time Marc came back home.
Even though the stint in the rehab was an annual visit, the cost would run Antony several thousand dollars, the insurance only covered so much. And since his shitty run in Chicago, he wondered if his five- million-dollar contract had started to burn from the bottom up. Jax had called after each game. One assist the first night, then nothing after that. To make the situation direr, he managed to rack up six minutes in the penalty box, which resulted in goals for the opposition.
However, after listening to Maxine’s message again, Antony couldn’t help but think of Luca’s mantra; trust the universe.
The timing to have the apartment to himself was perfectly advantageous. With Sasha confirming his private room at the Centre, Antony waited until the Acces-A-Bus arrived at the apartment. Marc was sullen
to the very end, his mood aggravated by his younger brother’s ‘pathetic hockey’ the last few games. Clearly, he was ready to lecture Antony the whole evening instead of going to rehab.
By the time Antony had showered and changed, it was already five-thirty. Despite the chilled underground parking garage, he’d started to sweat under his Armani suit.
Now, waiting in the Billiard Room, constantly checking his watch, Antony continued to nurse his drink. He put the glass of Coke down, then picked it back up, and took another sip. He licked his lips, now smooth and healed. The stitches came out after last night’s game. The thought of being able to kiss Maxine again made him lightheaded.
It was now six-twenty-eight.
He stared at the archway that led to the main dining area of the restaurant. His knee started jumping. It banged the bottom of the table, jostling his drink. It felt like a million bees were buzzing underneath his skin.
I need you, she’d said. He listened to the message again, it was a balm to his frayed nerves. The warm pull tugged deep inside his abdomen. He licked his lips again. Damn it. He was a hot mess.
And then she was there, walking into the room, following the waiter. Her hair was in waves falling over her shoulders, the white silk orchid was in place on the right side, securing the hair away from her neck.
On shaking legs, Antony stood. The waiter stepped aside and motioned Maxine toward the chair opposite Antony. She was wearing a black wrap-around dress that tied on the side and ended just about her knees. The deep V-neck exposed the luminescent skin of her cleavage.
Jesus Christ.
His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. “You look very much beautiful,” he managed.
“You too,” she said, taking a seat. Her cautious tone made him sit up straighter.
After taking her drink order, the waiter disappeared. In the candlelight, she looked like she’d walked off the screen of a classic black and white movie. She was motionless. Then a perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted. “You hung up on me,” she said.
“I was afraid you’d say no to dinner invitation.” “Then I wouldn’t have come.”
He held his hand to her, palm upward. “But you did.”
“Even after I left you that message…you still hung
up.”
A burn began to creep under Antony’s skin,
heating his neck. He touched the knot on his tie, desperate to find the words, but it was nearly impossible to do in French, let alone translate to English. Finally, he asked, “Your message, is it truth?”
The stoic expression hardened her features. “I would never lie about my feelings for you.”