Antony woke after midnight, his phone on the bedside table was buzzing with a text from Marc. Careful not to wake Maxine, he’d slipped out of bed grabbing a t-shirt and long pajama pants and went to the living room. He watched as the messages came one after the other; mostly questions about the home gym, and how much he hated the rehab center. The rest were point blank issues he would go over with Antony when they reviewed his ‘abysmal’ performance in Chicago.
Antony’s thumb hovered over the screen considering turning off the phone for the rest of the night. He imagined returning to bed, slipping under the duvet next to Maxine’s warm, naked body…there was a pleasant stirring in his pajama pants. Antony couldn’t remember when he’d ever had three erections in one night.
Then the phone buzzed with another message. Antony texted back, keeping the answers short, mostly agreeing with whatever Marc said about hockey. Tu es raison, he kept typing.
You are right.
A half hour later, Marc had signed off, finally too sleepy. Antony leaned his head back on the cushy sectional and stared up at the ceiling with a mixture of guilt and gratitude. Having the apartment to himself would have been vacation enough, but with Maxine here, sleeping in his bed and staying overnight even! It opened his eyes to a whole life he never thought allowable.
He had a handful of past lovers, but only when the timing was right. Marc would never give him that much space and time for a personal life at home. There was hardly anything beyond that first encounter in hotel rooms on the road.
He’d never questioned it before, his life had always been about hockey, either watching it on TV as a kid dreaming of hitting the pros someday, but more often than not, he was following Marc—the Laurent brother who was supposed to make it big. Any existence outside of the rink was something Antony never considered…until now.
His stomach rumbled. Oh, right, he smiled. They’d skipped out on dinner and went straight for dessert. He was sure Maxine would appreciate a midnight picnic in bed. With his head full of new ways to pleasure her, Antony went to the kitchen and began warming up the take-out.
He put it all out for a feast; the Portobello mushrooms, extra olives, humus dip, pita slices, pepper steak with twice-baked potato.
She showed up ten minutes later, leaning against the doorframe dressed in his white shirt with her red hair wild and curly, tumbling past her shoulders.
“Bonjour, sexy,” he’d said, greeting her with a kiss.
They fell into a comfortable choreography of him cooking on the stove, reaching for pots and spoons while she slunk behind him, reaching around his waist to steal a mushroom or leaning her hip on the counter, happy to watch the preparation.
“Do you think they were upset when you asked for everything to be packaged for takeout?” She reached for a buttered shrimp, plucking it between her fingers.
Antony was transfixed as she brought it to her mouth, licking the tips of her fingers. He groaned and swooped in, kissing her mouth. “Non,” he said, finally answering her question. “Easy money for good tip.”
“Maybe we’ll go again and actually eat there.” “Sure.” He handed her a small plate of sliced
pepper steak and a fork, then nodded to a glass of red wine on the counter.
“Merci!” She stayed at the counter and began to eat. “I love night time picnics. Is this a French thing?”
Antony broke off a piece of pita bread and dipped it in the pan drippings from the steak. “Non, my older brother texted me, woke me up.” He chewed and then reached for his glass of water.
“The one who lives close by?” she asked over the rim of the wine glass.
“Oui,” Antony motioned down the hallway. “His bedroom beside mine.” He almost choked with laughter at the look on her face. “Non, not tonight. He’s…uh…in rehab.”
Lines etched her forehead. “It’s after midnight. Is everything okay?” She shook her head. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. You wouldn’t be making a meal if there was a problem.”
Antony forced a smile. There was no way to answer her question truthfully. “He’s okay, just nagging me about home gym.”
She frowned at him.
“He needs physiotherapy,” Antony chewed his steak, it suddenly tasted like sawdust. They were heading in a direction he wasn’t ready to take. He felt like he was holding on to this moment by his
fingertips, wanting to keep Maxine here in his apartment—in his arms, on their little planet of isolation, if only for a few more days.
“Oh,”—her expression smoothed—“that kind of rehab. I thought you meant drugs. Well, er…not that being in rehab for drugs is a bad thing if he’s there for that, too.” She grimaced, then her voice became soft. “Sorry.”
He put down his fork and nestled up close to her. “No drugs. He’s in wheelchair.” Then he waited, wondering how far he had to take this tonight.
She stayed quiet for a moment then asked, “What happened to him?”
Antony counted two blinks, working to keep his voice steady. “Car accident. Six years ago.” He sniffed, adding, “Drunk driver.”
“That’s so horrible.” Maxine’s face crumbled, a hand went over her heart. “That’s how my dad died.”
A knife sliced through Antony’s chest.
“He was only going to the store for milk,” she said. “But the drunk driver didn’t stop at the red light. That’s all it took. One stupid moment of not stopping. The other driver didn’t even have a license. He’d already lost it from previous accidents.” Her eyes became glassy, but Antony could tell she was fighting the tears.
She blinked a few times. “It was three years ago, but it still feels like yesterday sometimes. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.” She touched his elbow. “So, what about your brother, did they charge the driver?”
A pile of stones started to push themselves down Antony’s throat. He made a feeble attempt to clear his voice before he said, “He has life sentence.”
“Wow.” Then she hugged his arm. “You’re a good brother.”
Antony concentrated on counting the grains of rice spilled on the counter beside the pot.
“What does he do?” she asked.
“Mon frère?” He forced himself to look at her. There was a shift in the gravity of her stare. “He played hockey before. He was supposed to be pro.”
“That must be sad for him. Does he help with your towing business…I mean, with paperwork or bookkeeping? Does he have any other interests?”
“Non,” Antony stared down at his crossed bare feet. “Just hockey.” His words sounded heavy coming out.
“My brother likes hockey, too.” She nudged him. “But I guess nearly everyone in the city cheers for Toronto, or not, maybe…I don’t know.” She laughed. “Does your brother like the team?”
“He follows them.”
“Westley brags he knows a few of them from Henry Roman’s, but I think he’s trying to make his job sound more glamorous.”
The shirt Maxine was wearing had come from one of those trips to Henry Roman’s. With a pang of regret, Antony didn’t remember any of the people who waited on him. Still, her brother could be the key to helping him.
“How old is he?” she asked. “Mon frère? Twenty-six.”
Antony felt her shift her weight beside him. “And
you’re younger than him? How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.” He tried to read her expression. “Why?”
A blush took over her cheeks. “Just curious.” She picked up a slice of Portobello mushroom.
Antony was grateful for the change in subject. He drank down the last mouthful of water, watching her twirl a piece of hair around her finger. She was smiling at the floor now, coyly as if enjoying a secret joke, the blush still coloring her checks.
Sensing an opportunity, he used the shift in mood to put the focus back on them. They’d barely dodged a bullet, but now he at least had a scheme to tell her about the hockey. With a sense of euphoria returning, the hint of an erection that had been lurking below the surface decided to become fully committed.
Antony took her fork, put the last two pieces of steak on the end, and fed them to her. “If you’re done,” he said, “we should start dessert.” Then Antony began unbuttoning her shirt, one by one.