Maxine’s pulse sputtered and skipped as she made her way down the stairs to the lower section.
Their seats were almost ice level, Maxine felt dwarfed inside the large stadium.
“…crazy sexy,” Stuart bought a program and was perusing the player’s profiles. “Why didn’t I study kinesiology instead of business? I could be one of the trainers in charge of rubbing down all those muscles. What? I’m gay, they’re hot. I can’t help it.”
Westley took off his jacket, trying to lay it over the back. “I wish you weren’t so crude all the time. You need a public and private switch.”
Stuart looked at Westley’s gingham oxford shirt and light gray sweater. “Who’s the gay one, again? We’re at a hockey game for Christ’s sake.”
“Fine, I’ll spill beer and nachos on myself,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Maxine filtered out their conversation, her eyes darting around through half-closed lids. Antony said he got the tickets from someone who knew some guy who knew someone…
…from the mafia? Rose’s voice echoed back to
her.
A cold beer was placed in her hands. “When is
your big wonderful lover showing up?” Stuart teased. “But more importantly, will he get us more tickets?”
“I…I don’t know,” Maxine held the drink, but made no move to take a taste. She had visions of Antony hitting someone. Maybe pulverizing the other guy! Those same hands had been all over her! God, she couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been.
“Are you all right?” Stuart asked. “Your face just did a weird thing.”
“Antony is part of the mafia,” she said, her voice squeaking. “Rose said they’re infiltrating the city. That must be it! He’s one of their hitmen!”
Stuart started to laugh.
The lights went low as a techno beat thumped the chairs. Everyone started to cheer. Maxine noticed the chair beside hers was full—there was no extra ticket for Antony. An announcer’s voice came over the speaker. The Boston roster was introduced one by one and the air was filled with a chorus of boos. Then it was home team’s turn. Maxine thought of Marc and a cold sliver shot through her veins. Did he even exist?
What else was Antony lying about? And why? “…number twenty-seven, Antony Laurent!”
Maxine’s head snapped to attention. The jumbo screen above the ice showed Antony skating on the ice; it was the face she’d kissed only that morning.
“That’s him!” she said.
“What?” Stuart yelled over the noise.
“That’s my Antony!” She took the program from him and began whipping through the pages. When she found his profile, her heart exploded.
“Your Antony, is Antony Laurent?”
“Mon Dieu,” she whispered. Then her eyes rolled back and everything went black.
****
“What’s the main difference between the team from the start of the year to now?” the microphone was thrust at Antony.
“Confidence.” He blinked at the strong light off the TV camera.
“What’s been the greatest struggle for the team to date?”
Antony angled his head over the throng of reporters crammed in the small lounge outside the locker room. The VIP passes he’d given Maxine should have gotten her down here no problem.
“Another win. One goal, one assist,” a familiar reporter who always gave Antony a positive write up had squirmed through the microphones. “Is this the new standard you expect from yourself? Are you worried about burning out?”
He’d changed into his suit, but hadn’t bothered with the tie, he was too anxious to see Maxine. After he scored the goal, he tried to find her in the crowd, thinking that he’d have no problem seeking her out, but it was pointless in the mash of jubilant fans.
“No,” he said, starting to move his feet, trying to create a path of escape. “Every game is winnable.”
The door on the other side of the room opened and the mass of reporters headed into the room where Coach Foster was ready to answer the obligatory post game questions. Antony snuck out, his heart pounding as he rounded the corner where she’d be waiting.
The long hallway was lined with fans clustered against the wall, all wearing passes. He rushed by them, eyes darting back and forth, trying to see past the security guards stationed along the sides.
A man jogged up to him, out of breath. Antony thought he looked like one of the romantic leads from those K dramas Sasha was always talking about. “I’m Stuart Ling,” he said, grabbing Antony’s hand and giving it a quick shake.
“Bonjour,” he said, eyeing the stranger. “I’m with Maxine.”
Antony’s countenance changed immediately. “Oh!
Où est-elle…where is she?”