“Maxine?” He looked her up and down again. “How are you? You look good.”
She blinked, then the words came out so fast Johnny had to ask her to repeat. “Your fiancée is in labor in the bathroom!”
His face went completely white.
“Hurry, jackass!” she ordered, pointing up the aisle.
Within ten minutes, the ambulance had arrived. Maxine stayed in the periphery enjoying a dizzying detachment as if she was watching one of those reality shows Crosby loves.
With his fiancée on a stretcher, Johnny found Maxine in the back of the crowd and went to her. “Thank you,” was all he said. Then he squeezed her shoulder and followed the paramedics out of the theatre to the waiting ambulance.
Maxine stayed in stunned pose, like a wax figure on display behind the red ropes.
“Are you all right?” Westley came to her side. “Yes,” she answered. “I am.” Then a grin spread over her face. “I really am.” The incredible lightness inside her heart took her by surprise. She no longer loved Johnny—not even one little bit. She took Westley by the shoulders. “What did Stuart say?”
“No answer.”
“You know what, Wes? You have to tell him how your feel, right now, in person, run to him.”
“Uh…okay.” He looked terrified. “Wait? Where are you going? You’re not following Johnny to the hospital are you?”
She pushed her shoulders back. “Nope. I’m going for the right fit.” Maxine ran out to the sidewalk and flagged down a cab. She was so ecstatic with this epiphany she gave the driver a ten-dollar tip before she raced into the apartment building. Antony you were right, her heart was singing, now I’m sure I can love you.
But as soon as she stepped off the elevator her smiled faltered. The door to Antony’s apartment was wide open and boxes lined the hallway. She walked in and sidestepped a burly guy with a moving truck logo stenciled on the back of his shirt.
“Hey!” A cleanly shaven man with a substantial belly held a clipboard. He called out to Maxine, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Antony.” “He live here?”
“Oui,” she shook her head. “I mean, yes.”
“Well, not anymore, sweetheart.” He slipped a pencil behind his ear. “We got a rush to move everything yesterday. Occupants already moved away.”
“Moved away? Where?”
He gave her a look. “I’m guessing if he wanted you to know, he would have told you.”
There was a crash from down the hallway followed by a muffled curse. The man slapped the clipboard on the top of a tower of boxes beside him and hitched up his pants, grumbling down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Maxine grabbed the clipboard. Antony’s things were being shipped to an address in Florida.
Florida! The floor almost fell out from under her shoes.
Voices from the spare room grew louder. With a surge of confidence, Maxine took out her phone snapped a picture of the address and then fled the apartment.
****
Antony parked his new hybrid SUV and sat in the parking lot of Amalie Arena. His palms had already started to sweat. He knew this night was coming, but he wasn’t ready. He left the radio on as he rolled down the window, letting a cool breeze in from Garrison Channel.
“…Laurent in his first game against his old team, Toronto. What should his strategy be tonight?”
The other announcer, a gruff sounding man with a thick southern accent answered, “He’s not only playing against his ex-teammates, but he’s up against the guy he was traded for. Bachlahov, the Russian defender who’d been causing Tampa Bay to give up goals on all the power play chances due to his time in the penalty box.”
“Do you think Bachlahov has a score to settle tonight? He’s facing his ex-team as well. The head coach made no secret he’s been wanting to trade him for some time.”
There was a disgruntled sound from the other announcer. “You can’t compare these guys. Laurent was pulling Toronto through a record high injury roster, Bachlahov was a goon, smashing anything that tried to reach the net.”
“He’s not a goon! Toronto needed someone to step up and keep their top scorers safe. It’s an investment.”
“Many think Laurent was moved to Florida in a
trade that was hasty on Foster’s part.”
“He moved a player who was at his peak. Isn’t that the best time to get the most mileage out of the trade?”
“You think Bachlahov is a better player than Laurent? That’s bullshit!”
Antony smiled at the exasperation in the announcer’s voice.
“The Toronto club needed a tough guy back on defense. Laurent was trying to make the highlight reel every game.”
Antony leaned forward and turned off the radio, his dress shirt stuck to his back. He wasn’t exactly used to the warmer temperatures yet. The new uniform was hard to put on, too. Antony was secretly sentimental about his old jersey, but at least he was able to keep his same number, twenty-seven.
Knowing the only way through tonight was to actually start moving, he left the car, slipped his sunglasses into place and walked with his suit jacket slung over one shoulder.
Marc would be taping the game at home, but instead of an apartment above six lanes of traffic, Antony had rented them a condo on Lagoda Drive, a thirty-minute drive from the arena. They looked out over their pool and then beyond that, the Hillsborough Bay, constantly dotted with boats.
It had only been a few days since they’d arrived, and they were still living out of boxes. Sasha had set them up for home care to assist Marc, but it wouldn’t start until tomorrow. The brothers spent their days moving around each other in casual friendliness, careful of the fragileness under the surface.
Antony had gone with Marc outside last night along the waterfront walkway. Plants were in bloom and it amazed Antony that back home, a mere three- hour plane ride, that everything was still bare. He let his hand graze the top of a group of shrubs.
“Bachlahov will hit from behind,” Marc said. “Watch him on left wing.”
“I’m on different line.” Antony was distracted by a cruise boat sailing by. “We’ll never be on ice same time.”
“Foster will make you face Luca. C’est certainment. Bachlahov is with Luca’s line.”
He nodded, and they moved down the trail, sidestepping the runners that shared the pathway. Antony couldn’t do this in Toronto, he’d be recognized too easily. But in Tampa, the city didn’t revolve around hockey.
“Luca,” Antony said, more like a whisper. He missed his friend’s genuine wisdom. He even missed Chase’s antics and crude humor. Partly, he hoped they would give the Russian a hard time, or at least not let him slip into the group easily.
The locker room for the Lightning was an entirely different story. Antony stood out, they called him Frenchie. It was a horrible nickname.
“Luca’s weakness is passing too early. Watch for that.”
“Oui, tu es raison.” Antony crouched and rubbed the leaf of a green plant between his thumb and finger. The scent of mint wafted toward him.
And there it was. That moment when Maxine crept into his thoughts—usually when he least expected it— and it cut more deeply than having her in his mind all night long. The hours he spent staring at the ceiling while Marc snored down the hallway were the worst times. There was no distraction, only his memory torturing him with voluptuous images.
Does she know I’m in Florida? Does she even care?
He plucked the leaf and let it fall to the ground. Maybe this was the best thing, he thought, moving away, removing the temptation to call her or drop into Carmine’s.
“Don’t look at Coach Foster,” Marc continued. “Useless distraction. You look at Bachlahov, stare daggers at him. Make sure he see you watching him.”
“Oui.”
“Faites attention,” Marc finally said. “Be careful.”
Antony paused. It was the first time since they’d played together he’d uttered the cautionary statement.
Now, as Antony stood on the ice in an arena full of screaming fans, fully dressed as a Tampa Bay player, Marc’s words came back to him. It was like he had an implant inside his ear, coaching him on all the stats. He was an expert on his former team after all, except this time he was using that knowledge to defeat them.
Bachlahov was in the penalty box within the first three minutes of the game. Antony watched Luca make an early pass, he picked it off, stormed up the center and passed to the Tampa Bay forward who made a wicked slap shot to put them on the scoreboard first.
Antony skated passed the Toronto bench and couldn’t help but smirk at Coach Foster.
He grew cocky, thinking about the announcer making fun of him wanting to get on the highlight reel. Screw you, I am the highlight reel.
On his next shift, he got another chance to score. Pounding down the ice on a breakaway, Antony saw everything in slow motion; the opening in the defense, the angle he’d need to shoot the puck over the shoulder of the goalie…and then he realized why he couldn’t see the other defender. Out of the corner of his eye, Bachlahov came in like a blur.
He didn’t even feel the hit.
Antony blinked, but when his surroundings came into focus he wasn’t on the ice or even the arena. Florescent lights glared down, he didn’t recognize the muffled sounds around him, but one thing was certain, he couldn’t feel his legs.