The Right Fit - Chapter #3 - by Daphne Dubois

The first thing Antony noticed was her hair. He thought it was a trick of the sunlight, but as he jogged closer, he could make out the long crimson waves over her white coat. The simple brilliance of the two colors stood out from the dull grayness all around.

He was sick of gray. It surrounded him every day, from the ice at the arena to the walls of his apartment. Even the sky was gray today, despite the sun.

She was a redhead. Except her hair wasn’t red, it was a deep orange. Why was English so complicated?

After that first glimpse, Antony kept his gaze down, watching the path for patches of ice. A sprained ankle was the last thing he needed. He pictured himself limping back to the car to call for help. He’d purposely left his phone in the glove compartment, it was the only way he’d get any peace—and peace was a rare commodity.

Earlier, he’d left the apartment by slamming the door mid-argument. It was the same issue, ending with the same inquisition.

Tu vas où? Where are you going?

Antony continued his run. He picked up speed, the thudding of his heart a welcome distraction. He should run out doors more often, the gym was getting too routine, the trainers were relentless. And with the sunglasses and toque, no one would recognize him. He

wasn’t the most popular player on the team, but practicing anonymity was a lifestyle choice for him. Antony wasn’t made for the spotlight, he always felt like he was stealing someone else’s fame—which he secretly acknowledged, he was.

The sharpness of the icy air constricted his lungs, but it was a good pain. Antony ran faster as he took another turn. The treadmill could never give him this illusion of freedom. The path straightened out and her bench came into view again.

She was still there.

He slackened his speed enough to notice details as he passed. That hair. Mon Dieu, was it real? She had full red lips and a stare that made him snap face forward, thinking she’d caught him staring. Belle rousse. Beautiful redhead.

When she glanced his way at the last second, time slowed down. It was like that on the ice sometimes. When the periphery faded and he zeroed in on the target and saw every detail perfectly—the angle the puck would take to slip by the goalie’s shoulder, the path to block center ice—it all came down to that one moment when it all focused for him and he got it right.

But lately, he’d been getting nothing right. He was in a slump so deep and so far off his game there was a rumor the managers were thinking of trading him down to the minors. He couldn’t listen to the sports radio station for longer than a minute. The whole city was on his case. There was nothing like a Toronto hockey fan, they say. They love you when you’re hot, but they love to rip you apart when you’re not.

His life depended on hockey; it was the only thing that made him feel worthwhile. He was tired of disappointing everyone. Especially himself.

On the third lap of the park, he would approach her, he dared himself. The defiance of his last minute decision to come to the park had infused him with a sense of adventure. He convinced himself of this haphazard logic to just go for it and not care if he should be allowed such forbidden luxuries.

And a belle rousse was definitely a forbidden luxury for Antony.

He mentally went through different strategies; he could stop in front of her bench to tighten a lace on his sneaker, or maybe he’d fake a cramp or—and this was the one he was leaning toward—he’d simply go right up to her and tell her how beautiful she was. He would do all of this in French of course, then carefully translate, hoping he’d gotten the words correct.

What could go wrong? He dared to ask. A lot, was the answer.

But as he turned the corner the argument between what he wanted to do and what he should do fell flat, deflated. Her bench was empty.

Antony looked around, squinting into the distance to get his bearings, wondering if he had the wrong bench. Then he saw the book on the ground. A trickle of pins and needles traveled down his spine. Why would she leave this here? Had she left in such a hurry and it dropped unnoticed? What if she was taken quickly, maybe even kidnapped?

Antony picked up the book and tucked it under his arm. He jogged through the park again, hoping to see her, but there was no sign of the mysterious belle rousse.

The windows of his hybrid SUV steamed up. Antony was out of breath and slick with sweat. He slipped the wool toque off and ran a hand through his wet, dark hair, pushing it off his forehead. His heart was still racing but not entirely from the run. The moment had hit him hard, unexpected. The time blinked back at him from the clock on the dashboard. It read one o’clock. He was late.

On cue, there was a buzzing sound from the glove compartment. Antony dropped his toque on the passenger seat beside his sunglasses and the slightly soiled book, batches of salt and water stains on the cover and page edges.

A heavy guilt pushed down on his gut as he looked at all the texts from the same caller, ursexslave. He stared at the phone, not even taking in the words of this latest text. There was no need, he could feel the desperate emotion behind the message. He unzipped his nylon jacket and cleared his throat, feeling the noose tighten around his neck.

Antony started the car. The defroster whirled to life, spilling warm air over the windows. He hit the call button and waited. It only rang once before the familiar voice answered.

“Où es tu?” Where are you?

Antony clenched his teeth. “Morning exercise,” he said, “like I told you.” He tried to speak more English—another issue between them.

“Called gym when you didn’t text back. They said you were no show today.”

Antony concentrated on counting to ten; another argument is the last thing he wanted. “I jogged the park instead,” he offered, trying to sound casual. “Better than treadmill.”

There was a pause, then, “Oui?”

“Oui.” The tightness around Antony’s heart loosened somewhat. He talked a bit more about the workout then finished with, “I’m coming home now. See you soon.” And he ended the call before any more questions were fired off. Some days he felt like he was running through inquisitions of bullets.

He lied, of course. He wouldn’t be home soon. This park was clear across the city, nowhere close to the apartment or the training facility. Besides, the apartment wasn’t really his home, any kind of refuge he’d enjoyed growing up didn’t exist anymore.

It took him at least another half hour to get to the downtown core, close to the Air Canada Centre, a few blocks from his apartment.

A tow truck was double-parked in front of a coffee shop. A short guy in a greasy ball cap was fixing chains to the front of a small a car. Antony groaned, watching the traffic build up. Then he saw a redheaded woman run out of the coffee shop, pleading with the tow truck driver.

In two seconds, he was out of the SUV and making his way toward them. The tow truck driver glanced up at Antony, his bored indifference melted away into happy surprise.

“Hey, aren’t you—”

“Mademoiselle,” Antony said, looking at the redhead. But when she turned, the face was not the one he’d seen in the park. And he realized in his haste, the coat was the wrong color as well.

“Antony Laurent, right?” The tow truck driver took off his gloves and put out a hand. “I’m a big fan, man.”

A horn beeped behind them. Antony was aware of the growing stares as people slowed down to watch the scene. “I pay,” he said, getting out his wallet. Then when the truck driver seemed reluctant, he added. “I’m late for practice.”

All it took was a selfie to change his mind, although the truck driver insisted Antony put on his ball cap, the tow truck’s logo was spelled out in bright neon letters. The woman was elatedly grateful, but Antony left before any more pictures could be taken.

He got back in his car and pulled back into traffic, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He turned on the sports channel, catching the call in show midway. It did little to raise his spirits, no one, with the exception of the tow truck operator, was impressed with how the hockey team was these days.

“Bad luck doesn’t begin to describe Toronto’s downward spiral since mid-December,” one caller said.

“Bad luck has nothing to do with it,” the announcer replied. “The team is weighed down with injuries and has the highest penalty minutes of the league, it will take a miracle to get them in position for a playoff contender.”

“Hey,” the second announcer said, his tone more upbeat. “Anything can happen between now and the playoffs.”

Anything can happen.

Antony was all too aware of the things that could happen. Bad things. Very bad things.

He pulled into the underground parking garage. The banter continued but Antony had heard enough. He shut off the radio and blinked at the clock a few times. One forty-five. There were probably ten new texts waiting for him. He reached across the passenger’s seat, but instead of his phone, he picked up the paperback.

The pages were swollen with dampness, some were even stuck together. He flipped through until he found the receipt slipped inside, marking the place she stopped reading. He couldn’t translate all of the words that well, but one line near the top stuck out for him.

Hope? Faith? Whatever you call it, it’s never a waste of time to believe that anything can happen.

Antony shook off a chill. He noticed the date and the time on the receipt. He frowned, the mystery was deepening. Why would she leave a brand new book behind?