The Right Fit - Chapter #4 - by Daphne Dubois

He slipped the receipt back in place then put the book in the glove compartment to dry out. He couldn’t very well show up at home with a romance novel tucked under his arm. Then Antony realized he still had the ball cap on. ACE Towing. He tossed the greasy cap into the glove compartment as well.

The entire ride up the elevator, he kept picturing her sitting on the bench, but the image only made him melancholy now. He reached his apartment and fit the key into the lock—I have a key to my own prison—he thought darkly.

“Antony?” the voice called from the kitchen.

“C’est tu?”

For a moment, Antony stayed quiet, considering turning around, getting back in his vehicle to drive aimlessly around Toronto looking for his belle rousse.

The accented voice prompted him again, more docile this time, apologetic.

Antony spoke up. “Oui, c’est moi. Who else?”

****

Over the next week, he returned to the park twice, but she was never there. A small part of Antony was relieved; he had little time or opportunity for a distraction like her. But the whole experience had left him in a fog, unable to concentrate completely on any one task. His practice was sloppy, riddled with dull reflexes. Whenever the coaches went off into another room, his paranoia was rampant, certain it was his fate they were discussing.

He had no explanation for his pathetic performance these last few months. He’d been hitting the gym harder and longer, sharpening his blades a new way, even stopped dating—or at least what passed for dating. The women were always there; before the game, after the game, at the bar…even showing up at his hotel.

It was too tempting sometimes; he couldn’t date here, so close to home. The occasional hook up filled a need. He loved hearing a woman moan his name as she writhed under his touch, crazy with want.

And then his final, sweet release.

But the casual nature of those encounters grew tiring, the release began to take more work, and a lingering sense of hollow boredom would follow him around days later.

He’d decided to cool his extracurricular love life to concentrate on his game. But it had been two months under the strict gym regime and no sex, and still no goals. That coupled with the sloppy defense dropped his rank and value on the team.

So, Antony wasn’t surprised when Luca, his best friend on the team, approached him in the locker room after a particularly miserable practice. Luca was already out of his equipment with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked around, then leaned close, dropping his voice. His Saint Sebastian medallion swung out from his chest. “Listen, buddy. I heard coach Foster is meeting with manager tonight.”

Luca called everyone buddy. His wife and two children moved over with him from Moscow three years ago when the pro hockey league had recruited him. Between Luca’s broken English and Antony’s accent, the two of them having conversations was hilarious to the rest of the team.

“And?” Antony barely moved his lips aware of the few heads turning their way.

“Maybe trading you to minors,” Luca whispered back.

“Shit.” A wash of panic chilled Antony, making him shiver, still in his sweaty hockey gear.

Luca put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t give in,” he said. “Just rumor.”

This cannot happen. As bad as his life was now, being sent to the minors was basically nailing his coffin shut. A desperate plan started to take shape. He reached out and grabbed Luca’s elbow. “Where’s meeting?” he whispered.

“Some fancy club…Uniun, I think.” Then a look of concern deepened his frown. “Why, buddy? What you thinking?”

“I’m crashing it.”

Luca’s eyebrows went up. “Wear disguise.”

****

Maxine was already lonesome for her bed and laptop as Crosby pulled her through the crowd. A line had been snaking along the sidewalk when they’d pulled up in the cab, but Crosby knew the doorman— she always knew the doorman. Maxine cringed under the glare from the other patrons still waiting outside in the frigid late February night as they were swept inside. “Is it always like this?” Maxine asked, shouting

above the music.

“Of course,” Crosby said, smiling widely. “Uniun is the hottest dance club in Toronto.”

Crosby had arrived at Maxine’s apartment earlier that evening, styled up in stilettos and a tight mini dress. It was so small it showed off the tattoo around her shoulder and the one on her upper thigh, creating the illusion that Crosby had one pattern stretching the length of her back.

“You have to come out with me. I have such a good feeling about tonight! Didn’t you read your horoscope?”

Maxine had already changed out of her uniform and into her sweatpants and bathrobe. “Is this about project rebound?” she’d asked, opening the microwave and taking out the steaming package of popcorn. “Because I think I’d like to renounce my membership.” It had been a week since the botched blind date.

There’d been no further emails from the divorced high school teacher.

Crosby flicked her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and then took the bag of popcorn from her. “Westley is holding a table for us.” Then she turned Maxine around, pushed her into the bedroom, and picked out an outfit for her.

Maxine had put forth little resistance, Crosby could make anything sound like a fun adventure, even though she had to wear the green vixen dress again—it was the only nice thing in her closet that fit, well, with the aid of her spandex girdle.

Now in the dance club, Crosby guided her toward a corner table with a perfect view of the dance floor. Westley was flushed and laughing with a bunch of his friends who were barely out of college and still baby faced.

Maxine was struck by how much her little brother was starting to look like their late dad. In a family of redheaded women, she wondered what it felt like to be him, the youngest sibling, and only boy.

Standing beside Westley was his best friend since elementary school, Stuart Ling; stockbroker, brown eyes, chiseled features, gray streaks dyed in the front of his jet-black hair. He was in a fitted dress shirt and jeans. His eyes scanned Maxine’s curves. “Rita fucking Hayward would eat her heart out,” he said, sweeping her into his arms.

“Hi, Stu,” she said, self-consciously bending forward, trying to stay shorter than him as they hugged. She wished she’d gone with flats tonight. At five-foot- eleven, Maxine was easily the tallest woman most places she went. Still, she beamed at the compliment. She’d been told on more than one occasion that she resembled the famous redhead.

She glanced at her fresh manicure; the steel green tone was picked especially for the outfit from Carmine’s. Crosby had admired it earlier and smiled knowingly when she read the name on the bottom of the little glass bottle—One Knight Stand.

“If I wasn’t gay you’d be pregnant in five minutes,” Stuart teased. He stepped back and took in her dress again. “My God, Max, that’s yardage not cleavage.”

“We’re on a mission,” Crosby piped up.

Stuart quirked an eyebrow. “The Nicholls sisters on a mission? That sounds delicious. I hope it’s sexual.”

Westley put down his nearly empty pint of dark ale with a thunk. “I’m right here. Don’t be gross with my sisters, Stu.”

“I only hang out with you so I can be gross with your sisters,” he said. Then he frowned and looked at Crosby. “Speaking of sisters, where’s Thing Two, by the way?”

Crosby huffed and answered, “Rose is working late again.”

“She’s always working,” Westley grumbled, putting the ale up to his lips again.

“It’s called real life,” Maxine lectured. “She wants to be promoted to editorial staff so she’s willing to put in the extra hours at the Globe and Mail.”

“I can’t believe she’s my twin,” Crosby said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a lipstick. “I’d never work overtime,” she said, reapplying the deep red color.

“That’s because you’re the assistant to the assistant to the CEO of a mediocre PR firm,” Westley chided.

Crosby shot him a look. “Well, you’re only a sales clerk fitting pre-teen boys for their Bar Mitzvah suits.”

“Henry Roman’s is a very high end store,” Westley started. “I’ve met more celebrities and sports figures than you’ve seen on TV.”

“Name one.”

He sat straighter. “Almost all of the Toronto hockey club, plus the players in the minor league.”

“Hockey teams don’t count,” Crosby rolled her eyes.

“Are you clueless? Professional athletes are rock stars.”

Stuart looked alarmed. He asked Westley, “You give out my number, right?”

“Yeah, I carry a fist full of your business cards in my pants all the time just in case I run into a potential lover for you.” Westley finished his drink with a grimace.

“That kind of dirty talk has no place in our friendship,” Stuart said. “I’m gay. You’re straight. Stop hitting on me.”