Chasing Stanley (5 page)

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Then—?”

“It's for an audition. It's a musical version of
Blue Velvet
, and I'm trying out for the part of Frank. I think the mask will help, don't you?”

“Could you take it off, please? I feel like I'm talking to Darth Vader.”

Marcus peeled off the mask with a huff. “Better?”

“Much.”

Delilah handed him his pay for the week—all in cash, since Marcus worked off the books.

“You need to talk to Mrs. Schemering about the collar she's got on Muffin,” said Marcus. “Muffin says it's affecting her singing voice.”

“Muffin sings?”

“Yes. I'm sure it just sounds like barking to you.”

“How come Muffin never talks to me?”

“ 'Cause I've got the shine, and you don't.”

“I think the hockey player likes me,” Delilah blurted.

Marcus swiped at fake tears. “Frank, our little girl is turning into a woman!”

“Shut up.”
Delilah was in no mood to be teased.

Marcus patted her shoulder. “Tell Uncle Marcus all about it while he puts up the kettle.”

Delilah followed him into the tiny kitchen, whose cupboards were almost always bare. She suspected part of the reason Marcus was so lithe was because he barely ate.

“I take it he passed his interview,” said Marcus.

“Yes. I'm going to begin training them on Thursday.”

Marcus's face fell. “I was hoping you could cover for me Thursday morning. That's when my audition is.”

“It won't be a problem. The lesson's not until the afternoon.”

“Thank God.” Marcus held up two boxes of tea, shaking them. “I've got some plain old Lipton that's probably five years old, and some echinacea that's supposed to help with colds but does diddly.”

“I'll take the echinacea.” Delilah worried perhaps Marcus might not be the best person to talk to about Jason. Maybe she should run it by one of her girlfriends at the dog park. The problem was that, like her, they preferred the company of canines to people, so their track records when it came to romance weren't exactly stellar. Marcus was a man; he'd be able to analyze guy behavior for her. Plus he was always going to dance concerts and gallery openings and parties. He knew how people in the non-dog world operated. Delilah's idea of a good time was cozying up on her couch with her dogs and a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream, watching
Animal Planet
.

“Why do you think he likes you?”

“Well, he wanted to know all about my dogs and how I got into the dog walking business. Then, when I told him he should get a Halti at the pet shop, he said, ‘Maybe you could come with me.' ”

“So, you're thinking he might want to put the moves on you while perusing pooper scoopers.”

Delilah scowled. “I know you think you're being hilarious, but you're not.”

“I'm sorry, kitten.” He patted the top of her head. “Continue.”

“That's it, really. Any thoughts?”

“How were you with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Which of your two anxious personalities came out: Betsy Blurt or Babbling Brook?”

“I think I may have babbled a little. I'm not sure.”

“Well, if you babbled and you still think he likes you, then that says something.”

“Like what?”

Marcus sighed. “Hard to say, since I haven't actually met him.”

“Great.” Delilah slumped against the wall. “You know when a dog thinks she's Gwen Stefani, but you can't give me any insights on male behavior.”

Marcus pursed his lips. “This is what I think.”

Delilah waited.

“Asking you how you came to be a dog walker
could
just be basic human curiosity—or he might like you. Similarly, asking you to go to the pet shop with him
could
be because he's nervous about buying the right collar—or he might have been flirting with you. My question to you is: Does it matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let's say for the sake of argument he does like you. Are you going to do anything about it? If he asked you out, would you accept?”

Delilah hesitated. “I don't know.”

Marcus put the kettle on the stove. “Then why are we even having this conversation?”

“You're right.” Delilah pulled up a kitchen chair. “I did take a closer look at him this time,” she admitted. “He
is
attractive. And nice. And he
really
loves his dog.”

“But.”

“But I can't—I don't—he—”

“You'd feel more comfortable if he had four legs rather than two.”

“Yes.”

Marcus sat down beside her. “Lilah, you've got to get over your shyness—
and
your fear. Just because your parents' marriage went up in flames like the
Hindenburg
, doesn't mean they all wind up that way.”

Marcus was right. All those years of doors slamming, plates crashing, and name-calling had left its mark. So had the always confusing aftermath, when her parents would make up and vow undying love—until the next time they fought. It had taken her years to allow herself to have a serious relationship, and when she did, her anxiety had blown it.

“I'm not sure I'm willing to take the risk,” Delilah admitted.

Marcus pushed back from the table. “Then continue living a half life.”

His words stung. “I'm frightened, Marcus. Please don't be cross with me.”

“I'm sorry, babycakes.” He placed the teabags in their cups. “It just gets so frustrating sometimes! You're this sweet, wonderful woman, yet you choose to hide your light beneath a bushel of dog hair. Haven't you ever heard the expression ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'?”

“Of course.”

“Well, take heed. If it turns out Halti Boy likes you and you like him, too, what have you got to lose?”

Delilah swallowed. “My heart.”

“You've already lost it to animals. Don't you think it's time to broaden your horizons?”

 

 

“Don't worry about the traffic. We'll be in Brooklyn soon.”

Michael Dante turned around to explain to Jason why it was taking them longer than expected to get to Dante's, the restaurant Michael co-owned with his brother, Anthony. Earlier in the day, Jason had to suppress a grin when Michael and Ty invited him to join them for dinner. It was a ritual for the captain and head coach to take new guys out individually for a meal and pep talk.

Sometimes Jason still couldn't believe he was in New York playing for the Blades. Back in North Dakota, he and Eric used to lie awake in their room at night, fantasizing about who they longed to play for. Eric had a hard-on for playing for Boston. But Jason always dreamed about playing for New York, in “the world's greatest arena.” Under Gallagher's stewardship, the team had won two Stanley Cups. Jason wanted to be there when they won the third.

Michael grumbled something under his breath that made Ty chuckle. “I hope you don't talk like that in front of your kids,” he said.

“I do, but usually it's in Italian, so it doesn't matter.”

Jason leaned forward. “How many kids do you have, Cap?” He wanted to show them that he wasn't nervous, even though he was. It was the right question to ask; if it were possible to bottle and sell the look of pride transforming Michael's face, Jason would be set for life.

“Two, with one on the way.”

“How old are they?”

“Dominica's six, little Anthony is four, and the baby is due in January.”

“Michael's trying to start his own hockey team,” Ty ribbed.

Jason glanced between the two men. “Your wives work together, right?”

“Right,” said Ty. “They run their own company, FM PR.”

“Though Theresa's dropped down to part-time, what with the kids and all,” said Michael. He glanced back at Jason. “You looking for a publicist?”

Ty shot Michael a warning look. “That's the last thing he needs.”

“I was making a joke. Relax, will ya?”

Ty grunted and looked out the window.

“How 'bout you, Coach?” Jason's voice sounded a little too chipper to his own ears, so he toned it down a bit. “You've got one kid, right?”

Ty nodded. “Patrick. He's five.”

“Shoulda named him after me,” Michael put in.

Ty just rolled his eyes.

Jason sat back. The rapport between the two men was comforting. He knew from watching them at practice that they had immense respect for each other, but it was nice to see they were friends as well. In Minnesota, the new coach and longtime captain could barely stand each other. The effect on team morale was devastating. Jason was convinced it was the reason the Mosquitoes hadn't made the playoffs in two years. Loyalties were divided when everyone's attention should have been focused on winning.

“So, has your big brother been showing you the sights?” Ty asked.

Jason frowned. He knew the conversation would get around to Eric eventually. It always did.

“Bigger than me by three whole minutes,” Jason muttered.

His gaze caught Ty's in the rearview mirror. Ty looked surprised. “I didn't know you two were twins.”

“You been living under a rock or what?” said Michael, weaving in and out of traffic like a lunatic. Ty shot him a withering glance before resuming eye contact with Jason.

“Eric's a great hockey player,” Ty continued.

“I'm better.”

“Yeah?” Ty sounded amused. “We'll see.”

 

 

Jason had never
been to a place like Dante's. Photos of priests and paintings of gondoliers lined the red walls, while the tables were draped in red and white checkered table-cloths. The decibel level was loud but relaxed; people were genuinely enjoying themselves as they ate. Floating above the din was the sound of Italian love songs piped through the sound system. Jason immediately felt comfortable; it had a real family atmosphere.

He, the coach, and the captain were no sooner seated than a large, swarthy man bounded out of the kitchen, heading straight for the table. There was a big smile on his face as he playfully grabbed Michael in a headlock.

“You here to bust my balls or what, Mikey?”

Michael pushed his brother away with a choke. “Jesus, what are you cooking back there? You stink!”

“I'm cooking fish,
cafone
. Anchovy sauce and other delights.” He gave Ty a hearty pat on the back before looking at Jason with unmistakable sympathy. “Is this the latest sacrificial lamb?”

Michael's expression was reassuring as he turned to Jason. “Pay no attention to that man behind the apron.” His attention shifted back to his brother. “What do you recommend tonight?”

“To start? Crostini bianchi—that's ricotta and anchovy canapes.”

Michael glanced around the table. “That okay with you guys?”

“Fine,” said Ty.

Jason just nodded. The only time he'd ever had anchovies was on pizza.

“Next?” Michael prompted.

“Tagliatelle with Bolognese sauce. As a side I'd recommend breaded, fried finocchio.”

Jason felt lost. “What's finocchio?” he asked Michael.

“Geppetto's other son,” Anthony replied.

“Enough with the wisecracks,” Michael said to Anthony. “It's fennel. It's good; trust me.”

Anthony folded his arms across his chest. “We all set, then?”

“I am,” said Michael. He looked at Ty. “You?”

“You know me: I need a fix of Anthony's scungilli before I can even think of anything else.”

“You got it,” said Anthony.

“You?” Michael said to Jason. Jason wondered if the anxiety starting to mount inside him showed. Michael's voice seemed unusually kind.

“Whatever you recommend is fine with me.”

Anthony gave a curt nod. “If that will be all, gentlemen, I will repair to my humble kitchen to slave over a hot stove for your pleasure.”

“Who the hell are you kidding?” said Michael. “It's for
your
pleasure.”

Anthony shook his head. “See the thanks I get?” He disappeared behind the swinging doors of the kitchen.

“Don't let Anthony unnerve you,” Michael said as soon as his brother disappeared. “He may come off as a wisecracking SOB, but inside he's a pussycat.”

“Yeah, like Torkelson,” Ty added wryly, taking a piece of bread.

Every player in the NHL had a story about Ulf Torkelson, who had recently been acquired by the Blades in a trade with Ottawa. Jason himself had tangled with him on the ice a few times, and the notorious Swede had put an end to Paul van Dorn's career. Jason was glad he'd now be playing with Ulfie and not against him.

“How are you adjusting?” Ty asked.

Jason shrugged. “Great.”

“You all moved in?” asked Michael. Jason nodded, reaching for a piece of bread. He was starving, but he hadn't wanted to dip into the bread basket until Michael or Ty had done so first. “Where you living?” Michael continued.

“Upper West Side.”

“Nice.”

“Don't take the subway,” Ty warned. “Use the car service.” He jerked his thumb at Michael. “Mikey D over here used to take the subway so he could mingle with his peeps. He was always late—till I started fining him. Do
not
make the same mistake.”