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  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 a
nnouncer 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?

  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.”

  Chapter Three

  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.