Chapter Two

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A/N This is Justice Joslin. A beautiful real life version of Antony <3

A

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 greyness all around.

He was sick of grey. It surrounded him every day, from the dirty ice at the arena to the walls of his apartment. Even the sky was grey 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 spot light, 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, he thought. 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 fades and he zeros in on the target and sees every detail perfectly; the angle the puck will take to slip by the goalie's shoulder, the path to block center ice—it all comes down to that one moment when it all focuses for him and he gets 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 Leafs' 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.

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