The Penalty Box

by Deirdre Martin

  Paul nodded. “That’s what I like to hear. See you at practice on Monday.”

  Katie was so busy working on her book, taking care of Tuck, and trying to keep her relationship with Paul a secret that fall turned into winter without her even noticing. One morning the leaves on the trees were brilliant red and yellow; the next the trees were bare and she was shoveling the driveway after half a foot of snow had dropped out of nowhere. Katie never minded the winter, and now that Winterfest was here, she was actually excited, especially since Tuck had never been.

  She and her nephew made their way down to Harkin’s Pond where the festival was traditionally held. The pond was frozen solid, peppered with smiling skaters doing lazy laps around the ice. Booths were set up selling everything from hot chocolate to baked goods, while tobogganers flew down the surrounding hills, their delighted screams piercing the late morning air. A curling competition was underway, baffling Katie completely; she couldn’t understand the appeal of throwing what appeared to be a lead tea kettle down the ice.

  “Hey, you.”

  Bitsy sidled up to Katie, clutching a cup of hot chocolate in her mittened hands.

  “Hey.” Despite the carnival atmosphere of the festival, Katie felt on edge. Pleading the Tuck defense, she had made it clear to Paul she was uncomfortable going to the festival with him. He’d been annoyed, but he hadn’t pushed the issue. She spotted him across the pond, sitting on a bench talking to some other men as he laced up a pair of skates.

  “It’s really packed,” Bitsy noted.

  Katie nodded. She’d heard from her mom that the festival had grown in popularity in recent years. If the swarm of people tramping around in the snow was any indication, her mother wasn’t exaggerating.

  Tuck tugged on Katie’s ski jacket. “Can I find Gary and roast marshmallows with him?”

  “Okay,” said Katie. “But if you go anywhere else, let me know.”

  Tuck ran off, leaving the two women alone.

  Bitsy blew into her cup. “I can’t deal with all this food; I want to stuff my face.”

  “I know.” Katie said. “Back in high school, I used to hit every food booth, but cram it all in my bag to eat later. I was afraid if anyone saw me eating they’d call me a pig.”

  “That’s really sad, Katie.”

  “I know. But I always loved everything else about the festival: the skaters, the snowman building contest, even being outside. There’s nothing like cold, crisp winter air to make you feel alive.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Bitsy took a big gulp of hot chocolate. “Why aren’t you with Paul?” Before Katie could answer, Bitsy continued, “Let me guess: if the town finds out about the two of you, life as we know it will come to an end.”

  “Don’t give me a hard time, Bits, okay?”

  “There he goes.”

  At first, Katie thought Bitsy was referring to Tuck. But then she saw her friend’s eyes were trained on the ice, where Paul had just started skating. Katie watched him, amazed by the ease with which he breezed past all the recreational skaters. Everyone else present turned to watch him, too. Reading their faces, Katie could see they were all thinking the same thing she was: that skating was as natural to him as breathing.

  Katie edged closer to the ice. In all the months they’d been spending time together, she had never seen Paul looking so blissful. Never. It was if he’d been transported to a different world.

  Spotting her, Paul skated over to the edge of the pond. “Care to join me?”

  Katie shook her head vehemently. “I can’t skate.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want anyone to know about us, remember? Go back out on the ice.”

  Paul snorted. “What, I can’t even talk to you?”

  Katie peered at him. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet?”

  “I should. But I’m not.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Probably not. But you know what? It’s been years since I’ve skated on this pond and felt the wind mess up my hair and freeze the tips of my ears. I wanted to experience that again. The freedom.”

  Katie smiled. “I don’t blame you. It sounds wonderful.”

  “It is. See you at practice Monday,” Paul concluded, skating back to the center of the pond. Then he was off, racing up and down, wind tussling his hair just the way he’d described it.

  “ Again.”

  Katie watched in disbelief as Paul made the young Panthers sprint from one end of the rink to the other for what had to be the tenth time. She was accustomed to seeing him challenge them at practice, but this went beyond skill building. It was downright sadistic.

  “Again.”

  Her eyes sought out Tuck. Initially one of the more enthusiastic sprinters, he was beginning to lag physically, and was far from the only boy struggling to complete the drill. They all were. All wore looks of dogged determination, none of them wanting to disappoint their coach.

  She looked down at her laptop and began typing. “Sports purports to train young boys to be men,” she wrote. “Whether conscious or unconscious, it reinforces gender roles of competition, work, and success—all key components of assumed male superiority. Coaches, who serve as initiators in the patriarchal rite—”

  “Again.”

  Katie’s head snapped up. Not again! He couldn’t be serious! She watched as Chuck Wilbraham, straggling far behind the other boys, slowed to a halt on the ice.

  “Move your butt, Wilbraham,” Paul called out, “or I’ll move it for you.”

  “But Coach,” the little boy said, panting, “I—”

  He never finished his sentence as a stream of vomit erupted from his mouth. Horrified, Katie half rose in her seat as Paul blew the whistle around his neck.

  “Okay, guys! Enough for today. See you Wednesday!” Paul skated over to Chuck, putting an arm around his shoulders. Katie strained to hear what was being said, but couldn’t make it out. All she knew was that the boy was nodding and hanging on every word Paul said. Then he joined his teammates in the locker room.

  “Can I speak with you a moment?” Katie’s voice rang out across the arena.

  “Sure.” Paul skated off the ice, doffing his helmet as he joined her a few rows up from the players’ bench. “Man, are you a sight for sore eyes,” he said, leaning in for a peck to her cheek. Katie jerked away.

  “Care to tell me what that was all about?”

  Paul looked confused. “What?”

  “Making little boys sprint the length of the ice till they vomit their guts up.”

  Wariness crept into Paul’s eyes. “It’s a drill, Katie. And only one of them puked.”

  “That’s one too many for my taste. I’m sure Chuck’s parents will be thrilled when they ask him how practice went and he tells them he threw up because ‘Coach’ was being a sadist.”

  “It happens.”

  “It shouldn’t.” She studied his face, searching for a sign of remorse, or a look weighing what she said. There wasn’t one. “You’re punishing them, aren’t you?”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “You’re punishing them,” she repeated. “You can’t play anymore, so you’re living vicariously through them. God forbid they’re not the best! It’ll reflect badly on you.”

  Paul rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate being psychoanalyzed before seven thirty in the goddamn morning?”

  “I’m not psychoanalyzing you—”

  “Not much! What else would you call telling me how I feel? You think because you have a degree in sociology and talked to a bunch of jocks and ex-jocks for a book that you know how sports works? Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But you don’t know dick, Katie.”

  Heat swam to Katie’s cheeks. “I know those boys are only nine and ten years old—not professional athletes, which is what you’re treating them like! I know sports is supposed to be fun for them!”

  “It is fun!”

  Katie’s laugh sounded more like a growl. “That sur
e didn’t look like fun to me.”

  “Because it was practice! It builds fortitude. It builds character.”

  “Character,” Katie snorted. “You don’t care about character! All you care about is winning!”

  Paul looked at her like she was stupid. “What the hell do you think sports is about, sweetheart?”

  “Don’t sweetheart me.” Katie seethed. “You’re wrong: it’s not what sports is about, it’s what it’s become! I understand you’re trying to inculcate—”

  Paul held up a hand. “No big ivory tower words, please.”

  “Do big words scare you?”

  “Of course they do. I’m a dumb ex-jock, remember? Try to stick to one-syllable words so I understand what you’re saying, Professor.”

  Katie ignored him. “You know what this constant pressure to win, win, win does?”

  Paul picked at his teeth. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “It makes you lose perspective. You forget they’re little boys, Paul. You view them as a means to an end, the end being your own success.”

  “Really.” Paul stared at her for a moment. “Why don’t you—who has never played a fucking sport in her life, I might add—tell me a little bit more about myself.”

  Katie backed off. “I’m not trying to criticize you,” she said.

  “You sure as hell could have fooled me.”

  “I’m just trying to point out something you’re too close to see.” She glanced around the arena to make sure they were alone before putting her hand on his thigh. “This is youth hockey, Paul. Not the NHL. Much as you would like to think otherwise, those kids are not vying for the Stanley Cup. Can’t you let them have fun? Let yourself have fun?”

  Paul pushed her hand away. “See, this is where your ivory tower cluelessness rears its ugly head. You know where the fun of playing sports comes from, Katie? Winning. ”

  Katie shook her head.

  “Listen to me,” Paul continued sharply. “It’s about winning. You think those kids lie awake in their beds at night and think, ‘Gosh, I hope hockey teaches me about team-work. ’ Hell, no! They want to win! They want to get out here on the ice and kick the other side’s ass! It’s always been that way. Yeah, playing a team sport builds camaraderie and all that crap, but those are by-products, not the goal! The goal is to win!”

  Katie stared at him. “They’re just little boys, Paul,” she repeated.

  “Little boys who want to win. I was one once, remember? I know what I’m talking about here.”

  “Well,” she resumed firmly, “I just think—”

  “I’ve had enough of what you think,” Paul retorted. “I’d like it if you didn’t come to practice anymore.”

  Katie stared at him in disbelief. “But—”

  “You must have enough material for your stupid book by now.”

  “It’s not stupid!”

  “Yeah, fine, whatever.” Paul looked weary. “Just don’t come to practice anymore, okay? You’re a distraction.”

  “And you’re pathetic,” Katie muttered beneath her breath.

  Paul did a double take. “Excuse me?”

  “I said you’re pathetic,” Katie repeated primly as she snapped her laptop closed. “It’s all about you, whether it’s coaching youth hockey, or hanging out down at your bar, or even racing down the ice at Winterfest. The great Paul van Dorn, star of the ice.” She rose. “I’m glad you’ve got such a handle on who you once were, Paul. Maybe it’s time to figure out who you are now.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Paul had been called many things in his life: prodigy, prick, talented, tragic. “Pathetic” had never made the roster—until now, when Katie lobbed the word at him like a grenade.

  He chewed on the word as he went to hunt her down at the Didsbury Library.

  Following practice, he’d gone back to his house with the intent of finally unpacking some of his belongings. Their conversation had left him so riled that he’d gone out for an extended run, the best way he could think of to diffuse the angry energy pounding through him. Pushing himself through the winding streets of his neighborhood, Katie’s words kept coming back to him again and again: Was he indeed “pathetic,” trying to live vicariously through the young boys he was coaching? Was it wrong to want so badly to win?

  The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became. Katie’s opinions on sports were based on social theory with a smattering of observation thrown in. The woman had never played sports in her life. She had no firsthand knowledge of the intangible rewards sports could bring or the power it held to transform one’s life. He needed to make her understand: That was what he wanted his boys to experience.

  With good coaching, discipline, and hard work, he knew hockey could provide these kids with some of the most rewarding moments of their lives. They could learn how wonderful it was to be working together as a part of a larger “family.” Plus they could experience the pleasure of achieving a hard-earned goal. But nothing—nothing—trumped the rush of winning. He didn’t just want that for himself; he wanted it for all of them.

  She was right about one thing, though: he had worked them too hard at practice. He thought back to his own days in youth hockey, and to the emotional and physical terrorism inflicted on him by hard-asses like Dan Doherty. He didn’t want to be like that. He wanted to be tough, but compassionate. To lead by example, not humiliation. It was possible to instill discipline without driving them to the edge. Playing on the Blades under Ty Gallagher had taught him that much. Come Wednesday’s practice, he would apologize to them for his behavior.

  As for Katie, he couldn’t rest until he found out whether she really thought him pathetic. It killed him that the woman he was falling in love with might believe that. Who did she think he was, anyway? No, wait. Who did she expect him to be? He was an athlete, for God’s sake, not some pipe-sucking, tweed-jacket-wearing egghead professor.

  Paul sighed, pushing through the heavy double doors of the library. Sometimes he wondered if her efforts to keep him at arm’s length weren’t some unconscious form of pay-back. He’d treated her badly when they were younger; now it was her turn. Or something. He was starting to sound like her now, all analysis and cool rational observation.

  He was struck by the silence. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the library—any library. It had to be back in eleventh grade, when he was doing research for a history paper on Teddy Roosevelt. If Paul recalled correctly, he’d managed to squeak by with a C. He’d never had to pay much attention to grades. He knew by tenth grade that he’d go pro. Even when he was at Cornell, professors had tacitly looked the other way. What mattered was how he performed on the ice, not in the classroom.

  Instinctively, his eyes scanned the room to see if anyone he knew was here. Mrs. Rooney, the squat elementary school nurse everyone called the Dorian Gray of Didsbury, was spread out in the lounge area, thumbing through the most recent issue of Troutfishing Gazette. Roger Mendoza and Gus Titus, both retired from the shoe store they used to own together, sat opposite each other at a small table playing chess. Over in “New Books,” an older, well-coiffed woman in a peach velour running suit stood with her head cocked sideways, scrutinizing book spines. Paul could hear pages turning, the heat kicking on and off, even the sound of people tapping away at computers—but no human voices. The effect was somewhat eerie.

  Mildly unnerved, he approached the octagonal information desk at the center of the hushed, carpeted oasis. Mrs. Greco sat transfixed before a computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard so quickly it sounded like raindrops pounding a tin roof. He hated disturbing her, but if he didn’t talk to Katie now, it would eat at him all day.

  “Mrs. Greco?”

  His busomy, blue rinsed neighbor looked up. “Paul.” Her smile was pleasant as she approached him. “What can I do for you? Are you here to get a library card?”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Greco’s smile drooped. Paul realized he should have just lied and said
he was here for a card before easing the conversation around to Katie. As it now stood, he was pretty sure Mrs. Greco thought he was an illiterate idiot.

  “How can I help you, then?” Her voice was crisp but quiet: the perfect librarian voice, designed not to disturb.

  “I was wondering if Katie Fisher was here, by any chance.”

  “She is indeed,” said Mrs. Greco with a lascivious wink. “I noticed her car parked outside your house Thursday night.”

  “Um . . . yeah.” Maybe he was an idiot. He had no idea how to respond to her statement, other than thinking it was kind of creepy that Mrs. Greco was so attuned to her neighbors’ lives. Then again, this was Didsbury, where gossip was the number one pastime. Katie had told him that was one of her main reasons for leaving. He was beginning to see her logic.

  Mrs. Greco was staring at him expectantly. Words, Paul. Use your words. “Katie and I are kind of seeing each other,” he offered.

  “I figured,” she purred, giving him another wink. Paul felt his stomach tilt: She was old enough to be his grandma. Her innuendo was giving him the heebies.

  “So she’s here?” he said again.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Greco replied, pointing toward the back of the library. “The last carrel on the left.” She leaned in to him as if imparting a secret. “Thank God she lost all that weight. I always used to say, ‘That girl has such a pretty face. If she would just get rid of all that blubber, she’d be a knockout.’ And I was right.”

  Paul forced a smile onto his face. “Thanks for all your help, Mrs. Greco.”

  “Anytime, Paul.”

  He made his way to the back of the library, slowing as he approached Katie. Her back was to him, and like Mrs. Greco, she, too, was typing furiously, though the sound was more muted.

  Paul stood watching her a moment. Her book bag lay on the floor beside her. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, her shoulders hunched over the keyboard in a posture of extreme concentration. Unthinking, Paul reached out and touched her hair. Katie shot up out of her seat with a frightened gasp.