The Penalty Box

by Deirdre Martin

  Tuck stopped bouncing. “Do you promise you won’t get mad at me?”

  “I promise.”

  “Do you swear on a stack of bibles you won’t get mad?”

  “Yes,” Katie replied patiently. “Now tell me.”

  Tuck gulped and began babbling. “We were playing the hockey game on the computer and talking about hockey and the team and Gary said he’d seen the coach naked and I said no way and he said yeah the coach had slept over his house and I said well big deal the coach is going out with my aunt and he said no way and I said yes way but it’s a secret.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you mad at me?” Tuck asked, sounding scared.

  “Of course not.” Katie struggled to regain her breath. “I just need to know if you boys said anything to Gary’s mother.”

  Tuck looked down at his swinging feet.

  “Tuck?”

  He wouldn’t look at her, choosing to recite to the floor instead. “We went down for dinner and Gary’s mother was there and Gary said tell your cool secret and I said no and he got mad so he told her and then she started asking all these questions and stuff.”

  Katie felt a burning behind her eyes. “What kind of questions?”

  “Just, you know, if you and the coach were in love and if you ever slept over his house and stuff like that.”

  “And what did you say?” Katie managed.

  “That you slept over sometimes but I didn’t know if you were in love.” Tuck looked up at her, the color draining from his face. “Am I in trouble?”

  Katie sat down beside him on the bed. “Honey, I’ve already told you, no.”

  “I didn’t mean to tell, Aunt Katie, it just kinda came out.”

  Katie put her arm around him, surprised when he didn’t rebuff her. “I know, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Mrs. Flaherty was really nosy,” Tuck said defensively.

  “Yes, it sounds like she was.”

  Tuck looked confused. “So is the coach going out with you and Mrs. Flaherty?”

  “I don’t know, honey.” Katie’s voice cracked with pain and she sought to cover it with a well placed cough. “But it’s nothing you need to worry about, okay?” She smoothed a stray lock of Tuck’s hair. “Go back to Harry Potter.”

  Paul knew something was wrong the minute Katie walked into his house. First, she didn’t notice he’d started unpacking; he’d had to point out the artwork now gracing his walls. Second, she was monosyllabic. That wasn’t like his beloved professor at all: Katie liked her syllables, the more the better. He knew he’d have to ask the question every man dreads: “Is everything okay?”

  “Are you sleeping with Liz Flaherty?”

  Paul frowned. Where the hell had that come from? “Why would you think that?”

  “Oh, gee, I don’t know.” Katie reached into her book bag and took out a pair of black socks. She put one sock on each of her hands. “Hello, Mr. Sock,” she had her right hand say to her left in a cartoon voice. “Where do you come from?”

  “Why, I belong to Paul van Dorn,” her left hand replied. “I’ve been at Liz Flaherty’s house!”

  “Hey, me, too!” her right hand exclaimed. “Liz said we should be returned to Paul, so she asked Katie to do it, since Tuck spilled the beans and now Liz knows allllll about them!”

  “Why were Paul’s socks at Liz’s?” Katie’s left hand asked wonderingly.

  “Gosh!” her right hand squealed. “That’s just what Katie wants to know!”

  Katie tore the socks off her hands and threw them down on the table. Paul stared at them. They were his, all right. The socks he’d forgotten the morning after the reunion, when he was scrambling to get away from Liz before she locked him up like one of Bluebeard’s brides. God. Damn. Son. Of. A. BITCH.

  “Are they yours or not?”

  Paul slipped a sock on to his right hand and lifted his eyes to hers. “They are,” he had his hand say to her quietly, “but it’s not what you think.”

  “You don’t want to know what I think!”

  Paul jumped up, hobbling as fast as he could on his one good leg so he could beat her to the front door. “You’re not leaving,” he declared, blocking her way. His ankle throbbed with pain but he ignored it. He’d dealt with worse.

  “You’re supposed to be on crutches,” Katie said. “And take that stupid sock off your hand.”

  Paul peeled the sock off his hand and threw it to the floor. “Screw the crutches. Talk to me.”

  Katie began tapping her foot impatiently. “Out of my way, Tiny Tim.”

  “Not until you hear me out.”

  Katie clucked her tongue. “Fine.”

  “I slept with Liz the night of the reunion. I was drunk off my ass and believe me, I regretted it in the morning. I was in such a rush to get the hell out of there I left my socks.”

  Katie frowned. “Oh, really.”

  “Yeah, really.”

  Katie looked dubious. “You expect me to believe she’s been hanging on to your socks for months?”

  “She has! Why, I don’t know. You really think I’d two-time you with Liz?”

  “She’s never gotten you out of her system!” Katie became teary. “Never. Maybe you feel the same way—”

  Paul shook his head. “You’re the one I can’t get out of my system, Professor.” He reached out, gently cradling Katie’s cheek in his right hand. “I would never cheat on you,” he said softly. “I love you.”

  Katie slowly backed out of reach. “Don’t say that,” she whispered.

  “Why the hell not?” Something broke free inside him. “It’s the truth! I love you!”

  Katie’s hands flew to her ears.

  Paul pulled them away. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You don’t understand,” Katie insisted.

  “Yeah, I do!” Confidence pumped through him, brought on by a sudden clarity of vision. “You love me, too, but it scares the living hell out of you! Why else would you be so upset about Liz if you didn’t feel anything for me?”

  “I’m fond of you,” Katie mumbled, hanging her head. “I’m not in love with you.”

  “I guess we’re free to go out with other people, then.”

  Katie’s head shot up.

  “Ah-ha!”

  “That wasn’t fair!” Katie stamped her foot. “You—you’re confusing me.”

  “There’s nothing confusing about this at all.”

  “I still can’t believe Liz would hang on to your socks,” Katie said suspiciously.

  Paul snorted. “Look what Monica Lewinsky held on to! Who the hell knows why people do these things?”

  Katie turned away from him.

  “I love you,” Paul murmured.

  “Stop saying that!” Katie cried.

  “Because—?”

  “It complicates things.” She turned back to him. “It throws a monkey wrench in the works.” Her voice dropped. “It confuses me.”

  “So you keep saying. I don’t see what’s so confusing about love.”

  “This isn’t what I saw for myself,” Katie revealed with a quiver in her voice. “I had my life all mapped out.” She threw a hand up in the air dramatically. “And then this!”

  “What’s ‘this’?” Paul asked, imitating her gesture.

  “You.”

  Paul couldn’t resist a self-satisfied smile. “I’m flattered.”

  “Mucking up someone’s well laid plans is nothing to be proud of, van Dorn.”

  “I’ve got news for you: Sometimes, what we have planned for our lives and what fate actually has in store for us are two different things.”

  “Well, I don’t accept that,” Katie replied obstinately, “and neither do you. If you did, you wouldn’t be so obsessed with still winning. You would let it go. You wouldn’t have resigned yourself to your fate and crawled back to Didsbury.”

  She shouldn’t have said it, and they both knew it.

  “Is that what you think?” Paul asked polite
ly. “That my career blew up in my face and because I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I came back to Didsbury?”

  Katie hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I see.” Paul rubbed his chin. “This town did a lot for you, you know. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

  “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

  “Right, where were we? Oh yeah: Me crawling back to Didsbury. What a loser, huh?” He hobbled over to the side of the couch, where his crutches rested. Placing them under his arms, he propelled himself to the front door, opening it wide. “I think you should go now.”

  “Paul.” Katie’s voice turned appeasing. “We need to talk about how Liz’s knowing is going to impact Tuck. You know she’s going to tell anyone who listens.”

  “You know what, Katie? Right now I don’t give a shit about Tuck or Liz.”

  Katie knit her hands together nervously. “You’re mad.”

  “Yeah, I’m mad. ‘This isn’t what I saw for myself,’ ” he repeated. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I—”

  “I’m not good enough for you? You’re a hot-shot academic and it’s beneath you to fall in love with a jock?”

  “That’s exactly it, Paul.” There was sadness in her voice. “You’re not a jock. Not anymore. You’re a bar owner.”

  “Fine, I’m a bar owner. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Not if it’s what you really want to do.”

  “I’ve told you before: I can’t do what I really want to do. So I’m doing this instead. And if that doesn’t meet with your approval, you can kiss my townie ass!”

  Katie’s mouth fell open.

  “You’re a snob, Katie. I’m glad you set such high standards for yourself. I understand that. It’s admirable. But I’m sick to death of trying to live up to them.”

  Collecting her coat, Katie lingered at the door. “I guess I’ll see you at the Panthers game Monday afternoon.”

  Paul nodded curtly. “We’ll talk.”

  Katie returned his nod and started down the front walk toward her car. Paul watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before closing the front door. Then, with all the force he could muster with his good leg, he kicked his goddamn sock out of the way.

  “Hit me again.”

  Paul was drunk, but not so drunk he couldn’t interpret the disapproving look crossing Frank DiNizio’s face as he poured Paul another shot of Wild Turkey.

  “This is it,” Frank announced. “You’re officially cut off.”

  “I own the bar.”

  “That’s nice. You’re still cut off.”

  Paul muttered a few choice words under his breath and threw back the whiskey, relishing the taste of fire as it slid down his throat. After asking Katie to leave, he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself, so he’d come down to the Penalty Box. He hated being morose, but he couldn’t help replaying their evening in his head. How had things deteriorated so quickly? And who was to blame?

  Liz, that’s who.

  He was still trying to wrap his mind around her hanging on to his socks. He imagined her curled up with them at night, or running them over her body, and shuddered. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d had countless opportunities to give them back to him, yet she hadn’t, probably because she’d been lying in wait for an opportunity just like this one to wreck his life. Fucking Liz.

  He wished he hadn’t asked Katie to leave. Now he wasn’t sure where they stood. They should have continued talking, hashed everything out. But her denying her feelings made him angry. Did she think it was easy for him to say he loved her? He’d been carrying it around inside for weeks, not saying anything for fear of upsetting the delicate balance of their relationship. He’d finally come clean and where had it gotten him? A seat at the end of the bar, drowning his sorrows in booze and self-pity.

  She pissed him off! He was sick to death of trying to meet her approval. Yeah, he was flattered she thought him capable of more, but things were what they were. No use crying over spilt milk and all that crap. He was back in Didsbury and if she didn’t like it or approve, well, hasta la vista baby!

  He banged his shot glass on the bar. “One more, Frank! C’mon!”

  Frank shook his head. “I already told you.”

  “One more or you’re fired,” Paul threatened, half smiling. Maybe he’d do it, just to remind Frank who was in charge here.

  Frank sighed. “Why don’t you just go home, boss, okay? I can call you a cab.”

  “I don’t want a fuckin’ cab and I own the fuckin’ bar so you’ll do what I say!” Paul bellowed. Heads turned. “What?” Paul jeered at them. “You’ve never seen someone drunk before?” He slid off his bar stool and picking up his crutches, propelled himself to the middle of the bar. “Do you know who I am?” He looked around. “Do any of you have any fuckin’ idea who I am?”

  “Yeah, you’re an asshole,” someone called out.

  Paul twisted around wildly. “Who said that? Who? I’ll kick your ass!” The room fell silent save for the jukebox pumping out AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Talk about apropos. “So! Is anyone gonna answer my question?”

  “You’re Paul van Dorn,” a woman called out from one of booths along the wall.

  Paul raised a crutch in her direction. “That’s right! I’m Paul fuckin’ van Dorn and I own this bar! Paul fuckin’ van Dorn, first-round draft pick for the New York Blades! Have any of you losers ever played in the NHL? Huh? Any of you losers ever win the Con Smythe?! Any of you ever skate the Stanley Cup?!”

  “Boss.” Frank gripped his forearm and began steering him toward the back office. “That’s enough.”

  Paul felt everyone’s eyes on him as Frank dragged him through the room. Losers! He signed autographs for them whenever they wanted and told the same stories over and over just to make them happy, and what did he get in return? Stares! Of confusion. Of amusement. Of pity.

  “Fuck all of you!” he cried. “At least I was someone once! At least—”

  Frank clamped his hand over Paul’s mouth as he pulled Paul over the office threshold, kicking the door shut behind them. “Sit,” he commanded, releasing Paul with a small shove. Paul felt dizzy, weaving on his crutches. Frank scowled. “Sit or I’ll make you sit.”

  Paul did what he was told, sinking down onto the junk-covered couch. He was hit with an unexpected wave of exhaustion and his head suddenly felt as if it were stuffed with cotton, his tongue thick. The urge to close his eyes and fall asleep was strong.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Frank demanded.

  “Do you think I’m pathetic?” Paul blurted. Even though Katie had denied meaning it, the charge had lodged in the back of his mind ever since.

  “In general, no. But tonight? Fuckin’ A.”

  Paul grunted, glancing around his office through drooping lids. The place was a mess, promo items littering his desk and the floor, old hockey gear he couldn’t bear to part with stacked in the far corner. What else had she said? Oh, yeah. Nothing wrong with being a bar owner, if that’s what he wanted to do. But it wasn’t.

  “Go away,” Paul muttered, waving Frank away. “I’m going to crash here, just leave me.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Tell everyone out there I’m sorry, and that drinks for the rest of the night are on me. Okay?”

  Frank patted his shoulder. “You got it, Paul.”

  Frank left, quietly closing the door behind him. Paul’s eyes strayed to the hockey gear in the corner; from the shoulder pads that had protected him from slashes, to the skates he’d been wearing when Ulf Torkelson brought him down for the last time. Clearing the couch of junk, Paul curled up in a ball, pulling the ratty old afghan draped over an arm of the couch close around him.

  Then he did something he hadn’t done since the neurologist told him he couldn’t play hockey anymore. He wept.

  CHAPTER 15

  In high school, Katie had trained herself to tu
ne out the whispers and snide remarks that followed her everywhere. It was a skill she thought she’d retained, until she entered the rink for the Panthers’ game against the Cornwall Bob-o-Links. Hostile glares guided her to her seat, accompanied by low whispers and the occasional snicker. She did her best to quell the anxiety rippling through her as she took her seat beside Bitsy, but it was hard. It felt like all the Panther parents were giving her dirty looks.

  “Hey, hon.” Bitsy sounded cautious as she handed Katie a mug full of coffee from her ever present thermos. “How was your weekend?”

  “Shitty.” Katie stiffened as two women, both mothers of boys on Tuck’s team, turned around to stare at her, their faces smug with condemnation. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on here?” Katie asked, though she had a pretty good idea.

  Bitsy hesitated. “Liz has been—saying things.”

  “Like—?”

  Bitsy and her husband shared an uneasy glance. “She’s saying the reason Tuck is getting so much ice time is because you’re sleeping with Paul. She’s passed around a petition to get Paul fired.”

  Katie put her head in her hands. “Great.”

  “I guess Tuck told Gary?” Bitsy asked.

  Katie nodded forlornly.

  “I told you kids that age can’t keep a secret.”

  “You were right,” Katie conceded as she lifted her head to look around. “Where is Liz?”

  “Last I saw she was outside the ladies’ room, trying to get people to sign her petition.”

  Katie moved to get up but Bitsy’s hand stayed her. “Don’t. That’s exactly what she wants.”

  “But she’s smearing me!” Katie protested as two more parents pinned her with a disapproving stare. Katie stared back until they broke eye contact.

  “Let her,” Bitsy counseled. “Believe me.”

  Katie settled back in her seat. A cold sweat was beginning to break out on her chest and back. The same thing used to happen in high school when kids would make fun of her. Then, as now, her principal tormentor was Liz Flaherty. Maybe you could never fully escape your past. Katie sipped her coffee, trying to maintain her dignity as the whispering swelled to murmuring. “They believe Liz,” she said to Bitsy, straining to keep the incredulity out of her voice.