The Penalty Box: A hockey sports romance novel (A Vancouver Wolves Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Odette Stone

“It’s all the same. Juice is juice.”

  She reached into the basket and traded it out for another one. “This is sixty cents cheaper.”

  I grabbed her hand and looked her in the eye. Searching for any difference. “Are you for real?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “You just found out that your husband is heir to billions of dollars. And you’re trying to save sixty cents on juice?”

  She scowled at me. “You just said juice is juice. Why should I pay more for a label?”

  That comment struck me as hilarious. I started to laugh and I couldn’t stop. Tears were coming out of my eyes and I was sucking in my breath, but I didn’t seem capable of doing anything but laugh.

  She glared at me, not impressed, reminding me of early days Charlie. “You’re an idiot, Petrov.”

  “I know,” I gasped, holding my stomach. I couldn’t help it. I felt like a weight had been lifted and everything was so light and I felt so damn good.

  “Get yourself together,” she mocked.

  Using monumental fortitude, I picked up the basket and swung my arm around her shoulder. “You’re the best.”

  She turned her face into my chest and breathed in deep. “I think Sasha inherited his smarts from you. Good thing you’re both cute.”

  Her sass was perfect. And my smile didn’t come off my face the entire way home.

  Life was near perfect. There had been no more incidents since Charlie had gotten her money back from Yazimoto. The Wolves were doing amazing, and we were leading in our division as we headed towards playoffs. Charlie was Charlie. She was everything I needed in a woman, and I couldn’t believe she was mine.

  The sex was off the charts, but the rest of our time together was amazing too. This was better than any relationship I’d ever had. We had fun together. She was playful in and out of bed. It felt like since the moment I had told her I wanted to give this marriage a real shot, she had let down her final wall and relaxed into it. It made her one of the most easygoing, charming women I had ever met. Everything she did, I adored. She felt like a puzzle piece that had been missing for years and now, with her in the picture, everything felt complete. I dared let my guard down and allowed myself to relax into this bliss. This was what my mom was talking about when she’d told me to let go and be happy.

  I left for another stretch of away games. Finally, we were on our return flight. I couldn’t wait to get home.

  I needed to see Charlie. That is what she had become to me. A need. It scared the shit out of me, but it felt so damn good, I couldn’t even fight it. If I wasn’t already married to her, I would probably be thinking about marrying her. That’s how damn good it was.

  Usually, Charlie waited up for me when I got home, especially when it was the weekend, but tonight, she was asleep in bed. I sat down on the bed beside her and she opened her eyes to look at me.

  She had been crying.

  “Hey,” I kneeled down beside the bed so I was eye level with her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she lied, looking anywhere but at me.

  “How come you’re in bed so early? It’s only eight.”

  “I was tired.” She struggled to sit up. “I can get up.”

  “Don’t.” I gently pushed her back down. “Rest.”

  I got no protest from her. She curled up around her pillow. “Okay.”

  When I came in to check on her fifteen minutes later, she was fast asleep.

  Charlie remained emotionally removed from everything for most of the weekend. I caught her in tears twice, and she spent a lot of time sleeping. I did not understand what the fuck was going on, but she wasn’t talking about it. When I asked her, she just shook her head and told me she wasn’t ready to talk about it. I wondered if something had happened at work.

  Me: What the fuck is wrong with Charlie?

  Krista: I was going to ask you the same thing.

  Me: She hasn’t said anything to you?

  Krista: She hasn’t been herself. She’s withdrawn completely.

  Me: You have no clue what’s up with her?

  Krista: Negative

  I came home Sunday from practice and found her still in bed. She wasn’t asleep, but she just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

  I crawled into bed with her and held her. It scared me when she started to cry. She didn’t just cry, she wept. Sobbing her heart out, holding me like the world was ending.

  “Sweetheart,” I begged. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I can’t,” she choked out.

  “You can. We’re a team. We can handle anything together.”

  “Not this.”

  “Is it Yazimoto?”

  She shook her head, breaking into fresh tears.

  I held her face and stared into her eyes. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  If she had kicked me in the nuts with steel-toed boots, it would have stunned me less. I didn’t know what a panic attack felt like, but I was pretty sure I was having one. I scrambled to the side of the bed while my entire body went hot and then cold. Sweat poured out of me, and I worked to breathe.

  “Holy fuck,” I gasped.

  She sat up, arms folded around her knees, and she cried even harder.

  I stood up and looked at her. “Tell me this isn’t true.”

  She lifted her hands and dropped them helplessly.

  Fear made speaking impossible. My heart was racing so hard I thought it would explode in my chest. My stomach felt rock hard, and adrenaline spiked through me, making me feel jittery. I tried to catch my breath but I couldn’t.

  “This can’t happen,” I wheezed, a hand on my chest.

  “Mica.” She rose on her knees. “Talk to me.”

  She looked so frightened by my response, but I could do nothing to comfort her. I was too busy trying not to puke.

  “I have to get out of here.” I staggered out of the bedroom.

  I heard her scramble off the bed and come after me.

  “Mica,” she cried. “Please don’t go. Please talk to me.”

  I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. It nearly broke my heart to see her crumple to the floor, but wild horses couldn’t make me stay.

  I needed to get drunk in the worst way, but we had a game tonight. So I aimlessly drove around before landing at Spanish Banks Beach. I sat in my car and stared, unseeing, at the landscape before me.

  Charlie is pregnant.

  Every time I thought of that, I felt my blood pressure go up. I tried to work my way through this. I tried to imagine her with a pregnant body, curved and so fucking vulnerable with a child inside of her, and my entire body broke into a cold sweat.

  I can’t handle this.

  My fear might be irrational, but it felt real and powerful and made me incapable of making any intelligent decisions. I knew I should go back and talk to her. I knew we needed to sort this out, but I couldn’t face this.

  This is my fault.

  I had done this to her. Because of my careless fucking reckless behavior. My fear morphed into a deep-seated rage against myself.

  My phone rang. It was Ryan.

  “Where you at, buddy?”

  “Just hanging out.”

  “Need some company?”

  I remained silent.

  “Charlie phoned Zoey. She seems pretty upset. Wanna talk?”

  “I’m at Spanish Banks.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  He pulled up beside me and then got in my passenger seat. He handed me a water but didn’t speak.

  I finally found the words to articulate my nightmare.

  “You know how I feel about having kids.”

  “Yup.”

  “I knocked her up.”

  “Figured as much.”

  I looked at him, feeling anguish. “I did this.”

  “That’s usually how it works.”

  We sat together for another bout of silence.

  Finall
y, he asked, “So do you just hate kids?”

  “I love kids.”

  “You think you’d be a bad dad?”

  I felt my throat begin to close. I could barely make myself say the words. “It’s the pregnancy part of things.”

  “Ah, gotcha.”

  More silence.

  Then he asked, “You not into that kind of thing? Because it only lasts nine months.”

  I gripped my steering wheel. “I’m scared.”

  “You’re scared for Charlie?”

  I nodded, and for a moment I thought I might cry. Which both shocked me and horrified me. I hadn’t cried since I was ten. That is how much emotion I had coursing through my body. I couldn’t seem to get a grip on myself. It’s like some part of me had been ripped open, and everything inside I had worked to numb was now thawing and throbbing with excruciating pain.

  “You need to talk to Charlie about this. She is freaking out.”

  “I know.” The words came out of me, but I knew I was light years away from dealing with her.

  “You going to be able to play tonight?”

  I nodded. I needed hockey. It had been my savior all these years. The rink was the one place in this world where everything made sense.

  I didn’t go home before the game. I went straight to the stadium. I felt like I was on autopilot as I suited up for our pre-game warmup. Ryan stayed close to me. I could feel him keeping a watchful eye on me, but we didn’t talk.

  The opposing team was rough. Two minutes into the game, we were in a four-player fight. Everything went downhill from there. There were jabbing sticks, not-so-subtle punches to the head, hard poundings into the boards, so many infractions that the refs were letting most of them go, otherwise, there wouldn’t be any players left on the ice.

  Hockey failed me. It failed to bring me back to equilibrium. It didn’t calm me, and it didn’t clear my mind.

  Coach stuck his face in mine and screamed, “Get your head in the fucking game, Petrov.”

  My next shift, I went back on the ice, trying to focus, but it felt like I was in a fog. The game was moving around me at a speed with which I couldn’t keep up. I knew I was fucking up, but it felt like I was skating in quicksand.

  And then a big bruiser of a player cruised by my goalie while he was still in the crease. In slow motion, I watched as he clipped him with his shoulder, knocking him off his feet.

  I saw red.

  Goalies were off-limits. No one with any sense of self-preservation, went after the goalie. The guy didn’t see my first hit to the head, but he got into the fight within seconds. We clung to each other’s jerseys to gain leverage. He gave as good as he got, and I took some serious shots to the face before I hooked him in the mouth. Two of his teeth flew out, and he went down hard. Someone else punched me in the back of the head. I turned and found myself in a second brawl. The second guy was a better fighter, and it was a savage fight that seemed to last a lifetime.

  It felt good. To hit and get hit. I swung with my fear; I punched with my anger; I hit with my pain. All of my frustration, all of my emotion got channeled into something tangible. I kept on swinging until the second guy ended up crumpled on the ice, his arms over his head.

  The fans in the stands were going nuts. And there was a lot of blood. I wasn’t sure if it was mine or theirs, but it covered me. Two refs led me to the penalty box while trainers slid across the ice towards their players. They should have gotten the penalty box, but they were both led off the ice towards the lockers. They sent two replacement players to sit in the box on their behalf.

  Ryan skated past me, carrying my gloves and helmet. He passed them to me over the glass with his stick. My knuckles were swollen and fat, and my entire face throbbed. A trainer got into the box with me, checking me over.

  “Fuck, Petrov, your face is a mess.”

  I looked down at my hand. My fingers were swelling so fast, I could feel my ring tighten like a vise.

  “My wedding ring.”

  The guy used some slippery lube and a towel and worked to get it off my finger. It seemed fucking fitting that today of all days, my wedding ring was being ripped off me. He turned the towel around and showed me my ring. “You’re lucky we didn’t have to cut that off.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “I don’t know how you took that first guy down. He outweighed you by more than twenty pounds. You finished him, but the dude got in some hard hits.” He reached up and dabbed at my face.

  Everything hurt. It felt good to hurt. I deserved it and more.

  I sat there for ten long minutes and then my penalty was served. I got to the bench and coach took one look at me.

  “You’re cut from the game, Petrov.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “I can play. I’m in the game.”

  “Mark Ashford made the call. You’re out.”

  My face looked like I had gone through ten rounds in the ring. Both of my eyes were swollen. My lips were cut and bleeding, and I had bruises on bruises. My body felt like pulverized meat. And my hands were so swollen I could barely bend my knuckles. When I stood in the shower, the water was tinged with rusty blood.

  Mark Ashford was waiting for me beside my locker. Ignoring him, I slowly started to get dressed.

  “You’re not in trouble,” he spoke.

  “You cut me,” I accused.

  “It was for your own good,” he sighed. “You’re hurt.”

  I shut my eyes. “I took it too far.”

  “No, you didn’t. You defended your goalie. You defended this team. Your passion was a kick in the ass this team needed, and now everyone is in the game. That came at a cost to yourself. But now I need to defend you. You’re hurting bad, worse than I’ve ever seen you hurt. Go home. Get some rest.”

  I sat on the bench long after he left the room. I didn’t have any place to go. So, I got dressed, and I went home.

  Chapter 25

  CHARLIE

  Sniper barked once, letting me know Mica was home. My heart pounded fiercely, but then almost came to a stop when he walked in the door. My hands covered my mouth and I couldn’t speak when I saw the shape he was in.

  “Mica,” I breathed, my voice breaking.

  Two sad blue eyes looked at me, and he walked into the bedroom. I grabbed some single-use ice gel packs from the freezer and followed him. He lay on the bed with one hand over his eyes.

  I crawled onto the bed, kneeling beside him. Not sure if he would reject my care, I slowly lifted one big hand and put a gel pack on his knuckles.

  He responded by sighing. A deep, heavy sigh fraught with so much pain. I carefully lifted his other hand off his face and put another gel pack on that hand. I didn’t even know where to start with his face.

  “Where do you hurt?” I whispered.

  He swallowed hard and looked at me. “Everywhere.”

  I knew he wasn’t talking about his face. Tears streamed down my face, because that seemed to be my MO these days. I gingerly placed another pack on his swollen cheekbone.

  “Please don’t cry.” His voice was hoarse.

  “I hate seeing you hurt.”

  I lay down beside him on my side, feeling so helpless. Tears leaked out of me. When he rolled over and wrapped me in his arms, I only cried harder.

  “I’m sorry.” Those were the only words he spoke.

  I woke up in the middle of the night. Mica sat on my side of the bed, watching me sleep. I knew something was wrong.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m moving out for a while.”

  I thought I’d misheard him at first. It took a few moments to compute what he was telling me. The shock was so big that it numbed me. “Where are you going?”

  “A hotel.”

  I didn’t move a muscle. “Can we talk, please?”

  “I need to sort myself out.”

  Ten heartbeats before I finally had the courage to ask, “Are you coming back?” />
  “I’m going to try.”

  There wasn’t much to say after that. I knew at that moment that there was nothing I could say or do to change his mind.

  “Will you text me or call me?”

  His voice sounded pained. “Can you give me some time?”

  I thought about him in a hotel. Was this marriage over? Had this baby killed everything good between us? Would we ever come back from this? I couldn’t even face the idea of this marriage ending.

  I asked the question that I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to. “Is this your way of leaving me?”

  “You’re still my wife.”

  But for how long? I didn’t understand any of this. I didn’t understand his response. He wasn’t just pulling away from me—he was running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. The worst-timed words blurted out of me.

  “I love you.”

  He rubbed his chest with his fist, like my words had punctured something. “I have to go.”

  I waited until I heard the front door close before I burst into tears again.

  Two unbearable weeks passed while I waited for Mica to come home. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. The only time I got a glimpse of him was on TV when he was playing hockey.

  Somehow this man had become my everything. And now, with surgical precision, he was separating us. The pain was overwhelming. I was hormonal, in denial and unable to come to terms with the fact that I was pregnant. None of this felt real. I didn’t have the energy to think about how much this baby would alter my life. All I cared about was Mica.

  I didn’t understand what was happening with him, but there was more to this than him not wanting to be a father. There were some strong emotions driving him away. Emotions I didn’t understand.

  Finally, desperate for answers, I called Yelena.

  “What’s wrong?” She instantly heard the pain in my voice.

  “Mica left me.”

  She made a sound in her throat. “Talk to Yelena. Tell me what is going on.”