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

by Odette Stone

  “It’s on the house.”

  I shoved a twenty in her tip jar. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll bring it out to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back around the corner, punk rocker was working away at my laptop. I sat down beside her.

  “I’m just setting up categories for you.”

  “Okay.” Recalling vaguely that Frank had spoken of such things.

  She glanced over at the shoebox of receipts. “Sort those into the following groups: medical, travel, housing, moving and everything else.”

  The barista appeared at our table. “So, who’s having the hot chocolate?”

  “She is.”

  “Oh,” the barista said, shock laced her voice when she looked at the chick beside me. “I… okay.”

  She set down our drinks. When she was out of earshot, I asked, “You come here a lot?”

  Defiant. “It has clean washrooms.”

  “Huh,” I said. Didn’t all coffee shops have clean washrooms?

  “Just sort your receipts, okay?”

  “On it.”

  We worked in silence together. After I sorted, I read them off to her while she typed. We were halfway through the box, which was a fucking miracle as far as I was concerned, when she looked up in alarm.

  “I have to go,” she pushed my laptop back towards me, and then shrugged into the most beat up little leather jacket I had ever seen.

  “You’re leaving me?” I sounded as panicked as I felt.

  “I have to catch the bus.” She turned to walk away.

  Without thinking, I reached forward and grabbed her wrist. It felt like a tiny doll wrist in my huge hand. She yanked hard, and I instantly let go.

  “What the fuck!” she glared at me. True anger etched on her face.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

  “What?”

  I spoke fast, “I’ll pay you. To help me.”

  “How much?”

  “Uh… twenty bucks.”

  She looked tempted and then backed away. “I can’t. I have to go before I’m late.”

  “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you help me and then I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” I gave her the most charming smile I had in me. Which usually melted panties off, but in her case, she glared at me like I was the scum on the bottom of her beat up doc martin boots.

  “You going to make me beg?” I tried another smile.

  She stared at me. Unmoved. “I can do twenty minutes for twenty dollars. And you pay me up front.”

  Okay then. I pulled out a twenty and set it on the table.

  She slid back in her chair. “Let’s move it. I can’t be late.”

  We got through almost the entire box when she suddenly gave a cry. “Oh, no!”

  “What?”

  She stood up, yanking her jacket over her shoulders and pulled a knapsack up from beneath her feet. “It’s been forty minutes. I’m going to be late.”

  “Calm down,” I said, standing up, dumping my receipts into the box. “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

  “I told you I couldn’t be late,” she sounded anguished. “Hurry.”

  I grabbed everything and took off after her.

  I started my SUV. “Tell me where you need to go.”

  “East Hastings and Gore.”

  “Can you give me directions?”

  “Do a U-turn. Stay on this street and then cross the bridge.”

  I felt bad. I had no idea what she was running late for, but it obviously upset her. She hunched in the seat beside me, chewing the fingernail of her thumb. I sped when I could, going through lights that were more orange than yellow.

  “Turn here at Hastings,” she said.

  Where the hell were we? The entire street was crawling with society’s down and out. People with all their worldly belongings pushed rusty shopping carts up the street. People screamed. Two men were brawling on the corner. Others, so drugged they reminded me of zombies, lurched down the street.

  “Are you sure this is where you want to be?” I said, slowing the vehicle to a crawl.

  “Pull over here,” she said, flinging open the door before I could even come to a full stop. She slammed the door. I pulled against the curb and then watched as she ran across the street, weaving between oncoming traffic, narrowly missing getting clipped by a truck before racing up the steps of a church. She stood on the steps. It looked like she rang a bell. After several moments, a man came to the door and talked to her. Something agitated her in her conversation. He leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder. And then he went back inside and shut the door.

  She stood there, a lone, tiny figure and just faced those closed doors. With a dejected stance, she came down the steps. She pulled a hood up over her head, and arms crossed, she slowly walked down the street away from me.

  “What are you up to?” I asked out loud. Then I caught sight of the sign.

  United Church Shelter for the Homeless. Doors close at 8 PM.

  I sat there with incredulity. Punk rocker was trying to get to a homeless shelter? I had made her late. And now it was full or closed.

  Without thought, I got out of my vehicle and crossed the street, running after her. It took nothing to catch up with her.

  I tapped her on the shoulder, and it was like a wildcat going ballistic on me.

  “Get off me,” she screamed. Then she recognized me and stopped.

  Dark streaks of make-up ran down her face. Shit. Punk rocker was crying.

  “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?” I asked.

  “Because it’s none of your fucking business.”

  We stood there looking at each other. Fuck this was fucked up.

  “Are they full?” I asked, unsure what else to ask.

  “They close the doors at 8 PM and they make no exceptions.”

  “That’s stupid,” I said. I couldn’t even wrap my brain around this situation. Who stayed at a homeless shelter? Didn’t a friend have a couch she could crash on? Where was her family? This was so far out of my scope, I didn’t even know how to troubleshoot this.

  She shrugged and squared her shoulders. “Whatever.”

  She turned and walked away. A tiny, hunched over little figure. How the hell did I get myself into this mess?

  “Let me help,” I said to her back.

  She turned and looked at me. “I don’t need your help.”

  I wanted to believe her lie. I wanted to get off this stinking street and get back to my life. But I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. “What are you going to do?”

  “Find a 24-hour diner. Finish my book.”

  “Isn’t there another place you can go to?” I couldn’t even bring myself to say the word shelter.

  “The other ones aren’t safe. I wouldn’t sleep.”

  What the fuck.

  Deep breath. Wasn’t my life complicated enough? Did I really need to do this? Could I walk away in good conscience? My mom, watching me with a stern look on her face, came to mind. Some people worried about God judging their actions. My mom was my entire moral compass. She always did what was right whether it was right for her. And she would definitely not let punk rocker walk away.

  I tried once more. “This is my fault. Let me help.”

  She rolled her eyes, but she looked so sad it almost gutted me. “What? Are you going to invite me over to sleep on your couch?”

  I hesitated. For a fraction of a second. Anyone in my situation would. But she didn’t even give me that fraction of a second before she was shaking her head at me. “Whatever. That’s what I thought.”

  She got three steps away from me before I spoke without thinking. “I have over 300 channels on my 72-inch screen and I can order a pizza. My couch is yours for the night if you want it.”

  What the fuck? Seriously? I didn’t have the time or the energy for this shit. Why hadn’t I offered her a couple hundred bucks to get a hotel?

  She stood there for a
long moment with her back to me. “What kind of pizza?”

  I had at least $500 on me. I could give her that and drive her to a nice hotel. She would probably feel safer and more comfortable there, anyway.

  Instead, I said, “Any kind of pizza you want. Or I know of this great burger place that delivers.”

  She slowly turned around. Assessing me like I was a threat. She lifted her chin. “You should know that I’m not going to fuck you.”

  Again, with the shock talk. It left me speechless. I was used to having an unlimited supply of the most beautiful, incredible women throw themselves at me. Punk rocker would come in dead last on my fuck list if she even made it on the list. Which, if I was going to be honest, she wouldn’t.

  “Okay,” I said.

  She gave me an unapologetic look and said with complete sincerity. “Sorry. But you’re not my type.”

  Jesus. She was killing me. “Good thing I don’t lack confidence.”

  She looked at me critically. “You do have a lot of confidence, although I have no idea why.”

  I tried, but I couldn’t wipe that damn smile off my face.

  Home Game, is now available on Amazon and KU.