Deirdre Martin

by Deirdre Martin

  Chick pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, running it over his gleaming face before turning to Paul. “I just want to say, on behalf of Doug and myself, how sorry we are about what happened to you.”

  Paul stiffened. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

  “To be a successful professional athlete, and then be forced to retire in your prime.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s a tragedy.”

  Don’t forget the part about my longtime girlfriend dumping me because I was no longer a hockey star. That was really special.

  “Your father said you’ve done a real nice job with Cuffy’s,” Chick continued.

  “I have. Stop by sometime. Drinks’ll be on the house.”

  “I sure will.”

  Paul fidgeted, anxious to get the ball rolling. He’d come prepared to endure a certain amount of empty pleasantries, but kicking off the conversation by talking about his premature retirement was rapidly sending his mood south. “Have you guys already ordered?”

  “I told Kenneth to bring three plates of the catch of the day,” boomed Doug. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “Terrific,” Paul lied. Fish… his stomach heaved. He should have taken Alka-Seltzer before coming.

  “So, Paul.” Doug’s voice was collegial, but there was no mistaking the uneasy glance he shared with Chick. “Chick and I have talked to the other members of the hockey board, and we want to congratulate you. You’ve been chosen to coach the squirt snowbelt team.”

  Paul blinked, stunned. His first thought was, This is a fucking joke, right? But the longer the silence at the table dragged on, the more he was forced to acknowledge that Chick and Doug were in deadly earnest

  “Now, I know you were hoping to coach the midget travel team,” Chick continued in the kind of voice one associated with calming someone unstable, “but that’s Coach Doherty’s domain. Always has been, always will be.”

  Coach Doherty? Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The guy had to be seventy if he was a day.

  “I’m surprised he’s still coaching at his age,” Paul replied without missing a beat. “I thought he’d like to go out while he was at the top of his game.”

  Chick chuckled nervously. “I don’t think Doherty has any intention of retiring, Paul.”

  No, he’ll probably drop dead on the ice, having stroked out after yelling at some poor kid.

  Paul held his tongue, but it was hard. If there was one coach he’d hated when he was growing up, it was Dan Doherty. Doherty was real old-school; not only was he a fer-vent believer in the “Skill/drill/kill” approach to coaching, he was also big on humiliating his players if they didn’t perform up to his standards. Paul could still hear Doherty’s voice in his head, calling him a “goddamn pussy” in front of the whole team for the penalty shot he’d missed in a crucial game against Hartford. The guy was a total SOB, an emotional terrorist. Worse, he swarmed around town like he was some big-time hockey player, when the only thing of note he’d ever done was back in 1959, when he’d scored the winning goal that won Didsbury High the state championship that year.

  “You seem surprised,” Chick observed carefully.

  “You could say that.”

  “It’s a matter of paying dues, Paul.” Doug Burton’s voice was resolute. “You’re new. New guys start at the bottom of the totem pole.”

  New? Paul longed to shout. I played for the fucking New York Blades! Instead he forced a polite smile, which both men returned. The silence at the table resumed. Finally, Doug broke the ice.

  “I sense you’re upset, Paul.”

  “Well,” he began calmly, “I thought that since I’ve actually played in the NHL, I might be the logical choice to coach the midget travel team. As we all know, those kids are the best. They need the best coach they can get, someone who’s experienced hockey at the highest level.” He looked at both men carefully. “Don’t you think a change of blood after all these years might be good?”

  Doug nodded slowly. “Maybe. Eventually. But for now, Coach Doherty remains the midget travel coach.”

  Paul clenched his jaw. “I see.” He thought of asking if they’d consider letting him coach the midget home team, but he didn’t want to sound desperate. No, what he wanted was to coach hungry young athletes who knew the game and lived for it the way he had! Not spazzy little nine- and ten-year-olds who weren’t even allowed to check each other!

  “Paul.” Doug’s voice was cajoling. “It’s a matter of paying dues, like we already said. You have to earn it, son.”

  Paul bristled. “You don’t think I’ve paid dues?”

  Chick sighed, tenting his sausage-size fingers. “What happened to you was unfortunate. No one denies that. But you can’t just waltz back into town and declare yourself sheriff. Understand what I’m saying?”

  Doug Burton leaned over, giving Paul a paternal pat on the back. “We need your skill and expertise with the little guys. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”

  Paul stopped himself from responding lest his foot get permanently lodged in his mouth. The nausea he’d been holding at bay threatened to wreak havoc as his fish dish was placed in front of him. “I appreciate your offer. I need to think about it.”

  “There are lots of men in this town who would love the chance to coach the squirts,” said Doug. “If you’re not up to the task, we need to know as soon as possible.”

  “I’m up to the task,” Paul shot back.

  “Is that a yes, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Pride, Paul mused to himself the next morning as he jogged down the leafy streets making up the heart of Didsbury’s exclusive Ladybarn District, could be a dangerous thing. Had Doug Burton not inferred he was inadequate, chances are he would have suffered through the rest of their uncomfortable lunch, said his farewells, and called the next day to say he wasn’t interested. Now look where he was: committed to coaching the squirts. For what? To prove something to his ex-coach? There was something to be said for engaging your brain before opening your mouth. At least he hadn’t embarrassed himself and thrown up his fish.

  He pushed himself to run faster, warm rivulets of sweat trailing down his face and chest. He might not be able to fly down the ice anymore, but he could still fly down paved streets, though there were times when dizziness suddenly overtook him and he had to slow down or stop altogether.

  Running helped him sweat out the bitterness that sometimes threatened to engulf him. When he ran, he wasn’t Paul, the promising young hockey god who’d been forced into early retirement, or Paul the neophyte bar owner, or Paul the returning hero. He simply was, brain and body working in tandem to drive him ever forward toward an endorphin high that made his disappointment bearable, if only for a short while.

  He rounded Locust Drive, with its mock Tudor mansions and well-manicured lawns boasting discreet signs for home security systems, and began his downhill descent on Piping Rock Lane, toward Main Street. The steep, sloping road jarred his knees but he kept on, gritting his teeth. He may not be a Blade anymore, but he was still a warrior, and a warrior pushed through the pain. Not only that, but this warrior was going to produce a squirt team so hot people’s heads were going to spin.

  Deep in thought, he failed to notice when the light at the corner of Church Street and Main turned red. Running out into the street, he barely had time to register the screeching breaks before he was out cold, darkness dropping down on him as fast as a curtain.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 04

  I killed Paul van Dorn.

  Teeth clacking like castanets, Katie threw her car into park and lurched out the driver’s side door, too preoccupied to close it. One minute she was cruising down Main Street looking for someplace, anyplace, that might serve lattes; the next Paul had run into her path and she was smashing down on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt.

  “Paul?”

  He was breathing. Hearing his name, his eyes fluttered open, straining to focus. His face was red from physical
exertion. Sweat soaked his T-shirt, gluing it to his muscular upper torso like a second skin. Blood flowed from a cut to his scalp. Katie wondered if he’d been trying to commit suicide. If so, she sure wished he’d picked someone else’s car to hurl himself in front of.

  “I saw the whole thing!” a young woman pushing a stroller called breathlessly from the curb. “He wasn’t even looking where he was going!”

  Katie barely heard; her eyes remained riveted on Paul. He seemed intact, but you never knew. What if he was bleeding internally, his life slowly slipping away, the same way hers would when she was on trial for vehicular manslaughter? Oh God. Tearing off the silk scarf around her neck, she pressed it to his bleeding head, Paul groaned, opening his eyes briefly before closing them again.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” Katie called to the woman. The woman nodded. “Could you call an ambulance?”

  “No.” Paul groaned. “No ambulance.”

  He was sprawled in the middle of Main Street like a limp rag doll, but that didn’t stop him from trying to call the shots, Katie noticed.

  “No ambulance,” he repeated more forcefully.

  By now, a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, murmuring, “That’s Paul van Dorn!” Thankfully, the observation wasn’t followed with, “He was just mowed down by Katie Fisher.”

  Katie put her face close to his. “Paul?”

  “Katie?” He looked up at her woozily. “What are you doing here?”

  “That was my bumper you just tried to kiss.”

  Paul chuckled, then grimaced. Clearly, laughing hurt. “Getting revenge for high school, huh?”

  “Actually, I thought you were trying to end it all.”

  “Believe me, if that was the case there are a lot more pleasant ways to go about it.”

  “Such as—?”

  “A hotel room, two hookers, some downers and a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

  “Nice to see you’ve put some thought into it,” Katie said dryly. As he struggled to push himself up on his elbows, she said, “What are you doing? Don’t move!”

  Paul rolled his eyes. “Katie, listen to me.” He gently removed her hand from his head, replacing it with his own. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do know that. Believe me, I’ve had worse knocks than this out on the ice.”

  “You could be bleeding internally. You could be concussed from hitting your head on the pavement. You don’t know.”

  “Okay, look.” Paul continued pressing the scarf to his head. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can drive me over to the emergency room, okay? But there’s no need to trouble EMS. Agreed?”

  Katie mulled this over. He was sitting up and talking. Then again, what if she agreed and he died in her car? Would she be liable?

  “Katie?”

  “Okay, I’ll drive you over to the hospital. You’ll need stitches to the head, at the very least.”

  Paul pulled the scarf away and pressed his fingers to the cut on his head. “It’s nothing. A scrape.” He wiped his bloody fingers on his T-shirt.

  “C’mon, macho man, let’s get you in the car.”

  “Well?”

  Katie leapt out of her butt-torturing chair the minute Paul reentered the emergency room waiting area. She’d read every outdated issue of Woman’s Day and had memorized all the top stories on Headline News while she waited for the doctors to release him. It didn’t help that the woman sitting next to her kept groaning with a stomachache.

  Paul was a sight. Blood smeared his running clothes, and his face remained pale. A small patch of his head had been shaved and covered with a gauze bandage.

  “Four stitches,” he told her. “No biggie.”

  Katie felt awful. “That’s it? Are you sure?”

  He shrugged. “A few bruised ribs.”

  “No concussion?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied curtly. He glanced around the emergency room with a shudder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Katie walked out with him, glad to be free of the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere. Should she take his elbow and guide him to the car? He seemed to be walking all right.

  Pausing at the curb, Paul peered at the parking lot. “Which car is yours again?”

  “The blue Neon.” He didn’t remember? Was he concussed?

  He turned to her, embarrassed. “Would you mind giving me a lift home?”

  She led him to her car, rushing to open the passenger door for him.

  “It’s stitches, Katie,” Paul said with amusement as he ducked into the passenger seat. “I’m not an invalid.”

  “I was just trying to be nice,” she countered, closing the door. “I wasn’t going to let you jog home, was I?” Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned on the ignition. “Where to?”

  “Dover Street. One-fourteen.”

  “Oh.”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I am. I guess. I mean—”

  “You thought I’d be living in Ladybarn, right?”

  Katie nodded. Paul was right. Her natural assumption was that he’d be living in the wealthiest part of town, the part he’d grown up in. Instead, he’d chosen a solidly middle-class neighborhood to call home. She wondered why. As if reading her mind, he said, “I didn’t want to run into my folks all the time.”

  “I see.” Throwing the car into drive, she eased out of the parking space and followed the winding, tree-lined road that led out of the hospital grounds. Dover Street… Dover Street…

  “Make the right onto Scudder, turn left down Laurel, follow it all the way to Dempsey, then make the final right onto Dover.”

  Katie glanced at him. “Did that blow to the head give you psychic powers?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you know I was trying to figure out how to get there?”

  “Your face. You’re scowling. You looked pained.”

  “That’s because I’m nervous,” Katie admitted, following his first instruction to make the right onto Scudder Road. “I’ve never driven with a celebrity before.”

  “Former celebrity. Let’s get our terms right.” His gaze turned curious. “You weren’t nervous on the ride to the hospital.”

  “I was too busy thinking you were going to croak in my car.”

  Paul laughed loudly. “You would have had to get new seat covers!”

  “What, are you kidding me? I would have sold the car intact on eBay. Too bad there are no bloodstains or anything. Think of the value it would have added.”

  He laughed again. “You’re funny,” he said, as if it surprised him.

  And you’re nice, Katie thought, feeling equally surprised.

  Paul looked down at her bloody scarf crumpled in his hand. “You have to let me get you a new one.”

  Katie clucked her tongue dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I insist.”

  “Keep it as a souvenir: ‘Baby’s first pedestrian accident.”“

  Paul laughed again. “You’re a real wiseass, you know that?”

  “I try,” said Katie, marveling over the fact she was sitting in a car bantering with Paul van Dorn. Never in a million years could she have imagined this scene, nor how alive it made her feel. “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you thinking about so deeply that you jogged out in front of a car?”

  Paul slumped in his seat. “Youth hockey. I’m coaching this year.”

  “And this is bad because—?”

  “I’m coaching squirts.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Younger boys, nine- and ten-year-olds.”

  Katie smiled. “Maybe you’ll be coaching my nephew, then.”

  “If he makes the team.”

  “Right.” She hadn’t even thought of that. These kids had to try out, and some of them might not make the team, Tuck included. “Why don’t you want to coach squirts?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” Paul said
carefully. “I would just prefer coaching the teenage boys. They’re more skilled.”

  “Which must mean coaching them is more prestigious,” Katie observed.

  “Well… yeah.”

  “So this is purely an ego issue, then.” She turned the car down Laurel Avenue.

  “Are you analyzing me, Miss Sociologist?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You still want to interview me for that book?”

  Katie’s heart jumped. “I would love to. What’s your schedule like?”

  “Late mornings, early afternoons are best.”

  “I could take you out to lunch, if you’d like. I hear the curly fries at the Penalty Box are to die for.”

  “Yeah?” Paul sounded pleased. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “My mom. Your bar is the talk of the Episcopal Church.”

  “Not the clientele I’m seeking but what the hell, I’ll take the free PR. You want to do it there, then?”

  With you I’d do it anywhere. Katie smiled brightly to cover the sudden surge of desire shooting through her. “Sure. When?”

  “How’s Friday sound?”

  “Sounds good. Should I just meet you there?”

  “That makes the most sense. Katie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re going the wrong way down Laurel.”

  “What?” Katie slowed the car. “You said right.”

  “Left. It’s not a big deal.”

  No, except she looked like a ditz. She quickly pulled into an empty driveway and turning the car around, drove off in the right direction. She could feel Paul watching her as she concentrated on her driving. The more he looked at her, the more she thought she might be the one to die in the car—of a sheer heart attack brought on by acute anxiety and lust. Finally she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “What?”