The Penalty Box

by Deirdre Martin

  Not wanting to burst her mother’s bubble, Katie took the easy way out: she fibbed. “Yes, all my old friends were there. It was great to see them.”

  Her mother nodded knowingly. “I told you it would be fun.”

  “It was until Liz Flaherty showed up.”

  “Oohh, that little bitch.”

  “Mom!” Katie was genuinely shocked. Her mother rarely spoke ill of anyone.

  “Well, it’s true,” her mother sniffed. “Everyone in that family has their nose so high in the air you can see the back of their throats! You’d think with all the money they have they’d give more to the Sunday collection plate at church, but no. They’re cheap as a Woolworth’s suit.” Her mother paused a moment to watch a police shootout on TV. “She’s back in town to stay, you know. Divorce,” she said distractedly.

  “Who, Liz?”

  “Yes.” She turned her full attention back to Katie. “Married some older man for his money—as if she didn’t have enough!—had a child the first year they were married, and then took him for all he was worth. She’s a bad seed, that one.”

  “Mom? Can I ask you a personal question?”

  Alarm sprang into her mother’s eyes. “As long as it doesn’t have to do with s-e-x.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “It’s a small town, Katie. People talk. A lot of dirt gets dished over coffee and cake after church.”

  Katie leaned forward to take off her high heels. “So, have you church ladies heard anything about Paul van Dorn?” she asked casually, wiggling her toes.

  “Oh, that poor boy.”

  “What?” Katie was surprised. He looked pretty darn okay at the reunion. She wondered what could make him a “poor boy”. A beautiful wife who died tragically young? Mazarati in the shop for repairs? Manhattan penthouse not big enough?

  “You know he was a hockey star. In New York.”

  “Yes, Mom, I knew that,” Katie said patiently. For a while, it was all anyone had been able to talk about in Didsbury: how Paul van Dorn went straight from Cornell to the NHL. Katie half expected the Chamber of Commerce to erect a statue of him in the town square.

  “Well, he was forced to retire early. Three bad concussions in a row. The doctors told him if he kept playing he risked severe brain damage. His mother said he still gets dizzy spells. She makes a wonderful apple crisp, you know.”

  Forced to retire early. So that’s why Paul’s face had registered such naked pain when she’d asked him how long he was in town for. His hockey career was over at twenty-eight. Poor boy is right, Katie thought with genuine sympathy. She tried to imagine not being able to do the one thing you love best, but couldn’t. It had to be awful.

  “Remember Cuffy’s Place on Main Street?”

  Katie knew about it, though she had never set foot inside. Everyone knew Cuffy’s; it was Didsbury’s favorite tavern. It was also a dive.

  “Please don’t tell me he’s working there.”

  “Working! He owns it!”

  Katie’s mouth fell open. “Paul van Dorn owns Cuffy’s?”

  “Well, it’s not Cuffy’s anymore. Cuffy wanted to retire and Paul bought it. Now it’s called the Penalty Box. He redid the whole interior. Their curly fries are supposed to be terrific.”

  Katie wasn’t surprised Paul had come back to Didsbury, scene of his earliest glory days. All the research she’d done indicated that men who primarily identify themselves as professional athletes have a hard time figuring out what to do once their careers are over. It wasn’t uncommon for them to open bars or restaurants, since it was a way to continue receiving public adulation. She wondered how Paul was dealing with the Icarus-like plunge from fame to mere mortality. She supposed she’d find out, since he’d agreed to be interviewed. God, she loved being a sociologist. The whole world was her laboratory.

  “Was Paul at the reunion?” her mother asked.

  Katie nodded. “I talked to him for about five minutes.” She bit nervously at the inside of her mouth. “He wasn’t one of my favorite people in high school, to be honest.”

  Her mother looked amused. “Then why all the questions about him?”

  “Just curious.” Katie rose, stretching. “I’m beat. I think I’m going to head upstairs to bed. Night, Mom.” She kissed her mother’s cheek before gathering up her shoes and heading toward the stairs.

  “I’m so glad you went to the reunion,” her mother called after her. “I told you it would be fun.”

  Katie wasn’t sure fun was the word she would have chosen to describe her evening. But it had sure been interesting.

  “No more drinks, people, or one of you will have to carry me home!”

  Paul laughed, turning down the latest beer someone at the reunion tried to ply him with. As he’d expected, he was the center of attention. Old friends and barely remembered acquaintances alike pressed drinks on him, all paying homage to Didsbury’s hockey hero. Holding court at his table, he regaled his former classmates with tales from life in the NHL and encouraged them to come down for a drink at the Penalty Box, which he knew they would.

  Answering questions about particular games or particular players never bothered him. But whenever someone expressed sympathy for what had happened to him, Paul had to fight against the knee-jerk response to get up and walk away. He saw pity in their eyes, and if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was pity. He had enough of his own.

  He could still remember losing a midget hockey game because of a bad call by the ref. He’d railed against the injustice of it, and what had his father’s response been? “No one ever said life was fair, kiddo.” If anyone knew that now, it was him.

  For five years, he’d been the New York Blades’ wunderkind, the boy with the magic hockey stick who could do no wrong. Though he’d started out on the third line, within a year and a half he’d moved up to the second. By the end of his second year on the team he was on the first line, out skating and outscoring even the most seasoned opponents.

  And then Trevor Malvy of Detroit caught him coming across center ice with his head down, and his world began to crumble.

  Malvy fractured Paul’s skull. An X ray showed it was minor stuff: basilar, not uncommon when you fall and hit the back of your head. There were some small concussive signs—nausea, and for a few days, Paul’s eyes didn’t seem to focus too well—but he hadn’t become disoriented or lost consciousness on the ice, and that worked in his favor. Within three weeks, he was back on the first line, tougher than ever.

  The following season, he was carrying the puck into Tampa’s defensive zone when bam! Next thing he knew he was kissing the ice courtesy of defenseman Wally Marzullo. Even Paul had to admit that one was bad. He was seriously concussed: dizzy, nauseous, temporary amnesia, the whole nine yards. But he was a good boy and did what he was told by the doctors and trainers, taking it easy even though every game he missed was like a knife in his heart.

  Triumphant, he returned to the ice. Six months later he was seriously concussed again by Ottawa’s Ulf Torkelson, and Paul knew his career was over.

  Just thinking about it made Paul feel like someone had slipped a bag over his head and he couldn’t breathe. The six months following the final hit were the worst of his life. He got blinding headaches, couldn’t remember things, jumbled words, lost his balance. Just walking up a flight of stairs left him exhausted. The Blades’ trainers told him to be patient and give himself time to heal, but all Paul could think was: For what? Everyone knew he was finished, even if no one had the guts to say so. In the end, the only one with the balls to speak the truth was the neurologist, who said, “Get hit again and you’re going to wind up with shit for brains, son.” It didn’t get any blunter than that.

  And so, begrudgingly, he retired. Better to bow out at the top of his game than hang on and risk being a vegetable, right? At least that’s what he told himself. But deep down, he remained furious that his body had betrayed him.

  “You sure you don’t want another Heineken, lam
by?”

  The purr of Liz Flaherty’s voice brought him out of his reverie. She’d been hanging over him all night, blabbing about how it was “fate” they were both back in town. Paul wasn’t so sure. Yeah, she was still hot, but she was also a hellcat. Once she got her claws into him, he’d need a surgeon to remove them. Paul waved the beer away. “I’m fine, Liz, thanks.”

  She brushed her nose seductively against his cheek. “Want to dance again?”

  “I’m too drunk.”

  “That never stopped you from dancing—or doing other things—before,” she whispered in his ear.

  Irritated to find himself aroused, Paul ignored her. Why couldn’t it be Katie Fisher murmuring suggestively in his ear?

  It was incredible that Katie had become a drop-dead gorgeous woman. Writing about jocks, too. What was that about? Maybe it was a form of revenge, studying the people who had been absolute and total pricks to her. In his younger years he’d been a prick to lots of people, including other athletes. He chuckled, recalling the way he’d busted on former teammate Michael Dante when he had first joined the Blades. What an arrogant little twerp he’d been. Now Michael was one of his closest friends, one of the few ex-teammates who kept in touch. He took a long sip of water, hoping to quell the nausea burbling in his stomach. He’d definitely had too much to drink.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Having been unable to lure him back out onto the dance floor, Liz stayed glued to his side at the table.

  “Actually, I was thinking about Katie Fisher.”

  Liz snorted. “What about her?”

  “Did you see her? She looks like an entirely different person.”

  “I don’t think that was really Katie. I think she hired someone to come here and play her. The real Katie is at home on a reinforced couch inhaling Oreos.”

  Paul frowned. “Why are you such a bitch?”

  “Oh, excuse me! If I remember correctly, you were the one who thought it would be funny to nominate her for homecoming queen. And—”

  “Point taken,” Paul snapped. He’d forgotten about that. No wonder Katie looked so wary when he was talking to her; she probably thought he was going to play some joke on her that would result in her humiliation. Part of him always liked Katie Fisher. People would call her names and make fun of her, but Katie always held her head high. She was like an athlete in that way: She took the abuse and showed no fear and in the end, she earned respect. He respected Katie for not giving her tormentors the satisfaction of seeing her pain. But in retrospect, he hated himself for having caused so much of it. Maybe that’s why his career ended early. Bad karma. What goes around comes around. He decided he’d make it up to her. If she remembered she’d asked him, he’d definitely talk to her for her jock book.

  Liz was standing behind him now, massaging his shoulders. “You’re very, very tense, Paul.”

  Closing his eyes, he let his head loll forward. “I’m also very, very drunk.”

  “Do you want me to drive you home?”

  Let Liz drive him home. Now there was a thought. A bad one.

  “Nah. I’ll take a cab, thanks.”

  Liz playfully smacked his shoulder. “Oh, don’t be such a martyr! I do know how to drive, Paul.” Her mouth dipped down to his ear again, her hot breath teasing his senses. “As you may recall, I know how to do lots of things.”

  He was tired. He was drunk. He was lonely.

  “Fine,” he murmured, fumbling in his pocket for his car keys, too weary to fight her off any longer. “Drive me home.”

  “Aunt Katie?”

  Katie had just turned out the light and slipped between the covers of her old bed when Tuck appeared in the doorway. It was strange, being back in her old room. Everything looked the same as it did when she’d departed for college: same nicked desk, same narrow bed, same lace curtains. The only thing different was she.

  “C’mon on in, Tuck.” She sat up and turned on the light, watching her nephew shuffle shyly into the room. He was clearly Mina’s son; he had his mother’s delicate features and enviably long eyelashes, as well as his mother’s wiry body. Sometimes, when Katie looked at him, she found herself running down a mental checklist of all the men in Didsbury, trying to figure out who his father was. It was a futile exercise. Tuck looked like Mina, period.

  “What’s up, pal? Couldn’t sleep?”

  Tuck shook his head. Her mother had told Katie that Tuck frequently had trouble getting to sleep, and would sometimes come to sleep with her for comfort, wrapping his arms tight around his grandmother’s neck.

  “What’s buggin’ ya?” Katie continued.

  “I dunno.” Tuck shrugged. He hopped up on the end of her bed, legs swinging. “How long are you going to be here again?”

  “A year, Tuck. Remember I told you that?”

  Tuck picked at the bedspread, not looking at her. “But then you go away again?”

  Katie felt her heart wrench. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I go back to Vermont. But that’s not for a long, long time. We’ve got months together, you and I.”

  Tuck raised his head, smiling. “Wanna play Motorcross Madness?”

  “Right now?”

  Tuck glanced furtively at the bedroom door and nodded.

  “Honey, it’s almost midnight. Aunt Katie is old. She’s tired. Besides, you should be fast asleep. If Nana catches you awake, she’ll paddle your beee-hind.”

  Tuck snorted with glee. “You’re funny, Aunt Katie.”

  “It runs in the family. I bet you’re funny, too.”

  “My mom’s not funny.”

  Katie leaned forward, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Still pretty mad at her, huh?”

  Tuck jerked away.

  “I know she’s made some mistakes, but I also know she loves you. And as soon as we’re allowed to go see her, you and I—”

  “I don’t want to see her.” Tuck jumped off the bed. “I want to stay here with you and Nana. I never want to see her again!”

  “Yesterday you said Nana was old and boring.”

  “She is.”

  Katie feigned being insulted. “Well, I guess that means I’m boring, too.”

  Tuck bounced back onto the bed. “You could never be boring!”

  “You know what? Neither could you. C’mere.” She coaxed Tuck into sitting in the crook of her arm. “I know it’s hard living here with Nana. She gets crabby, and she doesn’t always know what you’re talking about, and she’s really cheap with your allowance, and sometimes she makes the most disgusting vegetables, right?”

  Tuck smiled knowingly.

  “So, let’s make a deal. From now on, I’ll give you your allowance. And anytime you feel mad at your mom, or if Nana doesn’t understand what you’re saying, you come talk to me, all right?”

  “Mom says Nana is a psycho.”

  Katie sighed. “Sometimes, when grownups are upset, they say mean things.” Her voice was calm, but inwardly she was fuming. How dare Mina say that when their mother had made a career out of bailing her out time and time again? What an ungrateful—Katie stopped herself. Her sister had taken the step to go into rehab. She was trying to turn her life around. That’s what Katie needed to focus on.

  She gave Tuck a quick kiss on the top of the head. “So, you’ll come to me when things are bugging you? Deal?”

  Tuck stuck out his hand for Katie to shake. “Deal.”

  “Good man.”

  “Aunt Katie?” Tuck asked again as he clambered off her bed and headed toward the hall.

  “Yes?”

  He paused in the doorway. “If I was grown up,” he mumbled quickly, “I’d want to be your boyfriend because you’re so nice.” With that he disappeared back to his own room.

  Katie turned out the light and slid back down beneath the covers.

  Well, at least someone wanted to be her boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 03

  Someone was staring at him. Hard. Paul could feel steady waves of pulsating energy being beamed his way. He made h
imself look. Standing not two inches away from the bed was a little boy with a pinched face and a surly expression.

  “Shoot!” Paul grabbed the silk sheets, scrambling to cover his naked torso. He hated silk sheets. Slick, shiny—it was like sleeping on vaseline. “Uh . . . hi?”

  The child scowled. “Are you Mom’s new boyfriend?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “What happened to Gustav?”

  Panicking, Paul reached over to the other side of the bed to shake Liz awake. She murmured something unintelligible before turning away from him, taking all the covers with her.

  “Shit!” Paul grabbed back some covers to cover his nakedness. “Sorry,” he said to the boy, who looked unfazed. Paul shook Liz harder. “Rise and shine. C’mon.”

  Moaning, Liz rolled onto her back, but her eyes remained resolutely shut. Clearly she was not a morning person.

  “We’ve got company, dear,” Paul hissed in her ear. Beneath the covers he gave her a sharp poke in ribs.

  “Ouch!” Liz yelped, eyes springing open. Turning to Paul, she smiled like the cat who’d eaten the canary, sighing deeply, contentedly. It seemed to take her a few seconds before she realized her son was standing by the bed.

  “Gary.” There was displeasure in Liz’s voice as she stifled a small yawn. “What are you doing here, sweetie?”

  “I’m hungry,” he whined.

  “Well, go tell Laurie to fix you some cereal. Could you also be a doll and tell Laurie to make Mumma some nice, strong coffee?” She blew him an air kiss. “Oh, and close the door on your way out, will you, honey? Thanks.”

  Gary glared at Paul resentfully before stomping out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.