The Penalty Box

by Deirdre Martin

  Katie felt a thundering begin in her head. She knew it was nuts. She knew it was asking for trouble. But there was no way in hell she was going to let Liz Flaherty win this one.

  “Ladies, please!” Denise implored, fanning herself as if the sight of Paul might make her faint. “Control yourselves!” Paul looked like he wanted to burrow beneath the floorboards. It was painfully obvious he hadn’t expected such a lusty response. Denise sauntered over to him, draping an arm around his shoulder.

  “Hello, Paul,” she cooed in to her mike.

  Paul winked and the women in the crowd went wild.

  “There are some ladies in this room willing to spend big bucks to see your hockey stick,” Denise continued. The crowd roared. “Do you promise to show the winner a good time?”

  Paul smiled shyly. “I’ll try.” Embarassment began to give way to amusement as he got into the spirit of things. “I might need some hands-on instruction, though. It’s been a long time since I’ve put one in the net.”

  The crowd roared. Paul’s face turned red, but he was laughing. He sat down on the throne provided for him, while Denise held up a hand. “Everyone, quiet, please.” The place settled down. “Now, you know the rules: Paul here goes to the highest bidder, and there’s no cap. Ladies, are you ready?”

  Katie could feel her nerves snapping. Beside her, Bitsy was rocking anxiously on the edge of her seat.

  “Bidding begins at fifty dollars, commencing now!” Denise announced.

  “Seventy-five!”

  “Eighty!”

  “Eighty-five!”

  “One hundred!”

  Goggle-eyed, Katie sat listening to the chorus of voices vying for a night with her ex. The numbers kept climbing thanks to Liz Flaherty. Everytime someone threw a number out, Liz would immediately raise the bid. When the number reached one twenty, Katie jumped in.

  “One fifty!” she shouted, sounding like a mad prophet in the wilderness.

  Heads turned. Female heads with narrowed eyes and pressed lips. She knew what they were thinking: Why does she want him? She already has him. She already had him. What the hell is going on here? An icy voice broke the stillness.

  “One eighty!” Liz Flaherty shot back.

  “Two hundred!” Katie countered. She heard gasps. Murmurs. Even a few titters. She didn’t care. She was a woman possessed. No one would sway her from her course.

  Liz turned and smiled at her. “Three hundred.”

  Katie smiled back. “Three fifty.”

  “Are you crazy?” Bitsy hissed, ceasing her nervous rocking just long enough to embed her nails in Katie’s left arm. “This is like Monopoly money to her! She’ll bankrupt you!”

  “We’ll see.” She directed her attention back to Denise, careful not to make eye contact with Paul, who had to be wondering what was going on.

  The room fell into a hush as everyone held their breath, waiting to see what, if anything would happen next. Liz popped a breath mint, chasing it with a bored sigh. “Five hundred.”

  “Six hundred,” Katie spat out.

  The rest of the bidding unfolded like a fevered dream, fuzzy around the edges, with everyone’s voice, including Katie’s own, seeming to be coming from far, far away. Katie wasn’t sure at what point the numbers she called out ceased to be real, becoming instead mere sounds being shaped by her mouth without her brain’s permission. It felt like she and Liz were singing a duo, the point and counterpoint of their voices the backdrop to a melody only they could hear. Higher and higher the numbers rose, and with them, Katie’s pulse. By the time Liz called out “Nine hundred,” Katie was in real fear of a heart attack.

  Bitsy covered her face with her hands. “Stop,” she begged.

  “Soon,” Katie promised, breathing hard. Everyone in the room was staring at her, waiting. She thought she might faint.

  “Nine fifty,” Katie called. For the first time since the bidding began, she looked at Paul. The sheer befuddlement on his face almost made her laugh out loud. He was staring at her like she was nuts. Which, come to think of it, she probably was. Wasn’t obsession a form of insanity? Well, she was completely obsessed with not letting Liz win. Rationality had packed up and left town.

  “We’ve got ninety fifty,” Denise announced nervously. Katie looked at her friend; her expression, too, said, “Are you out of your mind?” Denise swallowed. “Is that the final bid?”

  “Nine seventy,” Liz called out. She jerked around to flash Katie a look of extreme exasperation. Obviously she hadn’t expected having to bid this high on her “lamby.”

  “Nine eighty,” Katie countered sharply.

  “Oh my God,” Bitsy moaned. “As soon as this is over I’m bundling you into the car and taking you to the psychiatric hospital.”

  “Didsbury doesn’t have a psychiatric hospital.”

  “Then I’m building one and locking you in there until you come to your senses.”

  “Sshh,” said Katie, eyes locked on Liz. Her opponent hesitated a second. Maybe it was over.

  “Nine ninety,” Liz countered wearily.

  “One thousand,” was Katie’s cheerful answer. The room gave a collective gasp. Katie’s heart was about to slam out of her chest as she waited for Liz to counter. She felt delirious. I could do this all night! she thought giddily. But Liz offered no counter bid. Instead, she picked up her coat and purse and began walking, very slowly, toward Katie.

  “I hope you have health insurance,” Bitsy breathed.

  The roar of Katie’s heartbeat in her own ears was deafening. Here it comes, she thought. Showdown at the Didsbury Corral. For one split second, she thought Liz was going to put her purse down and wallop her. But she didn’t. She just looked at Katie with pity.

  “You’re not a stupid woman, but let me give you a little piece of financial advice: There’s no man on earth worth four digits of your own money,” Liz drawled, throwing a nasty look over her shoulder at Paul for good measure. “You want him? You got him.” She turned her gaze to her son, who was slumped down in his seat beside Tuck, trying to be invisible. “Gary, get your things. We’re leaving.”

  With that, Liz walked out of the ballroom.

  A mood of disappointment seemed to steal into the room; people had been hoping for a catfight.

  Swallowing gratefully, Katie turned back to the stage. The sweat was pouring off Denise, who looked ashen. “We have, um, one thousand dollars,” Denise said in a dazed voice, guzzling down a large glass of ice water. “Anyone else?” The room was still as a tomb. “That’s it, then! A date with Paul van Dorn, sold to Katie Fisher for the bargain price of one thousand dollars!”

  “I want to thank all of you for coming and for making this night a success,” Denise continued from the stage over the sound of raucous applause, but Katie barely heard her as she sank back in her chair, exhausted.

  What the hell did I just do?

  She reached out in front of her for a glass of water, not surprised to notice her hand shaking.

  “You want to tell me what that was all about?” Bitsy demanded, sounding more like an irate parent than a friend.

  Katie held up a hand, indicating she would explain once she was done drinking. She felt like she was coming down off some narcotic. Whereas minutes before she was running on pure adrenaline, now her brain felt muzzy, her thinking clouded. She felt like she could nod off to sleep right here, right now.

  Katie put her water down. Bitsy grabbed her arm, giving it a little shake. “You just paid one thousand dollars for a date with a man who dumped you! Wouldn’t it have been easier to pick up the phone and say ‘Let’s talk about this over coffee’?”

  “It wasn’t about that,” Katie insisted. “It was about not letting Liz win.”

  “Oh boy, you sure showed her,” Bitsy said sarcastically.

  “Aunt Katie!” Tuck, who had been sitting with Gary Flaherty and Snake at a table across the banquet room, hurtled toward her. “That was awesome!”

  Katie smiled at him. “Was
it?”

  “I told Gary you were rich and maybe now he’ll believe me!”

  “Honey, I’m not rich.”

  “Just deranged,” Bitsy put in.

  “Yo, Gottrocks.” Snake cruised over to the table. “Wait’ll I tell Mina you paid a thousand dollars for a night out with the guy she calls ‘That shithead.’ She’s gonna pee herself laughing.”

  “She calls Paul a ‘shithead’?” Katie asked angrily.

  “Of course she does. He’s her boss.”

  “The shithead is on his way over here, dear,” Bitsy noted. Katie looked up: Paul had hopped off the stage and was striding toward her.

  “One grand,” Bitsy tut-tutted as Paul approached. “I sure hope he’s worth it.”

  Paul and Katie agreed to go somewhere to talk. But they only made it as far as Paul’s car before he opened fire.

  “You wanted me? You got me, all one thousand dollars’ worth,” Paul said dryly, turning the key in the ignition. The car purred to life. “The question is, why?”

  “I wanted to give something back to the community.”

  “My ass.”

  Katie glared at him in the dark, leaning forward to turn the heat on. His car and his house: always so damn cold. Had to be all those years on the ice.

  “I needed a date for a wedding.”

  “So? You couldn’t call some brainiac friend with ten degrees hanging on his wall and bring him?”

  “It’s my money,” Katie insisted stubbornly. “I can do what I want.” She watched his face twist with displeasure.

  “You’re really going to make me go to a wedding?”

  “Yup. In Fallowfield. One of my colleagues is marrying one of her grad students.”

  “In Fallowfield?’ Paul repeated, voice rising in disgust. “You’re going to drag me to some wedding filled with professors ?”

  Katie stared him down. “I just paid one thousand dollars for you. If I wanted to drag you to a party filled with Liberace impersonators, you’d have to do it.”

  “I’m not going to have to wear a monkey suit, am I?” Katie continued staring at him. “I hate tuxedos.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I repeat: Couldn’t you get one of your colleagues to go with you or something?”

  Katie let her gaze drift out to the parking lot. “Believe it or not, most of my male colleagues are either married, or boring as sin.”

  “Really?” Paul mocked. “I thought everything—and everyone—was better in a college town.”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  “Just calling it like I see it.” Paul yawned. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the real reason for the bid.”

  “You’ll laugh at me.”

  “Probably. Tell me anyway.”

  Katie slunk low in the bucket seat. “I wanted to kick Liz’s ass and things got out of hand.”

  Paul’s eyes gleamed with amusement in the dark. “You didn’t think the bidding would go that high, did you?”

  “No,” Katie muttered.

  “Yet you just kept on going. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. It was like being possessed! Once I started, I swear, I just couldn’t stop, it was like—like—this total adrenaline rush and it just took over. . . .”

  “Promise me you’ll never set foot in a casino, okay?”

  “Oh, God.” The full import of what she’d done was beginning to hit her.

  “Well, at least I know how you really feel about me.”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, Katie.” Paul chuckled as he leaned forward to turn down the heat a notch. “Admit it: The reason you bid so high is because you care.”

  “It was about Liz,” Katie insisted. “Not you.”

  “No, it was about Liz not having me,” Paul corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  “What’s your point?” Katie practically snarled.

  “You’re in love with me.”

  Katie threw him a horrified look. “You’re an egomaniac!”

  “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “I told you: It was like I was gripped with some kind of fever. Now that I’ve come out of it, I can’t believe what I’ve done.”

  “You’ll never admit it, will you? You’ll never deal with what you’re really feeling.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Katie chortled.

  “Proof we’re a perfect match.”

  “If we’re so perfect, why did you dump me?” Katie snapped.

  “For Tuck’s sake,” Paul mocked. “It was all about protecting Tuck, remember?”

  “Watch it. You’re skating on thin ice.”

  “I wish.” He zipped up his bomber jacket. “When’s this damn wedding?”

  “In two weeks. We’ll have to stay overnight.”

  “Great. I’ll assume the cost of that is covered in the one thousand.”

  “Of course,” Katie said weakly. “Um, Paul?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I need to ask you a favor.”

  “A bigger favor than forcing me to accompany you to some ivory tower, politically correct nuptials? I bet the bride and groom are going to pass a talking stick back and forth as they say their vows. . . .”

  “Yes, a bigger favor than that.”

  “Hit me. It can’t get any worse.”

  “Can I borrow a thousand dollars?”

  CHAPTER 20

  “I lend you a thousand bucks to pay for a date with myself . I let you talk me into wearing a damn tuxedo. The least you could do is hold my hand.”

  Paul smiled triumphantly as Katie accommodated him, taking his hand as they entered the reception. He’d never admit it, but half the reason he wanted physical contact was that he was so nervous he could puke. During the wedding ceremony he hadn’t had to worry about interacting with any of Katie’s colleagues. But the reception was different. He’d be seated at a table with ten brainiacs and their spouses. He could already picture their reaction when he told them he was an ex-hockey player: They’d nod politely and check for lobotomy scars. At least if anyone asked where he went to college, he could say Cornell. No need to mention he hadn’t graduated.

  What he’d seen of Fallowfield impressed him. It reminded him of Ithaca, a small diverse college town surrounded by rolling countryside. Before checking into the hotel, Katie had driven him past her house. He could see she missed it as she slowed the car down, gazing wistfully at the small, brightly painted Victorian. He could picture her on the porch’s battered wicker furniture, curled up in one of the chairs reading, or typing away on her laptop. He could imagine her jogging the hilly, leafy streets, or nipping into Starbucks, shelling out four bucks for one of those overpriced coffee drinks she always bitched about not being able to find in Didsbury. He had to admit that Fallowfield did seem a bit more on the ball, culturally.

  They’d taken a quick driving tour around the campus, too. Katie pointed out to him the building where she taught. Again he sensed the pull it held for her. It was a squat, industrial looking building, probably built in the ’50s, but Katie gazed on it like it was a Greek temple. Was there any place back in the Didsbury that made him feel that way? There wasn’t.

  Both the ceremony and reception were being held at the Pierpont Hotel, the swankiest in Fallowfield. Katie booked rooms for them so they could crawl upstairs after the reception. Paul told her in no uncertain terms he planned to stay an hour at the reception, max. After that she was on her own. When Katie protested, he reminded her of the loan. That shut her up.

  “Oh, hell,” Katie muttered, stopping at a large table at the entry to the hotel’s banquet room to pick up their place cards. “We’re at a table with Margie Schooley and Pietro Rice.” Her eyes continued scanning the table. “The rest of the people are okay.”

  Paul’s anxiety surged. “What’s their deal?”

  “Margie is a stuffy old cow whom I know voted against hiring me, and Pietro is one of those annoying people who never makes eye
contact when talking to you. He’s always looking around the room, looking for someone more interesting.”

  “Sounds like a jerk.”

  “He is. But everyone else we’re sitting with is pretty nice.”

  Paul put on his most charming smile as Katie led them to their table. He was proud to be her escort; in turn, he could tell she was enjoying having him on her arm. Heads swiveled as they walked in. He knew he was the best-looking man in the room, and Katie knew it, too. He could feel her enjoying the others’ envy, a sentiment he shared since Katie was, without a doubt, the best-looking woman there. Paul wondered if she knew. Probably not.

  “Hello, everyone,” Katie greeted her colleagues. “I want you all to meet my friend Paul van Dorn.”

  A tall, owlish looking man stuck his head forward. “No need to introduce a Con Smythe winner.”

  Paul smiled apprehensively.

  “I’m a huge Blades fan!” The man pulled out the empty chair next to him. “Sit down, Paul, I’d love to talk to you.”

  Paul glanced at Katie, who gave a small shrug. Maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  The owlish man’s name was Duffy Webster, and he was the husband of one of Katie’s colleagues. Duffy had played hockey in his day for Harvard, prompting a discussion of playing hockey in the Ivy’s. Paul was surprised to discover he liked this guy. There was another guy at the table, too, Tom Corday, a professor on the brink of retirement. All he had to hear was that Paul owned a bar and he was glued to Paul’s side. Running a bar was Tom’s post-retirement dream. As the booze flowed and conversation became more relaxed, Paul was forced to admit to himself he was having a pretty good time.

  Still, it couldn’t be denied some people were jerks. Margery Schooley, a manatee in green brocade, stared at him like he was the missing link. As Katie had predicted, Pietro Rice feigned interest in speaking with him, but his eyes restlessly roamed the room. But Paul really liked Tom and Duffy who were down to earth guys—no bullshit, no pretensions. He’d come expecting to be surrounded by bookish snobs who prided themselves on thinking deep thoughts and endlessly discussing topics of profound importance. Instead he found some regular people.