The Penalty Box (19 page)

“That's one too many for my taste. I'm sure Chuck's parents will be thrilled when they ask him how practice went and he tells them he threw up because ‘Coach' was being a sadist.”

“It happens.”

“It shouldn't.” She studied his face, searching for a sign of remorse, or a look weighing what she said. There wasn't one. “You're punishing them, aren't you?”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“You're punishing them,” she repeated. “You can't play anymore, so you're living vicariously through them. God forbid they're not the best! It'll reflect badly on you.”

Paul rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate being psychoanalyzed before seven thirty in the goddamn morning?”

“I'm not psychoanalyzing you—”

“Not much! What else would you call telling me how I feel? You think because you have a degree in sociology and talked to a bunch of jocks and ex-jocks for a book that you know how sports works? Don't take this the wrong way, okay? But you don't know dick, Katie.”

Heat swam to Katie's cheeks. “I know those boys are only nine and ten years old—not professional athletes, which is what you're treating them like! I know sports is supposed to be fun for them!”

“It
is
fun!”

Katie's laugh sounded more like a growl. “That sure didn't look like fun to me.”

“Because it was practice! It builds fortitude. It builds character.”

“Character,” Katie snorted. “You don't care about character! All you care about is winning!”

Paul looked at her like she was stupid. “What the hell do you think sports is about, sweetheart?”

“Don't sweetheart me.” Katie seethed. “You're wrong: it's not what sports is about, it's what it's become! I understand you're trying to inculcate—”

Paul held up a hand. “No big ivory tower words, please.”

“Do big words scare you?”

“Of course they do. I'm a dumb ex-jock, remember? Try to stick to one-syllable words so I understand what you're saying, Professor.”

Katie ignored him. “You know what this constant pressure to win, win, win does?”

Paul picked at his teeth. “I'm sure you're going to tell me.”

“It makes you lose perspective. You forget they're little boys, Paul. You view them as a means to an end, the end being your own success.”

“Really.” Paul stared at her for a moment. “Why don't you—who has never played a fucking sport in her life, I might add—tell me a little bit more about myself.”

Katie backed off. “I'm not trying to criticize you,” she said.

“You sure as hell could have fooled me.”

“I'm just trying to point out something you're too close to see.” She glanced around the arena to make sure they were alone before putting her hand on his thigh. “This is youth hockey, Paul. Not the NHL. Much as you would like to think otherwise, those kids are not vying for the Stanley Cup. Can't you let them have fun? Let yourself have fun?”

Paul pushed her hand away. “See, this is where your ivory tower cluelessness rears its ugly head. You know where the fun of playing sports comes from, Katie?
Winning.
”

Katie shook her head.

“Listen to me,” Paul continued sharply. “
It's about winning.
You think those kids lie awake in their beds at night and think, ‘Gosh, I hope hockey teaches me about team-work. ' Hell, no! They want to
win
! They want to get out here on the ice and kick the other side's ass! It's always been that way. Yeah, playing a team sport builds camaraderie and all that crap, but those are by-products, not the goal! The goal is to win!”

Katie stared at him. “They're just little boys, Paul,” she repeated.

“Little boys who want to
win
. I was one once, remember? I know what I'm talking about here.”

“Well,” she resumed firmly, “I just think—”

“I've had enough of what you think,” Paul retorted. “I'd like it if you didn't come to practice anymore.”

Katie stared at him in disbelief. “But—”

“You must have enough material for your stupid book by now.”

“It's not stupid!”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.” Paul looked weary. “Just don't come to practice anymore, okay? You're a distraction.”

“And you're pathetic,” Katie muttered beneath her breath.

Paul did a double take. “Excuse me?”

“I said you're pathetic,” Katie repeated primly as she snapped her laptop closed. “It's all about you, whether it's coaching youth hockey, or hanging out down at your bar, or even racing down the ice at Winterfest. The great Paul van Dorn, star of the ice.” She rose. “I'm glad you've got such a handle on who you once were, Paul. Maybe it's time to figure out who you are now.”

Paul had been
called many things in his life: prodigy, prick, talented, tragic. “Pathetic” had never made the roster—until now, when Katie lobbed the word at him like a grenade.

He chewed on the word as he went to hunt her down at the Didsbury Library.

Following practice, he'd gone back to his house with the intent of finally unpacking some of his belongings. Their conversation had left him so riled that he'd gone out for an extended run, the best way he could think of to diffuse the angry energy pounding through him. Pushing himself through the winding streets of his neighborhood, Katie's words kept coming back to him again and again: Was he indeed “pathetic,” trying to live vicariously through the young boys he was coaching? Was it wrong to want so badly to win?

The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became. Katie's opinions on sports were based on social theory with a smattering of observation thrown in. The woman had never played sports in her life. She had no firsthand knowledge of the intangible rewards sports could bring or the power it held to transform one's life. He needed to make her understand:
That
was what he wanted his boys to experience.

With good coaching, discipline, and hard work, he knew hockey could provide these kids with some of the most rewarding moments of their lives. They could learn how wonderful it was to be working together as a part of a larger “family.” Plus they could experience the pleasure of achieving a hard-earned goal. But nothing—nothing—trumped the rush of winning. He didn't just want that for himself; he wanted it for all of them.

She was right about one thing, though: he had worked them too hard at practice. He thought back to his own days in youth hockey, and to the emotional and physical terrorism inflicted on him by hard-asses like Dan Doherty. He didn't want to be like that. He wanted to be tough, but compassionate. To lead by example, not humiliation. It was possible to instill discipline without driving them to the edge. Playing on the Blades under Ty Gallagher had taught him that much. Come Wednesday's practice, he would apologize to them for his behavior.

As for Katie, he couldn't rest until he found out whether she really thought him pathetic. It killed him that the woman he was falling in love with might believe that. Who did she think he was, anyway? No, wait. Who did she expect
him
to be? He was an athlete, for God's sake, not some pipe-sucking, tweed-jacket-wearing egghead professor.

Paul sighed, pushing through the heavy double doors of the library. Sometimes he wondered if her efforts to keep him at arm's length weren't some unconscious form of pay-back. He'd treated her badly when they were younger; now it was her turn. Or something. He was starting to sound like her now, all analysis and cool rational observation.

He was struck by the silence. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in the library—any library. It had to be back in eleventh grade, when he was doing research for a history paper on Teddy Roosevelt. If Paul recalled correctly, he'd managed to squeak by with a C. He'd never had to pay much attention to grades. He knew by tenth grade that he'd go pro. Even when he was at Cornell, professors had tacitly looked the other way. What mattered was how he performed on the ice, not in the classroom.

Instinctively, his eyes scanned the room to see if anyone he knew was here. Mrs. Rooney, the squat elementary school nurse everyone called the Dorian Gray of Didsbury, was spread out in the lounge area, thumbing through the most recent issue of
Troutfishing Gazette
. Roger Mendoza and Gus Titus, both retired from the shoe store they used to own together, sat opposite each other at a small table playing chess. Over in “New Books,” an older, well-coiffed woman in a peach velour running suit stood with her head cocked sideways, scrutinizing book spines. Paul could hear pages turning, the heat kicking on and off, even the sound of people tapping away at computers—but no human voices. The effect was somewhat eerie.

Mildly unnerved, he approached the octagonal information desk at the center of the hushed, carpeted oasis. Mrs. Greco sat transfixed before a computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard so quickly it sounded like raindrops pounding a tin roof. He hated disturbing her, but if he didn't talk to Katie now, it would eat at him all day.

“Mrs. Greco?”

His busomy, blue rinsed neighbor looked up. “Paul.” Her smile was pleasant as she approached him. “What can I do for you? Are you here to get a library card?”

“No.”

Mrs. Greco's smile drooped. Paul realized he should have just lied and said he was here for a card before easing the conversation around to Katie. As it now stood, he was pretty sure Mrs. Greco thought he was an illiterate idiot.

“How can I help you, then?” Her voice was crisp but quiet: the perfect librarian voice, designed not to disturb.

“I was wondering if Katie Fisher was here, by any chance.”

“She is indeed,” said Mrs. Greco with a lascivious wink. “I noticed her car parked outside your house Thursday night.”

“Um . . . yeah.” Maybe he
was
an idiot. He had no idea how to respond to her statement, other than thinking it was kind of creepy that Mrs. Greco was so attuned to her neighbors' lives. Then again, this
was
Didsbury, where gossip was the number one pastime. Katie had told him that was one of her main reasons for leaving. He was beginning to see her logic.

Mrs. Greco was staring at him expectantly.
Words, Paul. Use your words.
“Katie and I are kind of seeing each other,” he offered.

“I figured,” she purred, giving him another wink. Paul felt his stomach tilt: She was old enough to be his grandma. Her innuendo was giving him the heebies.

“So she's here?” he said again.

“Yes,” Mrs. Greco replied, pointing toward the back of the library. “The last carrel on the left.” She leaned in to him as if imparting a secret. “Thank God she lost all that weight. I always used to say, ‘That girl has such a pretty face. If she would just get rid of all that blubber, she'd be a knockout.' And I was right.”

Paul forced a smile onto his face. “Thanks for all your help, Mrs. Greco.”

“Anytime, Paul.”

 

 

He made his
way to the back of the library, slowing as he approached Katie. Her back was to him, and like Mrs. Greco, she, too, was typing furiously, though the sound was more muted.

Paul stood watching her a moment. Her book bag lay on the floor beside her. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, her shoulders hunched over the keyboard in a posture of extreme concentration. Unthinking, Paul reached out and touched her hair. Katie shot up out of her seat with a frightened gasp.

“Oh!”

“Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Scare me? You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Katie barked. Library patrons from surrounding carrels clucked their tongues.

“What are you doing here?” Katie whispered.

“We need to talk,” Paul boomed. Katie gestured for him to be quiet. “We need to talk,” Paul repeated in a whisper.

“This isn't a good time. I'm trying to work.”

“All I need is five minutes.”

“All right,” Katie said, slowly easing back down into her seat. “Five minutes.”

Paul took the chair from a nearby empty carrel and pulled it next to hers.

“Do you really think I'm pathetic?” he demanded, forgetting to whisper.

“Sshhh,”
someone on the other side of Katie hissed.

“That's what you came here to talk about?” Katie whispered.

“Just answer the question,” Paul whispered back.

Her fingers poised on her keyboard, Katie said, “Of course not.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because I was upset. And you were mean to me.”

“Mean to you?!” Paul bellowed.

“Will you shut the hell up, please?” a man growled from three carrels away.

“I was upset,” Katie repeated in a fierce whisper. “By the way you pushed the boys around, and then telling me you didn't want me at practice anymore.” She looked at him uncertainly. “Did you mean that?”

“What, about practice?”

Katie nodded.

“Yeah, if you don't mind. It really does distract me.”

“Okay,” Katie agreed unhappily.

Paul drew his chair closer. “Look, I wanted to tell you, you were right about pushing the boys at practice. That was wrong.”

“Yes, but can you understand that you were doing it because—”

“Don't psychoanalyze me, Katie,” he interrupted sharply. “Not now. Okay?”