The Penalty Box (20 page)

“Yeah, don't psychoanalyze him,” the growling man echoed.

Paul rubbed his forehead, frustrated. “Can we go somewhere else?” he hissed. “This is ridiculous!”

Katie sighed, shutting down her laptop. “My mother's house is five minutes from here. Do you remember how to get there?” Paul nodded. “Meet me there.”

“Your mother isn't going to make me autograph a dish towel or something, is she?”

“As if you'd mind,” Katie snorted. “No, my mother is in Hartford for the day. Some church outing. Park up the street, though. Just in case.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Meet you in five, then.”

 

 

It felt strange
,
inviting Paul over to her mother's house when she wasn't around. Traditionally, Mina was the one who brought guys home in the middle of the day. Until now, the only man Katie had ever rendezvoused with covertly at this house was the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

She arrived a minute before Paul did, enough time to unlock the door and peel off her jacket before answering the doorbell.

“Come on in,” she told him. “Let me take your coat.”

Paul slipped off his shearling jacket and handed it to her before taking off his snow-caked hiking boots. He looked around the room. “This place is really cozy.”

“Thanks,” said Katie, putting the coats and boots in the coat closet. She wondered if he really meant it, or if “cozy” might be a euphemism for “small.” Well, it was small, there was no denying that. Her mother's shelves crammed with knickknacks didn't help, either.

“Your mom collects thimbles,” Paul noted as if reading her mind.

“And dolls. And bone china.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Your mom collect anything?”

“Prescriptions.” Paul sat down on the couch, waiting for her.

“Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Diet Coke?”

Paul waved a hand. “I'm fine.” He patted the empty space next to him. “C'mere.”

Katie sat down beside him, reminding herself that they'd come here to talk, period. She could
not
let herself think about the obvious opportunity presented by the empty house, or the way the winter sun shining through the picture window was hitting his hair, making him look golden, like Achilles.

“Do you really think I don't know who I am now?” Paul began, putting his arm around her shoulder.

Katie fidgeted. Why had she said that? She had no idea how to answer.

“Katie?”

“I think,” she began carefully, “that you're not dealing with who you are now. With
where
you are now.”

“How is that any different from you not dealing with who you once
were
?” Paul countered.

“We're talking about you right now, Paul. Not me.”

“Fine. So I'm not living in the present.” Paul's voice was terse. “What am I doing or not doing that makes you think that?”

“Well, you still haven't unpacked your house, for one.” Katie forced her eyes to his. “It's like you're afraid to, because it would mean, I don't know, that you really
do
live in Didsbury. Deep down, I don't think you believe that yet.”

Paul's jaw clenched. “Go on.”

“The bar: You're so happy when people want you to autograph things, or ask you to tell them stories about your time in the NHL. It's like you need the attention to prove to yourself that you still exist or something. I don't know. It's hard to explain.”

Paul frowned. “And with coaching?”

“You're obsessed with winning.”

“Newsflash, Professor: all coaches are obsessed with winning.” Katie opened her mouth to say something but the look of warning that shot across his face made her hold her tongue. “I don't care what you sociologists say the meaning behind organized sports is. For the athletes and their coaches, it's all about winning.

“I know what it feels like to win, Katie, especially when you've busted your ass to do so. It's the most amazing high in the world. I want the boys on the hockey team to experience that.”

“Because you can't anymore?” Katie asked quietly.

“As their coach, I can. And there's nothing wrong with that. That's what you don't see. Of course I want them to do well on the ice! If they win it's proof I'm doing my job well. That's important to me.” His gaze turned quizzical. “If you think I'm such an emotional cripple, why the hell did you get involved with me?”

“Well, for one thing, you're cute as a button.”

“I want a serious answer here, Katherine.”

Katie recoiled. “Don't call me Katherine! No one calls me that except my aunt Lily, and she talks to rocks and plants. Never call me Katherine.”

“Katie.” He said it with so much tenderness it brought an unexpected rush to her heart. “If I'm such a mess, why go out with me?”

Katie found herself chewing on her left thumb. “Well, because you're smart,” she said quietly. “And funny.”

“Keep going.”

Katie dropped her hand from her mouth. “You egotistical bastard!”

“I said keep going.”

“And tender. Sweet.” She reached out to lightly touch his cheek. “I like you, Paul. I just wish you liked yourself more. That's all.”

Paul looked amused. “You know what your problem is, Fisher?”

“What?”

“You think too goddamn much. Instead of looking at every person and situation and trying to fit it into some kind of context, why don't you just relax and enjoy yourself? You're too rigid.”

“Rigid,” Katie repeated flatly.

“Yeah.”

“Actually, I prefer the word
disciplined
.”

“There you go thinking again, Katherine.”

Before she could protest he kissed her. Katie hadn't seen it coming and it hit her with full force as yearning overtook her. She could have him here, now, if she wanted. Be a bad girl, like Mina. The thought aroused her even more. She was tired of being good—being
rigid
. She'd show him. She kissed him back, nipping hard at his lower lip. Paul pulled back in surprise.

“Wanna see my room?” she asked seductively.

“Sure,” said Paul, with a smile that set an inferno blazing within her. “Lead on.”

Leading Paul by the hand up the carpeted stairs to her bedroom, Katie finally understood why Mina so thoroughly enjoyed being “bad.” There was something delicious about knowing you'd be making love in the middle of the morning when the rest of the world was hard at work. Especially doing it here, in this house that wasn't even hers. By the time she steered him down the hallway and into the bedroom of her childhood, the sense of wickedness she was feeling was intoxicating.

“Let's see what we've got here.” Paul stood in the middle of her room. Katie watched him take it all in: the white lace curtains; the faded rosebud wallpaper; the narrow single bed where, in high school, her hand often crept below the covers thinking of
him
; the white wicker chair more pleasant to look at than sit on; the desk piled high with research-filled folders and books marked with Post-its. He nodded slowly, smiling. “I can see you here,” he mused. “As a kid, I mean.”

“You can see a fat girl with a secret stash of Baby Ruths beneath her bed?”

Paul shook his head. “No. I can see you hiding here. Taking refuge.”

Katie was struck by the insight. She never gave him enough credit when it came to sensitivity, did she? It was easier to stick a label on him—“unhappily retired ex-athlete”—than to admit what he really was: complicated and compelling.

She joined him at the center of the room, putting her arms around him, a gesture he returned. His solidity was a comfort. He still had the body of an athlete: hard, chiseled, no excess softness anywhere. It amazed her, the pureness of his masculinity, and the fact that he didn't do anything to play it up or enforce it. It was simply who he was. Reaching up to cup his cheek—rough and unshaven—she was rewarded with a shower of fevered kisses to her fingertips, and a hunger in his eyes.

“Now what?” Paul murmured.

“Let's be b
aaa
d.”

Paul laughed, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her over to the narrow bed. He lay her down softly then stretched out beside her, the two of them facing each other. They had no choice: the bed was too small for them to comfortably lie side by side. How many times had she had this exact fantasy in high school? Only this was better. Back then, reality would intrude and in her mind's eye she'd see him howling in agony because he'd wrenched his back carrying her to the bed. How deep had her self-loathing run, that even her fantasies had been tainted by her weight?

Paul kissed the tip of her nose. “What are you thinking about?”

“If I tell, do you promise not to make fun of me?”

“Cross my heart.”

“I used to fantasize about this in high school. About you picking me up and throwing me on the bed and ravaging me.”

“Yeah?” Paul propped himself up on one elbow. “Was it good?”

Katie blushed. “Yes.”

“What was I wearing?”

She thought, then laughed. “Your hockey uniform. But without the helmet.”

Paul, laughed, too, and lay back down. His hands reached up to tenderly cradle her face. “Is that what you want, Professor Fisher? To be ravaged?”

Katie's pulse quickened. His uttering that one simple sentence made her whole body tingle. “Mutual ravaging might be nice,” she murmured, bringing her lips almost to his, but not quite. Paul didn't move. Neither did she. The air in the room shimmered with anticipatory tension. Katie could feel it bouncing off the walls. Who would move first to make contact? She closed her eyes, tortured by longing, enjoying each passing second of this little game they seemed to be playing.
Kiss me!
she pleaded with him in her head. But he didn't. Neither moved. Their breath was coming in unison now, mingling. She couldn't tell if it was his heartbeat or her own that was pounding.
Unbearable
, she thought.
This is deliciously, wonderfully, unbearable.

She opened her eyes to see Paul's eyes boring into hers as if he were able to read her secrets. Their faces were so close she could catalog every small imperfection he had, including the tiny white scar that ran across the bridge of his nose. Heat radiated from his body, wave after sizzling wave wrapping them both in a fevered cocoon. Yet his eyes were what held her. Paul's eyes, daring her to make the first move. Telling her that whatever she started, there was no going back.

Eyes still open, Katie put her mouth softly to his. He had yet to reach for her, or she for him. They lay like this, lips joined, bodies silently but separately communing. Katie moved to part his lips with her tongue. His tongue caught hers, sending shock waves of desire through her body as she let the velvet sweetness of sensation wash over her.
Now
, she thought hungrily.
Now he will draw me into an embrace.

Instead, he took his tongue from her mouth and began tracing the outline of her lips with its tip. Back and forth he went, slowly, deliberately, sampling first her bottom lip, then her top. Katie wanted to open her mouth to his again, grab his handsome face in her hands and kiss him until he didn't know who the hell he was. But they were playing this wonderful, teasing game, and it was his turn to call the shots. His exploration of her mouth continued, careful, slow, tender, Katie's breath growing more ragged the more he prolonged her exquisite agony.

It was torturing him, too. Katie sensed it in the rigidity of his body mere inches from hers, in the bulge in his jeans that she brazenly decided to reach down and cup. Groaning, Paul halted the sweet game he was playing with her mouth and turned his attentions to her neck, nuzzling there. Katie couldn't stop trembling. She wanted to give more, wanted him to
do
more. So, he thought he could torture her endlessly, did he? Well, two could play at that game.

Cupping him harder, she began rubbing him—slowly, deliberately. He stiffened further, tearing his mouth from her neck to trail his hot, wet tongue down her throat to the opening of her blouse.

Katie waited, panting. Nothing. She stopped moving her hand. Stalemate. It was too much for Paul; his fingers reached for the front of her blouse and simply tore, buttons flying, shirt tails pushed apart so he could undo the front clasp of her bra. He sat up, hurriedly pulling his shirt over his head and flinging it to the bedroom floor before settling back down beside her. Katie looked in his eyes: usually ice blue, the irises seemed to be deepening right before her eyes, desire darkening them. She drew close to him, rubbing her chest against his, reveling in the male/female contrast. Paul groaned, eyes shut. Below the waist, Katie put her hand to him and began rubbing harder, feeling him strain again against the soft denim. If they were still in high school, maybe this was as far as it would go. She'd get him off, he'd get her off, they'd awkwardly dress, and split up to study.

But this wasn't high school.

Hips gently rocking in rhythm with her strokes, Paul drew her to him, lowering his head as he ran his face across her breasts. The friction created by the light grizzle of his beard scrambled Katie's senses. She was hot neon: burning, blinding. Her hand stopped its movements for a moment so she could fully savor the thrilling sensation of roughness as he moved his face back and forth between her breasts. When he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, Katie felt the world crack open.

Her hand returned to his manhood. She tugged his zipper down, fumbling blindly with the hard metal button at the top of his jeans. Impatient, she thrust her hand beneath the waist band of his briefs, eager to grasp him in her palm. He was hard, smooth, pulsing. Waiting for release. She began moving her hand up and down slowly. Paul groaned, and rolling away from her freed himself from the rest of his clothing. Heat thrumming in her lower belly, Katie quickly did the same. When he turned back to her, he was protected and in full arousal. The beauty of him, standing there with the sun streaming through the windows, took Katie's breath away. He
was
Achilles. He
was
golden.