The Penalty Box (24 page)

“Yes, it sounds like she was.”

Tuck looked confused. “So is the coach going out with you
and
Mrs. Flaherty?”

“I don't know, honey.” Katie's voice cracked with pain and she sought to cover it with a well placed cough. “But it's nothing you need to worry about, okay?” She smoothed a stray lock of Tuck's hair. “Go back to
Harry Potter
.”

 

 

Paul knew something
was wrong the minute Katie walked into his house. First, she didn't notice he'd started unpacking; he'd had to point out the artwork now gracing his walls. Second, she was monosyllabic. That wasn't like his beloved professor
at all
: Katie liked her syllables, the more the better. He knew he'd have to ask the question every man dreads: “Is everything okay?”

“Are you sleeping with Liz Flaherty?”

Paul frowned.
Where the hell had that come from?
“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, gee, I don't know.” Katie reached into her book bag and took out a pair of black socks. She put one sock on each of her hands. “Hello, Mr. Sock,” she had her right hand say to her left in a cartoon voice. “Where do
you
come from?”

“Why, I belong to Paul van Dorn,” her left hand replied. “I've been at Liz Flaherty's house!”

“Hey, me, too!” her right hand exclaimed. “Liz said we should be returned to Paul, so she asked Katie to do it, since Tuck spilled the beans and now Liz knows
allllll
about them!”

“Why were Paul's socks at Liz's?” Katie's left hand asked wonderingly.

“Gosh!” her right hand squealed. “That's just what Katie wants to know!”

Katie tore the socks off her hands and threw them down on the table. Paul stared at them. They were his, all right. The socks he'd forgotten the morning after the reunion, when he was scrambling to get away from Liz before she locked him up like one of Bluebeard's brides.
God. Damn. Son. Of. A. BITCH.

“Are they yours or not?”

Paul slipped a sock on to his right hand and lifted his eyes to hers. “They are,” he had his hand say to her quietly, “but it's not what you think.”

“You don't want to know what I think!”

Paul jumped up, hobbling as fast as he could on his one good leg so he could beat her to the front door. “You're not leaving,” he declared, blocking her way. His ankle throbbed with pain but he ignored it. He'd dealt with worse.

“You're supposed to be on crutches,” Katie said. “And take that stupid sock off your hand.”

Paul peeled the sock off his hand and threw it to the floor. “Screw the crutches. Talk to me.”

Katie began tapping her foot impatiently. “Out of my way, Tiny Tim.”

“Not until you hear me out.”

Katie clucked her tongue. “Fine.”

“I slept with Liz the night of the reunion. I was drunk off my ass and believe me, I regretted it in the morning. I was in such a rush to get the hell out of there I left my socks.”

Katie frowned. “Oh, really.”

“Yeah,
really
.”

Katie looked dubious. “You expect me to believe she's been hanging on to your socks for months?”

“She has! Why, I don't know. You really think I'd two-time you with Liz?”

“She's never gotten you out of her system!” Katie became teary. “Never. Maybe you feel the same way—”

Paul shook his head. “You're the one I can't get out of my system, Professor.” He reached out, gently cradling Katie's cheek in his right hand. “I would never cheat on you,” he said softly. “I love you.”

Katie slowly backed out of reach. “Don't say that,” she whispered.

“Why the hell not?” Something broke free inside him. “It's the truth! I love you!”

Katie's hands flew to her ears.

Paul pulled them away. “What the hell is your
problem
?”

“You don't understand,” Katie insisted.

“Yeah, I do!” Confidence pumped through him, brought on by a sudden clarity of vision. “You love me, too, but it scares the living hell out of you! Why else would you be so upset about Liz if you didn't feel anything for me?”

“I'm
fond
of you,” Katie mumbled, hanging her head. “I'm not in love with you.”

“I guess we're free to go out with other people, then.”

Katie's head shot up.

“That wasn't fair!” Katie stamped her foot. “You—you're confusing me.”

“There's nothing confusing about this at all.”

“I still can't believe Liz would hang on to your socks,” Katie said suspiciously.

Paul snorted. “Look what Monica Lewinsky held on to! Who the hell knows why people do these things?”

Katie turned away from him.

“I love you,” Paul murmured.

“Stop saying that!” Katie cried.

“Because—?”

“It complicates things.” She turned back to him. “It throws a monkey wrench in the works.” Her voice dropped. “It confuses me.”

“So you keep saying. I don't see what's so confusing about love.”

“This isn't what I saw for myself,” Katie revealed with a quiver in her voice. “I had my life all mapped out.” She threw a hand up in the air dramatically. “And then this!”

“What's ‘this'?” Paul asked, imitating her gesture.

“You.”

Paul couldn't resist a self-satisfied smile. “I'm flattered.”

“Mucking up someone's well laid plans is nothing to be proud of, van Dorn.”

“I've got news for you: Sometimes, what we have planned for our lives and what fate actually has in store for us are two different things.”

“Well, I don't accept that,” Katie replied obstinately, “and neither do you. If you did, you wouldn't be so obsessed with still winning. You would
let it go
. You wouldn't have resigned yourself to your fate and crawled back to Didsbury.”

She shouldn't have said it, and they both knew it.

“Is that what you think?” Paul asked politely. “That my career blew up in my face and because I couldn't think of anything better to do, I came back to Didsbury?”

Katie hesitated. “Yes.”

“I see.” Paul rubbed his chin. “This town did a lot for you, you know. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“We're not talking about me. We're talking about you.”

“Right, where were we? Oh yeah: Me crawling back to Didsbury. What a loser, huh?” He hobbled over to the side of the couch, where his crutches rested. Placing them under his arms, he propelled himself to the front door, opening it wide. “I think you should go now.”

“Paul.” Katie's voice turned appeasing. “We need to talk about how Liz's knowing is going to impact Tuck. You know she's going to tell anyone who listens.”

“You know what, Katie? Right now I don't give a shit about Tuck or Liz.”

Katie knit her hands together nervously. “You're mad.”

“Yeah, I'm mad. ‘This isn't what I saw for myself,' ” he repeated. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I—”

“I'm not good enough for you? You're a hot-shot academic and it's beneath you to fall in love with a jock?”

“That's exactly it, Paul.” There was sadness in her voice. “You're
not
a jock. Not anymore. You're a bar owner.”

“Fine, I'm a bar owner. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not if it's what you really want to do.”

“I've told you before: I
can't
do what I really want to do. So I'm doing this instead. And if that doesn't meet with your approval, you can kiss my townie ass!”

Katie's mouth fell open.

“You're a snob, Katie. I'm glad you set such high standards for yourself. I understand that. It's admirable. But I'm sick to death of trying to live up to them.”

Collecting her coat, Katie lingered at the door. “I guess I'll see you at the Panthers game Monday afternoon.”

Paul nodded curtly. “We'll talk.”

Katie returned his nod and started down the front walk toward her car. Paul watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before closing the front door. Then, with all the force he could muster with his good leg, he kicked his goddamn sock out of the way.

 

 

 

Paul was drunk, but not so drunk he couldn't interpret the disapproving look crossing Frank DiNizio's face as he poured Paul another shot of Wild Turkey.

“This is it,” Frank announced. “You're officially cut off.”

“I own the bar.”

“That's nice. You're still cut off.”

Paul muttered a few choice words under his breath and threw back the whiskey, relishing the taste of fire as it slid down his throat. After asking Katie to leave, he didn't know what the hell to do with himself, so he'd come down to the Penalty Box. He hated being morose, but he couldn't help replaying their evening in his head. How had things deteriorated so quickly? And who was to blame?

Liz, that's who.

He was still trying to wrap his mind around her hanging on to his socks. He imagined her curled up with them at night, or running them over her body, and shuddered. What the hell was wrong with her? She'd had countless opportunities to give them back to him, yet she hadn't, probably because she'd been lying in wait for an opportunity just like this one to wreck his life. Fucking Liz.

He wished he hadn't asked Katie to leave. Now he wasn't sure where they stood. They should have continued talking, hashed everything out. But her denying her feelings made him angry. Did she think it was easy for him to say he loved her? He'd been carrying it around inside for weeks, not saying anything for fear of upsetting the delicate balance of their relationship. He'd finally come clean and where had it gotten him? A seat at the end of the bar, drowning his sorrows in booze and self-pity.

She pissed him off! He was sick to death of trying to meet her approval. Yeah, he was flattered she thought him capable of more, but things were what they were. No use crying over spilt milk and all that crap. He was back in Didsbury and if she didn't like it or approve, well,
hasta la vista baby
!

He banged his shot glass on the bar. “One more, Frank! C'mon!”

Frank shook his head. “I already told you.”

“One more or you're fired,” Paul threatened, half smiling. Maybe he'd do it, just to remind Frank who was in charge here.

Frank sighed. “Why don't you just go home, boss, okay? I can call you a cab.”

“I don't want a fuckin' cab and I own the fuckin' bar so you'll do what I say!” Paul bellowed. Heads turned. “What?” Paul jeered at them. “You've never seen someone drunk before?” He slid off his bar stool and picking up his crutches, propelled himself to the middle of the bar. “Do you know who I am?” He looked around. “Do any of you have any fuckin' idea
who I am
?”

“Yeah, you're an asshole,” someone called out.

Paul twisted around wildly. “Who said that? Who? I'll kick your ass!” The room fell silent save for the jukebox pumping out AC/DC's “Highway to Hell.” Talk about apropos. “So! Is anyone gonna answer my question?”

“You're Paul van Dorn,” a woman called out from one of booths along the wall.

Paul raised a crutch in her direction. “That's right! I'm Paul fuckin' van Dorn and I own this bar! Paul fuckin' van Dorn, first-round draft pick for the New York Blades! Have any of you losers ever played in the NHL? Huh? Any of you losers ever win the Con Smythe?! Any of you ever skate the Stanley Cup?!”

“Boss.” Frank gripped his forearm and began steering him toward the back office. “That's enough.”

Paul felt everyone's eyes on him as Frank dragged him through the room. Losers! He signed autographs for them whenever they wanted and told the same stories over and over just to make them happy, and what did he get in return? Stares! Of confusion. Of amusement. Of
pity
.

“Fuck all of you!” he cried. “At least I
was
someone once! At least—”

Frank clamped his hand over Paul's mouth as he pulled Paul over the office threshold, kicking the door shut behind them. “Sit,” he commanded, releasing Paul with a small shove. Paul felt dizzy, weaving on his crutches. Frank scowled. “Sit or I'll make you sit.”

Paul did what he was told, sinking down onto the junk-covered couch. He was hit with an unexpected wave of exhaustion and his head suddenly felt as if it were stuffed with cotton, his tongue thick. The urge to close his eyes and fall asleep was strong.

“What the hell was that all about?” Frank demanded.

“Do you think I'm pathetic?” Paul blurted. Even though Katie had denied meaning it, the charge had lodged in the back of his mind ever since.

“In general, no. But tonight? Fuckin' A.”

Paul grunted, glancing around his office through drooping lids. The place was a mess, promo items littering his desk and the floor, old hockey gear he couldn't bear to part with stacked in the far corner. What else had she said? Oh, yeah. Nothing wrong with being a bar owner, if that's what he wanted to do. But it wasn't.

“Go away,” Paul muttered, waving Frank away. “I'm going to crash here, just leave me.”

“You sure?”