The Penalty Box (33 page)

“Why do women always need to ask, ‘Do I look fat in this?' It's the same thing: insecurity.”

“I suppose.” Katie squinted at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “It's late.”

“We can sleep in,” Paul murmured, stroking her hair. In his opinion, the sex had been more than “nice”—it had been phenomenal. It always was. “Thanks for that no-strings-attached, rollicking good time.”

Katie narrowed her eyes. “You're mocking again.”

“I'm not.” He laid back down, their noses close enough to touch. “So, when are you moving back to Fallowfield?” he asked curiously.

The question seemed to take her by surprise. “Beginning of August, I guess.” She paused. “I don't think I can get back into my house until August first. Why?”

“Just curious.” He didn't want to tell her he wished she was staying. Or, at the very least, he wished he had the surety about life she did. Up until tonight, he thought he had. But seeing her in her element brought home to him the fractured sense of self he was carrying around inside him.

“Won't you miss Bitsy and Denise?”

“Of course I will.” Her voice was brisk, a smokescreen he knew was designed to keep emotion at bay. “But they can visit me, and it's not like I
never
come to Didsbury. I'll be back for Thanksgiving, I'm sure.”

“It's a bitch of a drive,” Paul observed.

“Sure is.”

“How does Tuck feel about your going back?”

“Why did you have to bring that up?” Katie sounded pained as she rolled over onto her back.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's okay, it's just”—she began to get teary—“I'm going to miss Tuck a lot.”

“I know you will.” Paul tenderly swiped at her eyes. “But he'll be fine.”

“As long as my sister keeps it together.” Katie looked at him. “Do you swear Mina's doing okay at work?”

“She's doing fine,” Paul soothed, which was basically the truth. He
had
noticed her tendency to flirt hard with the male customers, but lots of cocktail waitresses did that; it was a way of maximizing tips. Mina also bristled when it came to taking directions. She'd obey, albeit begrudgingly, making it clear she felt she was doing you a favor. Paul could have done without the attitude, but he knew she was trying to remake her life, so he was cutting her lots of slack. But not forever.

“I can't thank you enough for hiring her,” Katie whispered. “It really means a lot to me.”

Enough for you to admit you still care?
Paul wondered. He was tempted to ask the question aloud, but he didn't want to push things. They'd had a nice weekend at the wedding, much better than he'd expected. They'd made love; they were still friends. Shouldn't that be enough?

Katie yawned. “I'm sleepy.”

“Me, too.” He hunkered down beside her. “I
can
stay the night, can't I?”

“As long as you don't make that noise.”

“What noise?”

“The one that sounds like a whale breathing through his blowhole.”

Paul drew back, offended. “I don't make that noise!”

“You
do
,” Katie insisted in a voice Paul swore was tinged with tenderness. “But I know you don't do it on purpose.”

“Blowhole,” Paul muttered to himself as he turned out the light. “No woman's ever told me
that
before.”

“Maybe they didn't want to hurt your feelings. I didn't.”

“Oh, but it's all right to tell me now since we're broken up?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“Good-night, Katie.”

“Good-night, Paul.” He turned over on his side, dragging the covers with him. “Blowhole . . .”

“
So
,
did you
miss me?”

Paul's grin faded as he caught Frank's grim expression as he entered the Penalty Box. “First tell me how your weekend was,” said Frank. “Then we'll talk about mine.”

“My weekend was good,” Paul said. “Better than I expected.”

“Yeah?” Frank looked surprised. “Anything interesting happen?”

“A gentleman doesn't tell.”

“You used to bash teeth out on the ice for a living. Since when are you a gentleman?”

Paul laughed. “You're right. No, it was good, you know? Fun.”

“You guys back together?”

“Nah. We're better as friends, if that makes any sense.”

“Sure. What with her leaving and all.”

“Exactly.” Paul found it comforting Frank viewed the situation the same way he did. It meant he hadn't been crazy to end things. “Now, tell me about the weekend.”

Frank came out from behind the bar to park his butt on a stool. “We did great both nights.”

Paul joined him. “So, what's the problem?”

“The problem is, the clientele was a little different than usual, and I'm afraid we could lose the locals if the trend continues.”

“Explain.”

“I don't know what to say without sounding like, you know, a judgmental prick or something.”

“Just spill it, for Chrissakes.”

“Look, I know you hired Katie's sister as a favor to her to help her get back on her feet. And she's a good cocktail waitress.”

Paul's guts began to curdle. “But—?”

“Both nights the bar was filled with bikers. Friends of Mina's. These guys were loud, bro. And obnoxious. Two of them nearly came to blows at the pool table. A couple of others got so shitfaced and sloppy I had to throw them out. They threatened to come back next week and ‘mess my face up.' Not what I wanna hear, okay?”

“Shit. Did they at least pay for their drinks?”

“See, that's the thing: They were ordering so many, so fast, I'm pretty sure Mina let some of the tab slide. To my mind, things did not compute when I cashed out at the end of the evening. I always keep a running guesstimate in my head of what the night's grand total will be, and I'm usually in the ball park. This weekend the numbers were way lower than I thought they'd be. I'm telling you, we should use the cash-and-carry system with
tickets
.”

Paul frowned. He preferred the simple cash-and-carry system. Foregoing tickets was cheaper, and you didn't have to wrap your head around accounting. There was just one drawback: This verbal system depended completely upon the honesty of employees.

He looked at Frank. “What do you think I should do? You've been in this business a helluva lot longer than I have.”

Frank shrugged. “It's a tough call. She's good at what she does.”

“Except she might be giving free drinks to friends we don't want in here.”

“Right.”

“
Shit
,” Paul repeated. “Any chance one of the other girls might be messing up?”

“We never had this problem till you hired Katie's sister,” Frank pointed out bluntly. “Look, I know it's sticky. We've got no solid proof here. And these guys are, for the most part, paying customers. I think we have to just play it by ear for now. If they come in next week and cause trouble, we'll throw them out, and you can have a heart-to-heart with Mina. Make sense?”

“Yeah.” Paul sighed. “Thanks for telling me, Frank. Did I miss any other fun?”

“Doug Burton and Chick Perry stopped by.”

“What did they want?”

“To talk to you. They said to call 'em, because it's important.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Paul muttered. “I'll call them.”

 

 

Once again
,
Paul
found himself at the Didsbury Country Club. The only time he ever set foot in the place was when he was summoned by Doug Burton and Chick Perry.

“Gentlemen.”

Paul was pleasantly surprised to find them sitting on opposite sides of the table this time, an inversion of their usual seating arrangement. He politely shook both their hands before sitting down.

“I hear you stopped by the Penalty Box this weekend,” he said.

“We did,” said Doug, sipping a beer. “We were very impressed with the décor.”

“Less so with the clientele,” said Chick.

Doug frowned with disapproval. “You never told us it was a biker bar, Paul.”

“It's not.”

“Well, it certainly looked like it the night we were there.”

“An aberration. Some gang was passing through town and stopped.” Chick had already taken the liberty of pouring Paul a glass of water, and he reached for it gratefully, taking a sip. “So, what's up?”

“Something very serious has occurred.”

The gravity in Doug Burton's voice alarmed Paul, who began wracking his brains, trying to figure out how he might have screwed up in the past few months. He'd thought things were going really well. Apparently not.

“It's Dan Doherty,” Doug continued with a sad sigh. “He's got cancer.”

“That's too bad,” said Paul, meaning it. Doherty might be the biggest bastard on bandy legs, but he would never wish illness on the guy.

“He's too sick to coach. The league would like you to take over and coach his team for the rest of the season.”

Paul sat back, stunned. The midget travel team. The team he'd lobbied to coach at the beginning of the season, a team with real players with real skill who breathed and ate hockey as he once had.

“What do you say, Paul?” said Chick, loosening the tie cutting off the circulation at his corpulent neck.

“Doesn't Dan have an assistant?” Paul asked suspiciously.

“He does. Tommy Lambert. But he's not quite up to the task.”

“Who would take over my squirt team?”

“We haven't figured that out yet, but what the hell does it matter?” Doug chuckled. “They're a joke.”

“Actually, they're playing very well these days.”

“I'm sure they are, son. But at that level of play, who gives a shit?”

They do
, Paul thought angrily. Doug leaned forward, staring Paul right in the eye. “Here's your shot, Paul. Doherty's not likely to be back. The midget team is eleven and one. With you as their coach we're sure they'll at least make it to the state semifinals, if not win the championship. How 'bout it?”

How 'bout it indeed. With Doug and Chick staring at him as if the fate of the world hung in the balance, Paul could barely think straight. A chance to coach real players . . . a shot at a championship . . . no Dan Doherty . . . it seemed too good to be true. Be careful what you wish for, his mother used to caution, or you just might get it. Shit.

“I need to think about this.”

Doug and Chick exchanged puzzled glances. “I can't believe you're not jumping on this,” said Doug.

“Normally, I would. But there are a couple of other things I need to consider.” His fingers lightly drummed the tabletop. “When do you need an answer by?”

“Friday, the latest,” said Doug.

“I can give you an answer by Wednesday. Why don't you stop by the Penalty Box around lunchtime?”

“Will do,” said Doug.

Two minutes until
the game with the Winchester Barracudas and no sign of Tuck Fisher.
Goddamn Mina
, Paul thought angrily. He'd already checked with Katie to see if she knew what was up; as far as she knew, Mina was bringing him to the game. Katie's face fell when Paul told her Tuck had failed to show at practice that morning. “Maybe he's sick today,” Katie offered weakly.

“Then he—or his parent—is supposed to call me,” Paul pointed out. He could tell from Katie's expression she didn't believe Tuck was sick.

Warm-up complete, Paul hustled his team back into the locker room.

“Okay, guys.” He clapped his hands together twice to get their attention. “Who can tell me this week's motto?” Every week he gave them a new motto, something to think about and strive for. Hands sprung up in the air like weeds.

“Wilbraham?”

“Your attitude determines your altitude.”

Paul nodded approvingly. “And what does it mean?” Hands stretched higher. “Becker?”

“It means if you have confidence, you can go far,” the boy said quietly.

“That's right. I know you guys have probably heard some things about the Barracudas: that they play dirty, that they've got big goony guys playing defense. I want you to put it out of your heads. You're better players, and you're better sportsmen. If you believe we can rise above their dirty tricks and win because of our talent, we will.”