The Penalty Box (3 page)

“Hi, everyone!” Liz squealed. She looked almost the same as she had in high school: thin, tan, with long, caramel colored hair and big green eyes. Her makeup was impeccable. She wore a killer red sheath dress. She continued her girlish squealing as she hugged each woman in turn. But when she came to Katie, she froze.

“It can't be.” Her face contorted in disbelief.

Katie made herself smile warmly. “How have you been, Liz?”

“Fine.” Her laugh was mirthless. “Well, I guess miracles really
can
happen.”

“No miracle,” said Katie. “Just years of hard work.”

The atmosphere, so congenial mere seconds before, began crackling with tension. Liz looked Katie up and down with a coolly appraising eye.

“I'm surprised to see you here, Katie.”

“Why's that?”

“Well”—Liz glanced at the other women for confirmation—“because you were such a fat loser in high school.”

The other women glanced away.

Katie met the challenge head-on. “People change. Or, at least, some people do.”

“Meaning?”

“You're
exactly
the same as you were in high school.”

Liz smiled as she sipped daintily from her champagne flute. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Katie was telling us about the book she's writing,” Hannah Beck said tentatively.

Liz sucked in her cheeks, bored. “That's nice. Katie, remember that time Paul van Dorn pasted a sign on your back that said ‘Built like a mac truck'?” She laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

Katie said nothing.
Paul van Dorn
. . . there was a name she hadn't heard in a while. Paul had been the boy every girl in school had a crush on, Katie included. He'd been Liz's boyfriend, of course. They were the golden couple: captain of the hockey team and head cheerleader. When he was apart from his friends and Liz, Paul had always been nice to Katie. But the minute he hooked up with his crew, he teased her mercilessly like everyone else.

To Katie's chagrin, Liz Flaherty continued goose stepping down memory lane. “Remember in gym class, when Mr. Nelson made us do the five hundred yard dash, and Katie collapsed because she was so fat and out of shape?” No one answered as all eyes dropped to the ground. “Oh, come on, I know you guys remember!”

“Can it, Liz,” Alexis said under her breath.

“What?” Liz batted her eyes. “All I'm doing is reminiscing! That's why we're all here, right? To remember?” Another sip of champagne slid down her throat. “I was thinking about the prom on the way over here. I went with Paul.” Her gaze glittered with malice. “But I can't seem to recall who
you
went with, Katie.”

Katie smiled brightly. “Actually, I had two dates to the prom: Ben and Jerry. Can you excuse me a moment?”

She said her good-byes to the other women and quickly extricated herself from the group, quivering so hard inside she thought she might break. She'd always used humor and self-deprecation to deflect criticism and pain. It sprang from a determination never to let her tormentors see they'd gotten to her. That she'd just been forced to use two of the old weapons in her arsenal made her sad.

It had been a mistake to come.

No, that wasn't true. The mistake had been thinking Liz Flaherty could ever be anything but a bitch. Katie had meant what she said, though Liz had failed to see the irony: Liz
was
the same person she'd been in high school. Clearly the woman was insecure as hell. Katie knew she could have called her on it, but it seemed pointless. Draining the remains of her glass, she returned it to the bartender, hustling as fast as she could toward the banquet room door and the promise of blessed release. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her mind was a kaleidoscope of painful memories she'd been foolish to think she could avoid. She was walking so fast in her heels that when she hit a wet spot, she went flying. Were it not for the lightning fast reflexes of the man who reached out to grab her, she would have wound up spread eagle on the floor. Mortified, Katie slowly looked up into her savior's face to thank him.

It was Paul van Dorn.

“The one and only,” Katie replied, smoothing the front of her dress. She couldn't believe how close she'd come to complete humiliation. Nor could she believe how little the man before her, who still had a protective grip on her forearm, had changed. Same killer body, same ice-blue laser beam eyes piercing her soul. His hair was different: buzzed as opposed to the stick-straight blond she remembered. But everything else was pure Paul van Dorn, right down to the brash confidence he exuded.

His eyes were wide as saucers as he continued staring at Katie. “Holy sh—” He caught himself, releasing her from his grasp. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, thanks to you.” Her gaze shot back to Liz Flaherty, who thankfully seemed oblivious to Katie's near tumble.

“I . . .” Paul was at a total loss for words. Slack-jawed.

Katie laughed. “Yes?”

“I . . .” His eyes remained riveted to her body. “I cannot believe how
great
you look!”

“Thank you,” Katie murmured. “So do you.”

“Me?” Her statement seemed to catch him by surprise. “Nah, I'm just the same.”

I hope not
, Katie thought.

He put his hands on his hips, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “This is unreal. Never in a million years would I have guessed it was you. If it wasn't for the name tag . . . damn! You're leaving already?”

“Yes. I'm not feeling well.”

Paul's eyes made another slow tour of her body. “You look pretty healthy to me.” His blatant appreciation made Katie feel like a specimen under the microscope. Uncomfortable, she turned away.

“I'm sorry,” Paul apologized. “I can't help it. You just look so . . .”

“Hot?” Katie supplied hopefully, turning back around.

Paul laughed. “Yeah, hot. How long you in town for?”

“For the year. I'm on sabbatical, writing a book.”

“You're a writer?”

“I'm a sociologist. Mainly. I teach at Fallowfield College. In Vermont?”

Paul nodded. “Soc 101 with Professor Katie Fisher. Maybe I'll take your class sometime.”

“I thought you went to Cornell, Paul.”

“Yeah, but I never graduated. Most of my time was spent at Lynah Rink.”

“Ah.”

“What's your book about?” he asked.

The desire to extricate herself from this conversation was strong. She was sure it was only a matter of time before he, like Liz Flaherty, reminded her of his past superiority to her. Yet Paul was easy on the eyes; part of her wanted to keep chatting. And, insane as it sounded, she sensed he was interested. “Sports and male identity.”

“Really.”
Paul raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Want to fill me in?”

“Like I said, I'm a sociologist. I mainly study athletes, and I thought it would be interesting to explore the role sports plays in defining the masculinity of American men.”

“I see.”

“Society today lacks the initiation rituals that were part and parcel of tribal societies. The result has been that men are confused about being men.”

Paul's gaze turned unexpectedly seductive. “I'm not.”

Flustered. Katie continued, “My book is about how sports offers young men a way to experience masculine relationships, rituals, and values—things they would have received in a tribal setting. I also want to show that there's a relationship between the construct of male identity and sports as a social institution, that is, one which is regulated by—”

Paul held up a hand. “Gotcha.”

“I'm sorry.” Katie clasped her now clammy hands together. “I have a tendency to get carried away when I'm enthusiastic about something.”

Paul looked amused. “I can see that.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe I can help you out.”

“Really? Would you be willing to be interviewed?”

“Sure.”

“That would be great, especially since I'm trying to understand not only boys and men who are currently involved in sports and how it affects them, but ex-athletes as well.”

Annoyance flickered across the handsome face. “Just because my career is over doesn't mean I'm an ‘ex-athlete.' ”

Katie blinked. “Right. Of course. Well, let's think about setting up an interview sometime. How long are
you
in town for?”

“The rest of my life, Katie.”

 

 

Knowing her mother
would squawk if she came home too early, Katie left Tivoli Gardens and drove directly to the Barnes and Noble two towns over. Didsbury had yet to join the twenty-first century: There were no big box bookstores, no Starbucks, no multiplexes. Katie appreciated the quaintness, but she'd grown used to life in a vibrant college town where music, dance, lectures, indie films, ethnic restaurants, and, most important of all, skim-milk lattes, were readily available. Coming back to Didsbury was like stepping back in time.

She ordered a skim-milk latte and sat browsing through a big stack of magazines until enough time had passed for her mother to believe she'd been whooping it up at the reunion. Now, walking through the front door of her mother's house, she was greeted by the familiar sight of her mother sitting on the couch, absorbed in her needlepoint, occasionally lifting her head at the sound of something blowing up on the TV.

“Katie!” Her mother looked up. “How was the reunion? Tell me all about it!”

“It was nice,” Katie said, joining her mother on the couch.

Her mother frowned. “Specifics, I want specifies.”

“Well, there was someone there who used to be a man but is now a woman.”

Her mother coughed nervously. “What else?”

“A couple of the guys I graduated with died in Iraq a few years ago.”

“I'd heard that,” her mother murmured. She put aside her needlework and looked at Katie hopefully. “Were your old friends there?”

Yup
, Katie longed to say,
Mickey D was there, and so was Little Debbie and the Frito Bandito
. Who were these mythical “old friends” her mother kept referring to? Her refusal to deal with the reality of Katie's life in high school was incredible. But it had always been that way. Katie would come home from school, her mother would ask how her day was, Katie would tell her some girls had started calling her Miss Piggy, and her mother would dismiss it with, “Oh, they didn't mean it.” Or “Oh, you must be exaggerating.” Her mother simply couldn't deal with the fact that her oldest child was a misfit. Her penchant for denial had been even stronger when it came to Mina, who started sneaking out at night to meet her druggy friends right after their father died. “Mina would never do that,” her mother insisted. It wasn't until Mina dropped out of high school and then got pregnant with Tuck that her mother reluctantly admitted that her younger daughter was troubled.

Not wanting to burst her mother's bubble, Katie took the easy way out: she fibbed. “Yes, all my old friends were there. It was great to see them.”

Her mother nodded knowingly. “I told you it would be fun.”

“It was until Liz Flaherty showed up.”

“Oohh, that little bitch.”

“Mom!” Katie was genuinely shocked. Her mother rarely spoke ill of anyone.

“Well, it's true,” her mother sniffed. “Everyone in that family has their nose so high in the air you can see the back of their throats! You'd think with all the money they have they'd give more to the Sunday collection plate at church, but no. They're cheap as a Woolworth's suit.” Her mother paused a moment to watch a police shootout on TV. “She's back in town to stay, you know. Divorce,” she said distractedly.

“Who, Liz?”

“Yes.” She turned her full attention back to Katie. “Married some older man for his money—as if she didn't have enough!—had a child the first year they were married, and then took him for all he was worth. She's a bad seed, that one.”

“Mom? Can I ask you a personal question?”

Alarm sprang into her mother's eyes. “As long as it doesn't have to do with s-e-x.”

“How do you
know
these things?”

“It's a small town, Katie. People talk. A lot of dirt gets dished over coffee and cake after church.”

Katie leaned forward to take off her high heels. “So, have you church ladies heard anything about Paul van Dorn?” she asked casually, wiggling her toes.

“Oh, that poor boy.”

“What?” Katie was surprised. He looked pretty darn okay at the reunion. She wondered what could make him a “poor boy”. A beautiful wife who died tragically young? Mazarati in the shop for repairs? Manhattan penthouse not big enough?

“You know he was a hockey star. In New York.”

“Yes, Mom, I knew that,” Katie said patiently. For a while, it was all anyone had been able to talk about in Didsbury: how Paul van Dorn went straight from Cornell to the NHL. Katie half expected the Chamber of Commerce to erect a statue of him in the town square.

“Well, he was forced to retire early. Three bad concussions in a row. The doctors told him if he kept playing he risked severe brain damage. His mother said he still gets dizzy spells. She makes a wonderful apple crisp, you know.”

Forced to retire early.
So that's why Paul's face had registered such naked pain when she'd asked him how long he was in town for. His hockey career was over at twenty-eight.
Poor boy is right,
Katie thought with genuine sympathy. She tried to imagine not being able to do the one thing you love best, but couldn't. It had to be awful.