The Penalty Box (6 page)

“I know, but . . .” her mother glanced uncomfortably out the window. “The hockey is a lot of money.
A lot
.”

“So?”

“Maybe Tuck needs to learn that we can't always get what we want.”

Katie laughed bitterly. “I'm sure Tuck already knows that, believe me.”

Her mother's eyes found hers. “What if Mina never gets better?” she whispered.

“Mina's going to be fine, Mom.” Katie folded her into an embrace. “It's a process. One of the things that's going to help her through is us having faith in her. Right?”

Her mother nodded, sniffling against her chest. “I'm sorry. I'm being silly.”

“No, you're not.”

“Katie? Tuck's right. You stink to high heaven.” They broke apart, laughing.

“So, you'll let me cover Tuck's hockey fees?” Katie pressed.

“Yes,” her mother conceded reluctantly. “I just worry, because it's mostly the rich kids in town who play youth hockey. They're the only ones who can afford it. What if Tuck feels out of place?”

“He'll be
fine
,” Katie said. “He'll have new equipment like everyone else.”

“And when the other boys ask what country club his parents belong to? Where he
lives
?”

Katie swallowed. “He'll handle it, Mom. Kids are remarkably resilient.” Personal experience had taught her that much.

“All right.” Her mother grabbed a dishrag and began drying a plate. “If he makes the team, and you're willing to cover the costs, then hockey it is for Tuck. But if he gets hurt—”

“Then I'll cover his medical bills, too,” Katie teased. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around her mother once more and gave her a big, sloppy kiss. “Everything's going to be fine. Stop worrying.”

 

 

Paul might have
fled Liz Flaherty's without his socks, but at least he'd left with enough time to shoot back to his own place for a shower and change of clothes. He was surprised he felt anxious about his meeting with the president and vice president of the Youth Hockey League Board of Directors.

He knew both men. Doug Burton, the president, had been Paul's coach when he was on the Bantam team. VP Charles “Chick” Perry's son Chandler had played hockey with Paul until tenth grade, when a knee injury sidelined him for good. Chick also golfed regularly with Paul's dad.

Paul's decision to coach once he returned to Didsbury had been a no-brainer. Without hockey in his life, he would die. Hockey was who he was. It had shaped everything about him. He'd contemplated coaching on the minor league level, but was afraid it would be too painful to coach men his own age, men who could skate freely without the same kind of fears that Paul lived with. Besides, he wanted to give something back to the community that had championed him his whole life.

He strode through the doors of the Didsbury Country Club, trying to remember the last time he'd been here. It had to be when he'd been drafted by the Blades. His dad had taken him here for scotch and cigars to celebrate. There was lots of back-patting and talk about being a star, the best, the cream of the crop. He remembered his father dragging him from table to table, telling total strangers all his son had achieved. And now . . .

Squaring his shoulders, Paul smiled at the stooped mâitre'd, Kenneth, who'd been here as long as Paul could remember.

“Mr. van Dorn.” Kenneth extended a veiny hand for Paul to shake. “It's been too long. How may I help you?”

“I'm here to meet Doug Burton and Chick Perry for lunch.”

“Both men have already arrived. I'll show you to the table.”

Paul dutifully followed Kenneth through the dining room. Though there appeared to be some businessmen present, the large, sunny room was filled mainly with well-heeled women of different ages in various stages of eating disorders. He scoured the room for his own mother, surprised to find her absent. Whenever someone in the family couldn't locate her, the joke had always been “Check the DCC.” Didsbury Country Club, tennis, and various social committees: That was his mother's life.

Kenneth led him outside to the covered patio overlooking the rolling green hills of a Robert Trent Jones-designed golf course. Paul had never “gotten” golf, despite his father's occasional encouragement. Where was the rush? The danger? The
blood
? He knew lots of hockey players played golf to relax, but he wasn't one of them.

“Paul.” Doug Burton rose with a warm smile for the boy he'd once called “Baby Gretzky.” Paul would have recognized him anywhere: same granite features pocked with small scars, same scary brush cut, though it was now gray. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Coach Burton.”

“Please, call me Doug.”

Paul paused, waiting for Chick Perry to struggle out of his chair. A hugely overweight man with a florid face and unruly eyebrows, he nonetheless still managed to project an air of quiet superiority, not surprising considering how much money he was worth. Clasping Paul's forearm, he shook it so hard Paul wondered if he was hoping some change might drop out of his sleeve. “Paul.”
Shake shake shake.
“So wonderful”—
hacking cough, wheeze, shake
—“to see you.”

“You, too, Mr. Perry,” Paul replied carefully, worried for the older man's health. The exertion it had taken him to get out of the chair had been so substantial Paul was afraid the reverse action of sitting back down might be the catalyst for a coronary.

“Please.” He hurled himself back down into his chair, gasping. “None of this ‘Mr. Perry' crap. From now on it's Chick.”

“Chick,” Paul repeated, taking his seat. “How is Chandler?”

“He's a big-shot lawyer in Chicago now, with a little boy and a wife with an ass so big you could land the space shuttle on it.”

Paul stifled a snort. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

“Tell him I say hello,” said Paul politely.

“I will, I will.” Chick reached for his water glass, chugging down the contents.

“Drink?” Coach Burton offered.

Paul briefly considered the offer, applying the “hair of the dog” theory to his hangover. One or two beers might make him feel more human. Then again, suppose it didn't work? He was still feeling like he'd been dragged behind a chariot, and there was no way he wanted to risk feeling even worse. “Water's fine for me,” he said, helping himself to a glass from the large, sweating pitcher in the middle of the table.

Chick pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, running it over his gleaming face before turning to Paul. “I just want to say, on behalf of Doug and myself, how sorry we are about what happened to you.”

Paul stiffened. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

“To be a successful professional athlete, and then be forced to retire in your prime.” He shook his head sadly. “It's a tragedy.”

“Your father said you've done a real nice job with Cuffy's,” Chick continued.

“I have. Stop by sometime. Drinks'll be on the house.”

“I sure will.”

Paul fidgeted, anxious to get the ball rolling. He'd come prepared to endure a certain amount of empty pleasantries, but kicking off the conversation by talking about his premature retirement was rapidly sending his mood south. “Have you guys already ordered?”

“I told Kenneth to bring three plates of the catch of the day,” boomed Doug. “I hope that's all right.”

“Terrific,” Paul lied. Fish . . . his stomach heaved. He should have taken Alka-Seltzer before coming.

“So, Paul.” Doug's voice was collegial, but there was no mistaking the uneasy glance he shared with Chick. “Chick and I have talked to the other members of the hockey board, and we want to congratulate you. You've been chosen to coach the squirt snowbelt team.”

Paul blinked, stunned. His first thought was,
This is a fucking joke, right?
But the longer the silence at the table dragged on, the more he was forced to acknowledge that Chick and Doug were in deadly earnest.

“Now, I know you were hoping to coach the midget travel team,” Chick continued in the kind of voice one associated with calming someone unstable, “but that's Coach Doherty's domain. Always has been, always will be.”

Coach Doherty? Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. The guy had to be seventy if he was a day.

“I'm surprised he's still coaching at his age,” Paul replied without missing a beat. “I thought he'd like to go out while he was at the top of his game.”

Chick chuckled nervously. “I don't think Doherty has any intention of retiring, Paul.”

Paul held his tongue, but it was hard. If there was one coach he'd hated when he was growing up, it was Dan Doherty. Doherty was real old-school; not only was he a fervent believer in the “Skill/drill/kill” approach to coaching, he was also big on humiliating his players if they didn't perform up to his standards. Paul could still hear Doherty's voice in his head, calling him a “goddamn pussy” in front of the whole team for the penalty shot he'd missed in a crucial game against Hartford. The guy was a total SOB, an emotional terrorist. Worse, he swanned around town like he was some big-time hockey player, when the only thing of note he'd ever done was back in 1959, when he'd scored the winning goal that won Didsbury High the state championship that year.

“You seem surprised,” Chick observed carefully.

“You could say that.”

“It's a matter of paying dues, Paul.” Doug Burton's voice was resolute. “You're new. New guys start at the bottom of the totem pole.”

New?
Paul longed to shout.
I played for the fucking New York Blades!
Instead he forced a polite smile, which both men returned. The silence at the table resumed. Finally, Doug broke the ice.

“I sense you're upset, Paul.”

“Well,” he began calmly, “I thought that since I've actually
played
in the NHL, I might be the logical choice to coach the midget travel team. As we all know, those kids are the best. They need the best coach they can get, someone who's experienced hockey at the highest level.” He looked at both men carefully. “Don't you think a change of blood after all these years might be good?”

Doug nodded slowly. “Maybe. Eventually. But for now, Coach Doherty remains the midget travel coach.”

Paul clenched his jaw. “I see.” He thought of asking if they'd consider letting him coach the midget home team, but he didn't want to sound desperate. No, what he wanted was to coach hungry young athletes who knew the game and lived for it the way he had! Not spazzy little nine- and ten-year-olds who weren't even allowed to check each other!

“Paul.” Doug's voice was cajoling. “It's a matter of paying dues, like we already said. You have to
earn it
, son.”

Paul bristled. “You don't think I've paid dues?”

Chick sighed, tenting his sausage-size fingers. “What happened to you was unfortunate. No one denies that. But you can't just waltz back into town and declare yourself sheriff. Understand what I'm saying?”

Doug Burton leaned over, giving Paul a paternal pat on the back. “We need your skill and expertise with the little guys. You can appreciate that, can't you?”

Paul stopped himself from responding lest his foot get permanently lodged in his mouth. The nausea he'd been holding at bay threatened to wreak havoc as his fish dish was placed in front of him. “I appreciate your offer. I need to think about it.”

“There are lots of men in this town who would love the chance to coach the squirts,” said Doug. “If you're not up to the task, we need to know as soon as possible.”

“I'm up to the task,” Paul shot back.

“Is that a yes, then?”

“Yes.”

 

 

Pride, Paul mused to himself the next morning as he jogged down the leafy streets making up the heart of Didsbury's exclusive Ladybarn District, could be a dangerous thing. Had Doug Burton not inferred he was inadequate, chances are he would have suffered through the rest of their uncomfortable lunch, said his farewells, and called the next day to say he wasn't interested. Now look where he was: committed to coaching the squirts. For what? To prove something to his ex-coach? There was something to be said for engaging your brain before opening your mouth. At least he hadn't embarrassed himself and thrown up his fish.

He pushed himself to run faster, warm rivulets of sweat trailing down his face and chest. He might not be able to fly down the ice anymore, but he could still fly down paved streets, though there were times when dizziness suddenly overtook him and he had to slow down or stop altogether.

Running helped him sweat out the bitterness that sometimes threatened to engulf him. When he ran, he wasn't Paul, the promising young hockey god who'd been forced into early retirement, or Paul the neophyte bar owner, or Paul the returning hero. He simply
was
, brain and body working in tandem to drive him ever forward toward an endorphin high that made his disappointment bearable, if only for a short while.

He rounded Locust Drive, with its mock Tudor mansions and well-manicured lawns boasting discreet signs for home security systems, and began his downhill descent on Piping Rock Lane, toward Main Street. The steep, sloping road jarred his knees but he kept on, gritting his teeth. He may not be a Blade anymore, but he was still a warrior, and a warrior pushed through the pain. Not only that, but this warrior was going to produce a squirt team so hot people's heads were going to spin.