The Penalty Box (10 page)

“These kids are supposed to get up before the crack of dawn, go to practice, and then attend a full day of school?” one mother called out incredulously.

“I don't make the rules, ma'am, nor do I set the practice time.”
Not only that, but I managed to live through it, and so will your son, unless he's a totally uncommitted wuss.
“If you've got a problem with it, take it up with the board.” Paul smiled at the boys. “I'll have your jerseys ready for you at the next practice, as well as the team handbook. The name of this team has always been the Panthers. That okay with you guys?”

The boys nodded. “Cool,” a few murmured.

“Good. That's it, then. Parents, when you fill out the registration form upon leaving, would you please also consider signing up to volunteer? We need all the help we can get. Thanks again, everybody.” He smiled broadly at the boys. “See you guys next week!”

“See you, Coach van Dorn!”

 

 

Katie hesitated, wondering if he'd heard her. She'd sent Tuck ahead to grab a place in the registration line for them, then hung back, waiting for the crowd of parents and kids to disperse. Everyone did—except Liz Flaherty, who was obviously wondering what the hell
Katie
would have to talk to Paul about.

Hearing his name, Paul turned. Momentary dismay skidded across his features. Katie cringed. She hoped she wasn't the source of his displeasure.

“Ladies?”

Liz eyed Katie. Katie eyed Liz. “After you,” Liz said politely.

“No, after you,” said Katie.

“This is private,” Liz said pointedly.

“So is this,” Katie shot back.

Paul scrubbed his hands over his face. “Will one of you please talk? I've got to get down to the bar.”

Liz threw Katie a haughty look. “I'll go first, then, if you don't mind.”

“By all means.” Katie walked away until she was well out of earshot. She watched Paul and Liz out of the corner of her eye. Paul kept shaking his head “No.” Liz went to put her hand on Paul's shoulder, but Paul stepped out of reach. The next thing Katie knew, Liz was stomping toward her.

“All yours,” she said with a scowl.

Tentative, Katie made her way back to where Paul now sat on one of the benches. “Lovers' quarrel?” she asked, half fearing the answer.

“In her dreams.”

“I'm sorry,” they both said at the same time. Then they both burst out laughing.

“That was odd,” said Katie, discomfited.

“I'll say. What are
you
sorry about?” Paul asked.

“Upsetting you during the interview. And you?”

“Getting upset during the interview. Sorry I was so testy.” He glanced down. “I can be a jerk sometimes.”

“I remember.”

He cracked a sad smile. “I should probably apologize to you for high school, too.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“Can I make it up to you?”

“Make what up to me?”

“Years of being a boneheaded jock who made your life hell. Bruising your bumper. Being a crummy interview subject. All of it.”

Kate's heart began stammering in her chest. “It depends. If it involves champagne and caviar, maybe. If it involves watching sports, no.”

“How about something in the middle, like dinner?”

Katie nodded slowly. “Dinner could be nice.”

“What's your pleasure?”

“Anywhere but the Penalty Box.”

Paul looked surprised.

“It would be nice to talk to you without the adoring masses,” Katie explained.

“Hmm. Well, the Tiv sucks, so that's out.”

“Not in the mood for bratwurst?”

“Never.” Paul tapped his pen against his clipboard. “How about that French place, Mirabelle, over in Langley?”

“Isn't that place extremely costly?”

Paul just looked at her.

“Right, I forgot, you're loaded.” Katie sighed. “Mirabelle it is.”

“How 'bout I pick you up around seven tomorrow night?”

“Fine.” Katie took his clipboard and pen and wrote down her address and phone number for him. “You need directions?”

“I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.”

“Okay, then,” Katie said, slightly breathless. “Tomorrow night it is.”

Katie stared at the picnic basket in Paul's hand. She'd dressed for a night out at a chic French restaurant, making sure to wear the scarf he'd given her. Paul, on the other hand, was more casually dressed: chinos, blue LaCoste shirt, Pumas. He was smiling at her, completely oblivious to her confusion.

“I thought we were going to Mirabelle?”

“I called to make reservations. They've gone out of business. I took the liberty of picking up a few things for us instead.” He lifted the basket by way of explanation.

“I wish you'd called me,” said Katie, holding the door open so he could come inside.

“I tried. The line's been tied up for hours.”

Tuck. On the computer.
Time to chat with him about that.

“Well.” Katie sighed. “Let me go get changed.”

“No,” Paul said quickly. “I mean—you look nice. Lovely scarf.”

“Thank you. A blind jogger gave it to me.”

Paul laughed.

“Seriously, let me—”

“Don't.” There was no mistaking the appreciation in his eyes as he looked at her. “I've got a blanket. I promise you won't get dirty.”

“Okay,” Katie said uncertainly. Embarrassed, she added, “My mother is dying to meet you. Would you mind?”

“I'd love it.”

Katie excused herself and went to the kitchen to get her mother. Earlier her mom had been in her usual “home” wear: elastic-waist blue jeans and a turtleneck topped with a fleece. Now, to Katie's astonishment, she was in one of her best church dresses, a tropical-print number that made her look like an escapee from a Jimmy Buffett video.

“Why did you change?” Katie gasped.

“I wanted to make a good impression,” her mother replied.

“It's Paul van Dorn, Ma, not Prince Charles.”

Her mother shrugged diffidently and with a flounce, started toward the living room, Katie trailing behind.

“Paul.” Her mother gracefully extended a hand. “So honored to meet you.”

Please God
, Katie prayed,
don't let her drop down into a curtsey.

Paul smiled politely. “Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Fisher.”

Katie couldn't meet his eye; she was too busy staring down at the brown shag carpet, hoping it would open up and swallow her.

“How's your head injury?” Katie's mother continued chattily. “I hear medical science is doing simply wonderful things for brain damage these days.”

Katie lightly cupped Paul's elbow, steering him back toward the door. “We'd really love to stay and chat, Mom, but we have to run. See you later.”

“Sorry about that,” she said once they were outside.

“What?” Paul asked, getting the car door for her.

“My mother's transformation into a curtseying neurologist. I don't think I've ever heard her use the phrase ‘so honored to meet you' in my life.”

“There's a first time for everything. Ready?” he asked as he slid into the driver's seat.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought we'd go down to Nesmith's Creek.”

“O-okay.”

“Not okay?”

“Isn't that where high school kids go to make out?”

“Not anymore. At least, I don't think so.” He winked at her mischievously. “Guess we'll find out.”

Engine roaring, he backed out of the driveway with a screech of the tires and began racing up the street. Katie had been so preoccupied with getting him out of her mother's house she'd failed to notice what kind of car he had. All she knew was that it seemed to go very fast, very quickly and the seats were low to the ground.

“What kind of car is this?”

“A 1969 Shelby Cobra,” Paul said proudly, revving the engine again. “Just bought it.”

Katie smiled indulgently. She knew nothing about cars. As long as it had four wheels and got her where she wanted to go, that was all that mattered. Speed and status meant nothing to her.

“So this picnic,” she began tentatively. “What have we got in the basket?”

“Wine, of course. Some pâté. Caviar. Fresh mozzarella and roasted peppers. Crackers. Brie. Granny Smith apples. And last but not least, chocolate truffles.”

Katie barely heard the specifics, her mind translating the picnic menu into “Fat, fat, and more fat.” She tried not to panic. Going off Fat Fighters for one night wasn't going to wreck years of careful dieting, right? Besides, she was starving. She'd been so nervous about tonight she'd barely been able to choke down any food all day.

“How's the book coming?” Paul asked. He was driving so fast Katie swore she could feel the G forces beginning to pin back her flesh.

“Fine. Um, Paul, could you slow down? You're driving a little fast.”

He flashed her a confident smile. “Don't worry. I know what I'm doing.” He continued, “What did you think of that parent going after at me at tryouts? Nuts, huh?”

“What a lunatic that guy was!”

“You didn't recognize him?”

“No. Should I have?”

“That was Cheech Mahoney's little brother, Des. Used to turn his eyelids inside out for fun?”

Katie sighed. “Now I remember. This town is too small.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Paul, negotiating an extremely sharp curve that had Katie swearing the car had just gone up on two wheels. “These sports parents are nuts.”

“Weren't they always?” Katie asked, gripping the door handle, hard.

“Not the way they are now.”

“I meant to ask you something about practice.”
If we don't die in a fiery wreck first.

“Mmm?”

Dusk was falling outside, the sky a muted gray streaked with soft bands of pink. Perhaps it was the way the light hit the planes of Paul's face, but all Katie could think as she looked at him was:
This guy is breathtakingly perfect.
It was a disconcerting thought.

“Would you mind if I occasionally attended practice? To observe for the book?”

“No problem,” Paul said easily, “but I'd check with Tuck if I were you. He might feel a bit self-conscious with you there.”

“Ah. Hadn't thought of that.”

“I saw you signed up to be home game penalty box official.”

“What?”

Paul chuckled. “Let me rephrase that: I see Tuck signed you up to be home game penalty box official.”

“That little—! I know nothing about hockey!”

Paul leaned over, patting her knee. “You'll learn.”

 

 

Katie had never
been to Nesmith's Creek, but she'd always wondered about it, having heard from Mina it was lovely. In high school, it was known as a big make-out spot. She'd often contemplated taking a walk there on a weekend afternoon, but the threat of people sniggering, “There goes Orca” or “Beached whale” as she strolled along the mossy embankment had always kept her away. Now, sitting with her feet tucked up beneath her on a plaid blanket beside Paul van Dorn, she knew it was a place she'd return to, especially the gorgeous weeping willow he'd chosen for their picnic spot. It seemed the perfect place to just relax and let her thoughts drift by.

“What can I get you?” Paul asked, looking pleased with himself as he surveyed the array of foods he'd set out.

“Some Brie on a cracker with a slice of apple would be nice,” said Katie, coughing loudly to cover her rumbling stomach.

“You okay?” Paul looked concerned as he sliced into the Brie.

“Bug flew down my throat,” Katie fibbed. She was so hungry her ribs ached. And yet, taking the hors d'oeuvre Paul made for her, she could feel her throat closing up from anxiety. Awful, what nerves could do to the body. She forced herself to take a nibble of the cracker, washing it down with a hearty gulp of wine. The wine seemed to help. Tipping her head back, she drank more.

“You know, this reminds me of one time when the Blades were playing down in Florida . . .” Paul began.

An hour later, Katie realized two things: One, that Paul had spoken almost entirely about the past, and, two, that she was drunk, having downed three glasses of wine very quickly on an empty stomach.

“You haven't eaten very much,” Paul pointed out.

“No.” Looking at the food now, the last thing Katie felt was ravenous hunger. Instead it brought bile to her throat.

“Are you afraid of getting fat again?” Paul asked bluntly.

Katie turned her head so sharply to look at him the world went reeling. Oh, this was not good. She put down her wineglass, placing both palms on the blanket for support.

“No,” she said faintly. “Well, maybe. A little.”

“You can always run it off tomorrow.” He held out some red peppers and mozzarella to her. “C'mon, I want you to eat a little more.”

Katie waved it away, the smell seeping into her nostrils, making her stomach tumble against her will. “I'm fine, Paul, really.”

“I bet you know the calorie count of everything.”

“Pretty much.”

“How many calories is this?” Taking her right hand, he delicately kissed each of her fingertips.