Page 101 of Delayed Penalty

“That’s…”

“Fucked up? Yeah, I know.”

Though I can feel the sadness coming off her, I like that she doesn’t try to tell me how sorry she is for me. I’ve always hated everyone’s pity whenever they find out about my past.

“How—and please don’t take this the wrong way—how did you afford to play?”

“I didn’t.” I laugh lightly. “We had this community center in town, and I used to go a lot because it was free and a safe place to hang out after school. Anything was better than going home, so I would sit and watch the practices and games. I fell in love with the sport without ever stepping on the ice. One night when I was about ten, during a particularly bad fight my parents were having where I got an ashtray lobbed at my head, I snuck out of the house and into the rink. I found an old pair of skates in the lost and found, and I took ’em for a spin.” I smile, remembering it. “I could barely make it around the ice the first lap, but on the second?I was golden. Flying all over the place. For the first time ever, I felt free, like nothing bad that was happening at home could touch me out there.”

I blink rapidly, my eyes suddenly stinging. I try not to look back at the shit life I had too often, and right now, it’s feeling a lot closer than it has in a long time. I have no idea why I’m telling Quinn all this, but I can’t stop.

“Anyway, I got caught. I guess the coach was in his office working late, and I had no idea. He came out and busted me, then offered me the bargain of a lifetime—I could pay him back for using his rink by keeping his locker room clean, and in exchange, I could come out and skate whenever he wasn’t using the ice.”

“You spent way too much time out there, didn’t you?” she guesses.

“Yep. I was out there every night and every morning, skating until my legs were screaming at me.”

“Did you just skate, or…”

“Eventually, Coach noticed my dedication and gave me a stick and some gloves. It was used, ratty equipment that was way too big for me, but I didn’t care. I worked hard for a year and saved every spare penny I had from mowing lawns so I could pay the registration fee and join the league. Of course, I hadn’t thought of actually buying equipment that fit me. But I guess at that point, Coach hada special interest in me and gave me some stuff he said was ‘defective’ that just happened to be my exact size.” I laugh to myself. “Of course, I realize now he bought it specially for me, but man, I was ready as hell to believe the lie back then. Anything that got me on that team.”

“He sounds like a great guy,” Quinn says.

“He was. The best. He coached me, spending extra hours at the rink to run drills with me to get me up to where I needed to be, and then he personally took me to and from games. He gave me a chance at a better life, and I wish he were here right now to see me living my dream. Probably wouldn’t be proud of some of the shit I’ve pulled along the way, but…”

“Maybe not you throwing that statue into the pool.”

I wince. “That was such a stupid move.”

“It was, but we all make mistakes. We all do those things we aren’t supposed to that sound good in the moment and come back to bite us in the ass later.”

Like us.We aren’t supposed to be doing what we’re doing, but it sure did sound good when we agreed to this affair of ours. Now… Well, fuck, itstillsounds good, even though we still aren’t supposed to be doing it.

Guess I haven’t quite learned my lesson, huh?

“But he’d be proud,” she says. “There’s no way hewouldn’t be. You’re playing in the NHL, you have a niece who worships you, and you’re no longer destroying hotel rooms just for the fun of it. I’d say that’s something to be proud of.”

She’s right. Thatissomething to be proud of. Sure, it’s the bare minimum, but it’s still something. Better than how I used to be, that’s for damn sure.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

We fall silent again, nothing but hushed breaths and running thoughts. And mine are definitely running right now.

Where is she? Is she curled up in her bed or on the couch, a muted TV show flashing across the screen? Is she wearing those ridiculously short sleep shorts she prances around in? Is her hair that feels like silk between my fingers up in a messy bun or hanging loose around her shoulders? Does she smell like butterscotch?

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course she smells like butterscotch.

“Well…” she says after several minutes. “I should probably head to bed, and you should too. I know it’s late there.”

Itislate, and Ishouldget to bed. But I want to keep talking to her too.

Then she yawns, and I know there’s no way I’m going to keep her up.

“Probably, sleepyhead.”

“Hey, I’ve been wrangling a seven-year-old and a cat named Pickles who she tried to sneak into school all day. What have you done?” She pauses. “Wait. Don’t answer that.”

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