Page 8 of The Love Penalty

“Hey Robbie, your order is almost ready, it’s just gonna be a few more minutes,” the bartender says and turns around to fill another order.

Well, so much for him leaving. He steps up to my right, leaning in sideways on the bar, his back to the kitchen door, facing me. I can feel him taking me in, although I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him.

After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only about 40 seconds, I face him and ask, “Can I help you with something, Elliot?”

He gives me an amused smile, his blue eyes sparkling, “My friends call me Robbie.”

“We are far from friends, Mr. Elliot,” I deadpan.

“Ouch. Mr. Elliot is my father, please don’t insult me,” he puts both his hands on his heart and feigns hurt. “And I know we just met, but trust me, we’ll be friends,” he says with an easy smile.

I scoff and shake my head, “I’m here to do a job and be impartial, not to make friends, Captain.”

He tilts his head and observes me for a moment, then says, “I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive.”

“Wow, big words for a hockey player!” Why the hell did that just come out of my mouth? I’m making assumptions and stereotyping this guy when I don’t know anything about him. I take a peek at his face and see his smile fading. Well, now I feel like shit.

“Sorry, not sure why I said that,” I admit sheepishly.

“It’s fine. Hey, did you order the chronic fries? They are delicious,” he deflects and looks around the bar and plays with a straw wrapper. Did I really hurt his feelings with that comment?

I swallow and say, “No, I got the grilled cheese.” He nods and looks everywhere but at me, and the loss of his attention hits me harder than it should. I was actually enjoying the conversation. Until I ruined it. Why am I so bad at this?

I mentally kick myself and ask, “So, why don’t you think the two are mutually exclusive?”

He takes a moment, still folding the straw wrapper until it’s a small square in his big hands. I notice that he doesn’t like to stand still and for some reason that makes me smile. He finally looks up at me and says, “Because, you being objective and impartial has nothing to do with friendship. You can still have a friendly relationship with players and respect them the same way they respect you, and not have to rule in their favor. Take Bob for example, I’ve known him for the last five years, and we have a great friendship even though he’s sent me to the box dozens, if not hundreds of times. He shows me pictures of his vacations and kids, and I tell him about my life too. We don’t hang out outside of the game, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see him as a friend.”

I listen intently and nod. He makes a good point, but I’m not Bob. Bob’s probably someone who’s good with people. He continues to watch me, waiting for a reply or a reaction. When hedoesn’t get one, he continues, “I think you made all the fair calls on the ice tonight, and I don’t hold anything against you. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. You did a great job asserting yourself and making the players respect you out there. We need more women in the hockey world.”

I blink at him a few times but still don’t say anything. Because what should I say? The truth is I’ve been wanting to hear that from someone who is not my grandma or my mentor, someone with an outside perspective. Hearing it from him makes me tear up a little, because for whatever reason, I respect his opinion. He’s been in the game for so long, he knows what the pressure is like. I look away before he can see tears forming and because I don’t know how to take a compliment, I quietly mumble, “Thanks.”

I don’t know if he hears it, because the next moment, the bartender shows up with my food and a to-go bag for him. “You’re all set, Robbie, have a good night.”

“Thanks, man,” Robbie says with an easy smile. The bag is dangling from his left hand and his right is still leaning on the bar as he’s facing me.

“Well, Miss Referee, it was nice meeting you. I look forward to our next game,” he taps the bar twice with his fist and another smile and starts to turn to leave.

Before he can, I swivel in my seat and say, “Don’t call me that, I don’t like nicknames.”

That makes him turn back and I notice his puzzled look, “What should I call you then?”

“Olivia.”

SEVEN

Robbie

Olivia.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since that night two weeks ago at my brother’s restaurant, The Arcadian. After a game, I usually grab some food and head home to my two cats. My house is only a ten minute drive north of downtown and by the time I shower at the arena and pick up the food, the highway is nice and clear.

I didn’t expect to see her there, and I definitely didn’t expect to start a conversation with her either, but I felt this pull that I could not ignore. Her hair was in a braid that was resting on her shoulder, and she had wisps of wavy hair around her face. She was wearing only the littlest bit of makeup and she looked ethereal. Her green eyes were so piercing, I felt like she was seeing right down to my core.

Not only is she incredibly attractive, but she’s smart too and I love that she isn’t intimidated by me. Most people are, due to my size and the fact that I play a fairly violent sport. If anything, I should be intimidated by her. She seems tough as nails and sheasserted herself with poise during the game. Some of the players on the Foxes team kept snickering and making small comments about her being a woman, but she shut them down immediately by reminding them that she is a game official and has every right to throw someone off the ice if they are being disrespectful.

In the past two weeks, we played five games, three at home and two away. The second away game was in Cleveland and I saw Olivia again.

During the game I said hello to her a few times but only got a nod in return. She was most definitely ignoring me and my attempts at making friends. I’m still not sure why she’s so averted to it. Maybe it’s because she thinks it’ll be perceived as favoritism, but I can’t say I’ve ever had that issue with any of the refs I am friends with. If anything, they crack down on me even harder when I’m being a dickhead and make stupid mistakes on the ice.

---