Page 1 of Penalty Zone

Chapter 1

Caleb

Jeezelouizemothertrucker. If I paid attention, this wouldn’t be a problem.

“Hold the elevator,” I yell, right before I careen through the closing door, crashing into the back wall, and narrowly missing the poor woman pushing the button for me. Hands on my knees, I try to catch my breath.

I need a plan.

The question is, how far am I willing to go to save Lucky from Mr. Dimon’s wrath? Do I offer to be traded? No, that’s stupid. There has to be a better solution. But nothing pops into my head to make this better. If my carelessness jeopardizes Lucky’s sobriety, I willneverforgive myself.

Son-of-a-biscuit.

The elevator dings, and there’s no plan or compelling plea. I guess I’m storming the castle.

This is probably a terrible idea. The worst I’ve ever had.

But…I take a deep breath, smile, ignore Mr. Dimon’s assistant, Wes, and swing his door open, announcing, “It’s totally my fault. Don’t blame—” I stop short because standing there larger than life is not my friend, Dylon Felix, a.k.a. Lucky.

It’s Leo Griffin.

The man I’m obsessed with—my best friend’s father.

My brain combusts into a million pieces, individually dripping all over the very expensive plush carpeting with the team’s logo in the middle. My favorite hockey icon, in person, melting my skeletal frame along with my common sense. In the decade of friendship with Mason, Leo and I have only been in the same room a handful of times. He’s never had me in his sights, never this close, never without my pads as armor.

Leo Griffin is intimidating with his shrewd eyes, jet-black hair that looks blueish in the light, and broad frame an inch or so taller than me. The few grays at his temples make him mouth-wateringly distinguished, and I pale in comparison like a kid interrupting the grownups.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dimon, he…he…” Wes tries to find an appropriate way to describe how I charged past him without making me look like a dimwit.

Too late.

There’s no recovering from this. The boss is going to fire me in front of my idol, Leo Griffin. I can’t stop saying his name in my head. It’s stuck on a loop but still not real.

Mr. Dimon waits with one eyebrow raised. He’s a formidable force on a regular day and extra on the day I barge into his office unannounced… What the hell is Leo doing here?

My mouth drops open. “I just saw Mason. Is everything okay? Is he hurt? What happened?” I turn to Leo. Can’t call him that, as if we’re friends. My brain has concocted a personal relationship we absolutely don’t have. “How could something happen so fast? How did you get here?”

“Mr. Benz,” Mr. Dimon snaps, and thankfully, I shut up.

“Sit,” Leo—no, I have to call him Mr. Griffin—commands, and in an effort to obey, my knees bend, but I’m in the middle of the room and sitting on the floor would be silly, so it’s like some weird genuflection. “Over here.” He points to a chair right next to him. His amber eyes track my movements like a lion assessing its prey.

This is how I die.

My mushy brain has enough power to drag my feet closer to him while knowing this is a terrible idea because I am not in control of myself.

“Mason is fine. Leo and I have other business.” Mr. Dimon clears his throat. “I take it you are not here to object to Leo joining the Enforcers?”

“No,” I practically shout. “Wait… What?! Does Mason know? I can’t know before him. I gotta go.” Backtracking, I almost trip because basic human function is beyond me.

It will crush Mason if I find out something as important as this before him. Leo can’t work here. Mason’s finally making a name for himself out from under his father’s shadow.

This can’t be happening.

“Sit.” Leo points again, then says to Mr. Dimon, “I’ll call Mason and give him a heads-up while you sort this out.” He waves in my direction. Mr. Dimon agrees, and as Leo stalks by me, I drown in his cedarwood scent.

My limbs would like to follow him, but the tiniest fraction of my working mind helps me cross the room and flop down into the seat across from Mr. Dimon.

The best way to fix this situation is to man up, look Mr. Dimon in the eye, and explain what happened at Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, I drop my head between my knees to breathe and lace my fingers behind my neck to steady myself.

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