Page 10 of Penalty Zone

I storm out of the practice facility in my full gear with my stick in hand. Of course, I don’t fit in the car in my gear and have to wrestle it off in the parking lot. Thankfully, it’s empty, and no one witnesses my tantrum.

I text Mason to grab my bag. If I see Leo again, I’ll crack. Probably cry, which would be worse than punching him. A punch is a manly way to deal with anger. Not tears. Although my mom would tell me it’s an appropriate release of feelings.

Gah. I hate everyone right now.

The roar in my head has dulled, and my breathing has slowed.

Holding my phone, I realize I’m being reckless. But bottom line, I’m not what Ari Dimon wants in a goalie.

The phone connects. “Hi, Wes, It’s Caleb Benz. Can I make an appointment to speak to Mr. Dimon?”

“Hi. Of course. But he’s traveling. Is this an emergency?” Wes asks.

Although it feels like an emergency, it’s not. Once my brain clears of Leo’s darkness, it will take time to negotiate things. “No. When’s his soonest?”

Wes rattles off a couple of days and times, noting that my schedule prohibits the earliest appointments. I won’t abandon my team in the meantime. After we set up a meeting, he asks, “What do you plan on discussing?”

“Ummm. Do I have to say?” That raises a red flag, so much for trying to keep this low key.

“Mr. Dimon prefers to know the topic ahead of time,” Wes replies, unaware I’m sweating enough to drown in Mason’s car.

“A trade, but not immediately. We can figure something out. Or no…tell him I’d like to know my options with my contract. No, that’s rude. Ummm, tell him I’m concerned about my role on the team. No, that sounds whiny.” I stop to take a breath.

“I’ll tell him it’s a discussion regarding personal goals for the season,” Wes offers.

“Good. Yeah. That sounds professional. Thanks, Wes.” I’m lightheaded from stress and talking too fast.

“Have a good day.” Wes hangs up and I collapse against the seat.

I’m going to have to dress for the home game tomorrow. Maybe my last as an Enforcer.

My insides turn against me. Knives shred my gut, and I heave, opening the door to let the sick out. I inhale, summoning all the toxins in my system from the day as it hurls out of my mouth onto the pavement.

Chapter 6

Leo

Benz childishly storms off. He needs to get mentally tough if he’s going to survive in this league. Today, he played below collegiate level. His timing and concentration need lots of improvement—along with his attitude.

The sound of a slow clap grabs my attention before I see my son’s enraged face. “You might think his leaving reflects Caleb’s maturity and professionalism, but it’s really a reflection of you. Not all coaches agree on his talent level, but every single one has said he’s the most coachable player they’ve met. Being an asshole, that made him storm out. Did you ever shut up? I could hear you talking nonstop. That’s not coaching; it’s harassment.” Mason’s nostrils flare, preparing to continue his rant.

“That’s enough. That’s not how you speak to a coach,” I say. Mason can dislike me, but he needs to show respect.

“You think you acted like a coach throughout practice? Ask anyone, he doesn’t even swear.” He turns his back on me.

Coach blows the whistle and ends practice a few minutes early.

I hear murmurs of how uncharacteristic that was of Benz. These players need thicker skin. My coaches screamed at me every practice.

The guilt hits me at once. I wasn’t coaching Benz. Unintentionally, I’d disregarded his style and how he responds. As a player, I thrived after an ass kicking to prove the bastard wrong. That’s how my mind works.

Benz shines from positive feedback.

But I wasn’t concerned with Benz’s hockey needs. My fury had been directed at Caleb, standing in my apartment, making me want things I’ll never have. I took it out on him when he had no recourse.

He’s a temptation testing me, threatening the life I’ve built and my relationship with my son.

But that’s not his fault. Last night, the shock froze him in place.

---