Page 33 of Penalty Zone

When Caleb makes another save, I clap and let out a loud whoop. I hardly recognize myself and try to tone down my enthusiasm. Next time Mason plays, I’ll have to cheer louder for him so he’s not left out of my newfound passion for the game.

It’s disconcerting to think back to how stoic I’ve been. Seeing the game through Caleb has given me a new perspective. My life has been in a rut, and it needs a shake-up.

There’s a scuffle by the goal, and the puck sneaks past Caleb, lighting up the lamp. His shoulders drop in defeat.

“Chin up. You got this.” I raise my clapping hands over my head.

He acknowledges me, and my stomach turns over. I rub it, assuming something I ate upset it. There’s no time to think about it because the game restarts and Drake wins the face-off, dodging O’Keefe’s stick. They slam into the boards right after Drake passes to Lucky. O’Keefe is slow to shake it off while Drake streaks into position to receive a pass and…his shot hits the pipes.

The second period ends, and we’re winning by three. It hits me that I’ve claimed the team as mine by thinking “we” instead of “they.”

“You were in a good position, but they screened you. Very few goalies could make that save. You did everything right, but sometimes they slip in. Keep doing what you’re doing.” My palm rests on Caleb’s back, and his eyes shine.

“Thanks,” he says around a grin that shows his teeth all the way back to his molars.

“Coach made a great decision playing you tonight.” I can’t stop the praise, finding his flush addictive.

My actions are the opposite of what we need to put distance between us. But Caleb pulls me in, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I drop my hand before I do something totally stupid like push his sweaty waves off his forehead. Our interactions make the talk we need to have more painful.

“That means a lot, Leo,” he whispers and leans in.

“Dude, you’re killing it.” Mason slaps his back.

There’s a hothead on the other team, O’Keefe. He’s by far the best defender on the ice, but he seems to have a grudge against King. King’s another rookie who has performed at a high level from day one. And he’s an unassuming guy, a solid worker who does his job and keeps his head down. It’s hard to imagine anyone having personal issues with him. But O’Keefe is playing the man not the puck, and it’s very personal. I don’t want to think the worst, but King stands out as the only black man on the team. He’s never been targeted the way O’Keefe goes after him.

Ace takes King aside and gives him a pep talk from the looks of it. Austin Lapointe is a players’ captain, making sure all his guys are a hundred percent in both physically and mentally.

Since Mason’s not playing, I don’t watch the game, I watch Caleb. I can’t tear my eyes off him. His fluid motion mesmerizes me. Each movement is a choreographed dance to get in position or direct his players. He takes command of the team without realizing it.

Caleb’s so young and already proficient at an elite level. He’s going to have an incredible career.

Caleb makes an athletic save, and my stomach does another roll. Getting older, all these stomach ailments are annoying as hell.

I watch how Caleb tracks the puck, staying aware of all the players’ positions. He’s in constant motion where many goalies maintain a static, ready position. He’s a fascinating study in kinetic energy and has to be exhausted after a game.

Boston takes a low shot to the right corner, and Caleb drops down in a half split to get his body in position. He traps it under his glove and withstands sticks trying to poke it out until the whistle blows.

I adjust myself, realizing my cock has taken notice and appreciates his skill. My mind wanders back to movie night and his naked thighs. I imagine the way they must flex under his pads to move so quickly. How the curve of his muscles wraps around the bone and is covered in a light dusting of hair. I wonder if they would move under my light touch, tracing them up his knee and… I end the thought before I get carried away and have a full-blown erection during a game.

Caleb—no matter how skilled and attractive—is too young.

Even if I took Mason out of the equation, which is impossible, nothing good will come of lusting after a man half my age. He can have his pick of age-appropriate partners who could build a life with him. Caleb has no use for a man past his prime who can’t keep up with all of his boundless energy.

I have to be satisfied with being his mentor and building his confidence to become this team’s next All-Star goalie. My legacy can live on through the next generation, including my son.

The thought hits me as if I’ve been struck by lightning. For years, I’ve been obsessed with how I’ll be remembered, and I’ve ignored my greatest legacy, my son. The NHL prizes father/son and family legacies. My single-minded focus on myself has damaged the best part of me—Mason.

I move to stand behind him, hoping he’ll forgive me. Not for how hockey will remember us, but because I never asked my son about his goals and aspirations for hockey and for his life.

“Hey, Dad.” Mason glances up at me when I grip his shoulder.

“You doing okay?” I ask, knowing it’s killing him to be on the bench.

“We’re winning, but it sucks not contributing,” he says with his eyes on the game.

“You’re having a great season, and it will only get better once your leg is a hundred percent.” I am sure of it.

“Thanks,” he replies, and I see his lips turn up—not in a full smile but something close.

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