Page 39 of Penalty Zone

That statement is the equivalent of waving a red cape at a bull. But pushing him to tell me seems wrong given our power dynamic, so I shrug wordlessly.

He continues to pace and mutters under his breath.

“Fine. It’s black onyx for focus and physical discipline.” He throws his hands up in the air as if he’s admitting something shameful.

I sit forward with my elbows on my knees. “Does it work?” I’ve heard of crystals with healing powers, but I’ve never known anyone to use them.

“I…umm…it…they… No one has ever asked me that before.” He sinks onto the bed across from me. There isn’t much space, so our legs are inches apart, and I’m hyperaware of how far I’d have to move to brush against him.

“Really? That’s the most important part, don’t you think?” I shift back, leaning on my hands to give us more separation andto stop inhaling his amber scent. I might do something stupid if I get too close.

Caleb’s lips slowly turn up as his green eyes sparkle. “Everyone thinks I’m a bit crazy, but it goes along with being a goalie. Sometimes I wonder if I picked the position just because goalies are known for being eccentric and it fits with my nontraditional upbringing.”

“Mason loves your family,” I offer, unsure of his concerns.

“He likes that, as wacky as they are, they’re predictable and dependable. They’re stuck in their routine, and it’s comforting to him. He’s willing to overlook the kooky to experience that.” He mimics my posture and leans back as well.

His words land hard even though it’s clear he’s not insulting me, but I traveled all the time when Mason was young and then his mom left to see the world when he was in his teens.

“I can understand the appeal. It’s a strange thing being a parent. You want your child to have the things you didn’t have growing up, but then you create other problems, and the cycle goes on.” I tip my head back and focus on the ceiling instead of Caleb.

“What were you avoiding from your past with Mason?” he asks, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees, closing some of the distance between us.

My body sags, and it suddenly feels like I can tell him and he’ll understand. “I grew up poor, and my family viewed my hockey as an investment with the unspoken expectation that I would support the family as soon as I made money. It was a gamble, but it paid off.

“I never wanted Mason to worry about money or responsibilities other than being a kid, school, and, if he chose, sports. I was thrilled when he followed my footsteps to play hockey.”

“Does Mason know that?” He cocks his head to the side.

“I’ve told him I grew up poor and showed him the rundown house we lived in when I was young.” Those memories are best left in the past.

“That’s not the same as telling him you wanted better for him and why,” he says without laying blame.

Again, I’m struck by his wisdom at such a young age. His stare turns my insides into a quaking mess. I grab the phone like a lifeline and call the front desk again. The ringing is loud in the quiet room.

“They’re probably on break.” He glances at the clock. “Try again in ten minutes. I’ll find something to watch.”

He scoots up to rest against the headboard and powers on the TV, picking hockey highlights.

I take off my shoes and recline on the other bed. We watch a rookie score his first NHL goal and take the puck.

“After my first NHL save, I took the puck home. We won, and I brought it to the next game, which we also won. When we had a few road games, I left the puck home, and Montreal didn’t win a single game that trip. I brought that puck to every game for the rest of my career.” I don’t look at him as I speak, but it’s my way of telling him we all have our superstitions.

“Do you still have it?”

My neck cracks as I rotate it to look at him. “It’s in my house in Montreal. I keep meaning to get a display case for it.”

His grin takes over his face, and he rolls on his side to face me and props the pillows under his head.

“I have six crystals and wear one every game. I choose which one depending on how I feel or what I think the game requires.”

I lie facing him, and it feels like intimate pillow talk with a section of floor between us as we share pieces of ourselves.

“How did you get into them?” I ask instead of urging him to show me his collection.

“My mom is into alternative healing. So is my dad, but my mom is all in. They own a business and offer services as well as merchandise.”

“That doesn’t sound kooky.” It’s difficult to be different when you’re young. I hated being the poor kid.

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