Page 40 of Penalty Kiss
If the bastard with the camera wants a picture, let them. I want them to see I’ve got my teeth bared.
* * *
The bistro is buzzing with the usual morning crowd, but conversation stutters to a halt when we walk in. Not because they recognize me—though a few faces light up with that familiar oh-shit-it's-a-hockey-player excitement—but because of the way I'm moving. Like a storm front coming through, ready to clear the air.
I'm not the charming, easy-going guy who joked around with Levi yesterday. I’m the defenseman who’s ended careers with a single check The guy who brawled three deep and left the ice smiling.
The guy whose job is to protect what's his.
I watch Tara clock in, trying to look like it’s any other shift. The town might buy it, but I see the tight line of her shoulders, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach.
Mrs. Whitmore offered her a day off after we showed her the latest text, but Tara and I agreed—hiding isn’t the play. This is us planting our skates, taking the hit head-on.
Tara belongs here, in this quirky little place, more than she ever let on. This isn't just a job for her; it is her life.
I snag a corner table with clean sightlines to both doors and no glass at my back. Perfect defensive position.
“Tara, you work like you normally do. I’m here—I’ll run interference. We do this together.” I squeeze her shoulders as she ties on her apron.
She nods, a little of the tension easing. Having a plan helps.
“If anything feels off—even just a gut twitch—you tell me. You know this place, these people. Trust your instincts.”
A teenage server hovers by my table, voice cracking. “Coffee?” He looks like he’s about to bolt just for speaking to me.
“I’ll grab it, Black, two sugar.” Tara starts to move, but I press a steady hand to her shoulder.
“Mrs. W’s got you in the corner section, right? Perfect. Easier for me to keep you in sight, For now, let someone else run the coffee—you stick to your tables. That’s your ice. I’ll cover the rest.”
The kid—his name tag reads TYLER—nods eagerly. "Your coffee’s coming right up, sir!"
As he scurries away, Tara gives me a look. "You can't just commandeer the restaurant."
“Watch me.” I smile at her, slouching just enough to look casual while Tara straightens her apron and heads to her section. To anyone watching, I look relaxed. Territorial, maybe, but not tense.
The truth? I’ve stopped pretending I can track every face in the room. PCS makes that a gamble I can’t afford. So I focus on Tara. She moves through her tables with that easy grace, dropping names and detailsfor mein passing—reminders slipped in so smooth nobody notices but me.
Her memory is a weapon, like her father said. But with her, it’s more than that—her kindness turns it into a salve when the room spins and the ground won’t stay still.
Mrs. Henderson waves from her usual spot; I return it with a smile. The Peterson sisters flutter their fingers at me, whispering behind their menus. I know their faces, sure. But their names only click because Tara had just tossed them out in conversation, handing me the save without drawing any attention to my memory slipping.
So far, everything looks normal.
Which is exactly when things tend to go sideways.
Tara glides past with a basket of scones to her table, her hip brushing my arm as she leans in just enough to murmur, “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you scan the room like you’re expecting an attack.” She keeps her voice low, casual. “Your jaw is clenched, and you haven’t blinked in thirty seconds.”
Shit. I roll my shoulders loose, make it look easy. “Sorry. Habit.”
“Hockey habit?”
“Defenseman habit.” I tip my chair closer, keeping my voice just for her. “It’s my job to hold the line. Cut off angles. See trouble before it hits the net. That doesn’t turn off just because I’m off the ice.”
Tyler returns with my coffee, setting the mug down with slightly trembling hands. Kid's star-struck, which would be funny under different circumstances.
