Page 22 of Penalty Box
I saw the opening too late.
The Kings’ right wing caught our D pinched high and threaded a pass through the crease. Empty slot.
Tie game.
Trey cried out to the heavens, beating his pads over and over in frustration. Coach signaled him off and Hunter jumped over the board to take his place. He was quality on the line or in the posts, but tonight we needed him to block like his life depended on it.
Grayson skated over while we were regrouping and shoved my chest hard enough that I staggered. “Get your damn head in the game, Calder! I’m not telling you again.”
I didn’t say anything, just nodded and skated to the bench so Tucker could take my spot.
Coach didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. Disappointment hung off him like a wet coat. The rest of the third was a stalemate. Nothing worked whenever I was on the ice. The other guys felt it too. Every play we tried either fell flat or rammed into the Kings’ brick wall.
We held them off. Barely. Both teams throwing bodies and icing passes, trying to make something happen.
Overtime was a blur.
One bad bounce. One missed check.
And it was over.
I sat in the locker room for a long time after, just staring at the floor. Helmet still on. Glove half-off. Sweat drying cold on my back. Someone clapped my shoulder as they walked past, told me not to freak out, it was only the first game, but I didn’t lookup. That could’ve been several minutes ago, but I could still feel their veiled disappointment on my back.
I pulled out my phone and brought up the empty message thread between Cass and me.
Me:Congratulations on your 2-0 lead in the music playoff.
Me:Let me buy you a coffee when we’re back home to celebrate.
I hit send, and tugged my helmet from my head. Three dots. They blinked, disappeared, then came back again…
7
Cass
The moment I pushed open the door to Java Jukebox, the low thrum of bass guitar and burnt espresso wrapped around me like an old, favorite hoodie. Shirley Manson was wailing about only being happy when it rains, and I instantly felt at home. This feeling was heightened when I spotted the chalkboard over the bar counter that had “Smells Like Bean Spirit” scrawled in uneven handwriting. It was grungy, half-lit, and unapologetically loud.
Perfect.
I slid into the booth near the back, corner seat, vinyl cracked along the edges, and private enough while still giving me a view of the door. The tabletop was cluttered with band stickers and glue residue, with the outline of a Sharpie tic-tac-toe game that was never finished.
I checked my phone like some wide-eyed teenager on her first not-date. Mason hadn’t texted after telling me he was on his way twenty minutes ago. Not that I was keeping tabs on hi—
The bell over the door jingled, and I looked up in time to see him walking in. The look on his face was priceless. It was a blendof confusion and fear, his eyes darting around as he picked up all the little details that were definitely nothing like he was used to.
I let him simmer in it for a bit, observing from my secret corner. He wore his hockey jersey from last season, baseball cap slung low, and a pair of straight-cut blue jeans. He had these boyish good looks that instantly twisted something in my chest. I was still studying the easy pace with which he walked, when he suddenly stopped and my eyes pulled up to meet his.
Icy blue and intense, catching my gaze like I owed him something.
“Nice choice,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me. “Are we here for caffeine or to live out some unnamed childhood trauma?”
I smirked and handed him a menu sticky with some foreign substance that I was happy to not decipher. “Both. Pick your poison.”
He scanned it like it was written in Greek. “I have to be honest with you… I usually just order coffee.”
“It’s all coffee,” I chuckled. “What kind do you want?”
Mason was dumbfounded. “You’re going to have to help me out here, Cass.”
