Page 82 of Penalty Box
The cool April breeze tugged at my hair as I marched across the parking lot to the garage unit my neighbor let me use. The garage was dimly lit and drafty, but felt like an extension of home. My tools sat waiting on the workbench, and I pulled on my gear. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I left, but now that I was here, the welding final that was only halfway finished caught my attention. I dragged the steel tubing from the corner and got straight to work.
My project wasn’t small. An ambitious abstract sculpture that was also kind of chaotic with its half arc, half spire. It was meant to look like movement captured mid-motion. The first time I sketched it, I was thinking of Mason. Of the way he skated, leaning into turns, like the laws of physics bent around him.
Now, though, I didn’t know what the hell it meant.
Maybe nothing. Like whatever the fuck it was that happened between us.
Heat flared. Steel hissed and spit.
Welding forced you to be present. That’s what I loved about it. There was no room to spiral when you had molten metal in your hand. Move too slow, and it bubbled. Too fast, it cracked. Too much heat, and the whole seam warped.
Mason once said that I looked calm when I did it. That I looked the way he felt when he was on the ice.
Maybe that’s why I kept welding long after my arms ached and my knees started to lock. I lost track of time. The sculpture was taking shape, joint by joint, and it rose from the platform like something fighting to break free.
I ground the seams until they were so smooth they were practically invisible. A clean weld was honest. Solid. There was no faking it. Not like relationships, or press events.
I stood back, sweat cooling under my layers. The steel glinted in the orange glow as if it were trying to say something. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And even though I’d planned to get an extension, it was ready for submission the next day.
I exhaled hard and stripped off my gloves, apron, and mask. Every part of me felt tender with that good ache you get after hard work done right. My fingers, my spine, even the place between my ribs where Mason used to live.
This is what I wanted, I reminded myself. To be good at something and prove I could do more than just fix engines and follow rules. That I could create something out of nothing.
But it brought me no satisfaction.
When I finally collapsed into bed that night, everything inside me still felt a little beat up and broken. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t replay the hallway talk for the umpteenth time. I just closed my eyes and let the weight of my exhaustion drag me under.
By morning, my muscles screamed at me like I’d gone ten rounds with a jackhammer. I popped my hood up, shoved two Tylenol in my mouth, and got myself to campus for the welding critique.
Our class was small, and my sculpture sat under one of the overhead lamps, marked with a sticky note that read: Dalca. Iswallowed back the lump in my throat and waited my turn as a few other students got called up, mostly to the tune of “good effort” and “consider your heat zones next time.”
When it was my turn, my professor didn’t make a big deal of it. Just gestured toward my piece and said, “That’s a pleasant surprise, Cass. Thank you for finally applying yourself.”
I got an A. It should’ve felt like a victory, because I hadn’t scored one of those in a while. But I mostly felt… hollow. Empty.
Because Mason was out there living the dream. Headlines, fans, glittering lights. I’d fought so hard not to be in his spotlight or his shadow, and that I wasn’t—I was just… nowhere.
Later that afternoon, I buried myself in the stream of repairs needed at the arena. The maintenance room was my sanctuary, and nothing and nobody could penetrate the defensive walls.
I had my visor flipped down, one hand braced against the workbench and the other holding a rotary wire brush against a corroded intake pipe the size of my forearm. It was supposed to be a lost cause, but I needed something to throw myself into. Repairing busted hardware felt a whole lot safer than trying to fix a heart I didn’t understand.
It was honest work. Tangible. The whir of the brush echoed in my ears like static, sharp enough to drown out the noise in my head. So when the door creaked open behind me, I didn’t hear it right away.
But I felt it.
The shift in air. The prickle at the back of my neck.
I shut off the tool and straightened, heart skipping in spite of myself. I didn’t turn around at first, but thought about the last time someone had walked in like that… unannounced, confident, too close to the bone.
My throat dried.
Please don’t be him.
Please be him.
“Damn,” came a voice behind me. Not Mason’s. “You working or welding a tank? This place smells like a war zone.”
I let out a breath that was equal parts relief and disappointment, and pulled off my gloves. “What do you know about war zones?”
