The Penalty Box Read Online Free PDF Page A

Cuffy wanted to retire and Paul bought it. Now it’s called the Penalty Box. He redid the whole interior. Their curly fries are supposed to be terrific.”
    Katie wasn’t surprised Paul had come back to Didsbury, scene of his earliest glory days. All the research she’d done indicated that men who primarily identify themselves as professional athletes have a hard time figuring out what to do once their careers are over. It wasn’t uncommon for them to open bars or restaurants, since it was a way to continue receiving public adulation. She wondered how Paul was dealing with the Icarus-like plunge from fame to mere mortality. She supposed she’d find out, since he’d agreed to be interviewed. God, she loved being a sociologist. The whole world was her laboratory.
    â€œWas Paul at the reunion?” her mother asked.
    Katie nodded. “I talked to him for about five minutes.” She bit nervously at the inside of her mouth. “He wasn’t one of my favorite people in high school, to be honest.”
    Her mother looked amused. “Then why all the questions about him?”
    â€œJust curious.” Katie rose, stretching. “I’m beat. I think I’m going to head upstairs to bed. Night, Mom.” She kissed her mother’s cheek before gathering up her shoes and heading toward the stairs.
    â€œI’m so glad you went to the reunion,” her mother called after her. “I told you it would be fun.”
    Katie wasn’t sure fun was the word she would have chosen to describe her evening. But it had sure been interesting.
    Â 
    Â 
    â€œ No more drinks , people, or one of you will have to carry me home!”
    Paul laughed, turning down the latest beer someone at the reunion tried to ply him with. As he’d expected, he was the center of attention. Old friends and barely remembered acquaintances alike pressed drinks on him, all paying homage to Didsbury’s hockey hero. Holding court at his table, he regaled his former classmates with tales from life in the NHL and encouraged them to come down for a drink at the Penalty Box, which he knew they would.
    Answering questions about particular games or particular players never bothered him. But whenever someone expressed sympathy for what had happened to him, Paul had to fight against the knee-jerk response to get up and walk away. He saw pity in their eyes, and if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was pity. He had enough of his own.
    He could still remember losing a midget hockey game because of a bad call by the ref. He’d railed against the injustice of it, and what had his father’s response been? “No one ever said life was fair, kiddo.” If anyone knew that now, it was him.
    For five years, he’d been the New York Blades’ wunderkind, the boy with the magic hockey stick who could do no wrong. Though he’d started out on the third line, within a year and a half he’d moved up to the second. By the end of his second year on the team he was on the first line, out skating and outscoring even the most seasoned opponents.
    And then Trevor Malvy of Detroit caught him coming across center ice with his head down, and his world began to crumble.
    Malvy fractured Paul’s skull. An X ray showed it was minor stuff: basilar, not uncommon when you fall and hit the back of your head. There were some small concussive signs—nausea, and for a few days, Paul’s eyes didn’t seem to focus too well—but he hadn’t become disoriented or lost consciousness on the ice, and that worked in his favor. Within three weeks, he was back on the first line, tougher than ever.
    The following season, he was carrying the puck into Tampa’s defensive zone when bam! Next thing he knew he was kissing the ice courtesy of defenseman Wally Marzullo. Even Paul had to admit that one was bad. He was seriously concussed: dizzy, nauseous, temporary amnesia, the whole nine yards. But he