The Penalty Box by Deirdre Martin Page A

ten-year-olds who weren’t even allowed to check each other!
    â€œPaul.” Doug’s voice was cajoling. “It’s a matter of paying dues, like we already said. You have to earn it , son.”
    Paul bristled. “You don’t think I’ve paid dues?”
    Chick sighed, tenting his sausage-size fingers. “What happened to you was unfortunate. No one denies that. But you can’t just waltz back into town and declare yourself sheriff. Understand what I’m saying?”
    Doug Burton leaned over, giving Paul a paternal pat on the back. “We need your skill and expertise with the little guys. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”
    Paul stopped himself from responding lest his foot get permanently lodged in his mouth. The nausea he’d been holding at bay threatened to wreak havoc as his fish dish was placed in front of him. “I appreciate your offer. I need to think about it.”
    â€œThere are lots of men in this town who would love the chance to coach the squirts,” said Doug. “If you’re not up to the task, we need to know as soon as possible.”
    â€œI’m up to the task,” Paul shot back.
    â€œIs that a yes, then?”
    â€œYes.”
    Â 
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    Pride, Paul mused to himself the next morning as he jogged down the leafy streets making up the heart of Didsbury’s exclusive Ladybarn District, could be a dangerous thing. Had Doug Burton not inferred he was inadequate, chances are he would have suffered through the rest of their uncomfortable lunch, said his farewells, and called the next day to say he wasn’t interested. Now look where he was: committed to coaching the squirts. For what? To prove something to his ex-coach? There was something to be said for engaging your brain before opening your mouth. At least he hadn’t embarrassed himself and thrown up his fish.
    He pushed himself to run faster, warm rivulets of sweat trailing down his face and chest. He might not be able to fly down the ice anymore, but he could still fly down paved streets, though there were times when dizziness suddenly overtook him and he had to slow down or stop altogether.
    Running helped him sweat out the bitterness that sometimes threatened to engulf him. When he ran, he wasn’t Paul, the promising young hockey god who’d been forced into early retirement, or Paul the neophyte bar owner, or Paul the returning hero. He simply was , brain and body working in tandem to drive him ever forward toward an endorphin high that made his disappointment bearable, if only for a short while.
    He rounded Locust Drive, with its mock Tudor mansions and well-manicured lawns boasting discreet signs for home security systems, and began his downhill descent on Piping Rock Lane, toward Main Street. The steep, sloping road jarred his knees but he kept on, gritting his teeth. He may not be a Blade anymore, but he was still a warrior, and a warrior pushed through the pain. Not only that, but this warrior was going to produce a squirt team so hot people’s heads were going to spin.
    Deep in thought, he failed to notice when the light at the corner of Church Street and Main turned red. Running out into the street, he barely had time to register the screeching breaks before he was out cold, darkness dropping down on him as fast as a curtain.

CHAPTER 04
    I killed Paul van Dorn.
    Teeth clacking like castanets, Katie threw her car into park and lurched out the driver’s side door, too preoccupied to close it. One minute she was cruising down Main Street looking for someplace, anyplace , that might serve lattes; the next Paul had run into her path and she was smashing down on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt.
    â€œPaul?”
    He was breathing. Hearing his name, his eyes fluttered open, straining to focus. His face was red from physical exertion. Sweat soaked his T-shirt, gluing it to his muscular upper torso like a second skin. Blood flowed from