The Penalty Box by Deirdre Martin

choose my players, because all of you are talented in your own way.” He paused, making sure he made eye contact with all the boys and their parents. The fear he saw in some of the parents’ eyes unnerved him. You would have thought they were waiting to hear whether their children were being sentenced to Death Row.
    â€œOkay, then, so, uh, here’s who made the team.”
    He read out the names, his voice getting louder and louder in order to drown out the cursing, tears, and howls of parental protest. Katie’s nephew made the team. So did Bitsy DiNizio’s son and, unfortunately, Gary Flaherty. It would have made his life a helluva lot easier not to put Gary on the team, but that wouldn’t have been fair. The kid was a fast skater, though not the most adept at stick handling. Paul could fix that. Besides, it wasn’t his fault Liz was his mother.
    â€œMy son was robbed!” one father cried, spittle flecking his beard like a mad dog. “I know where you live, fucker!” he shouted as he barreled toward Paul.
    â€œHey!” Paul grabbed the man by the arm. “Watch your language!”
    â€œMy son deserves to be on the team!” the man shouted.
    â€œMaybe next year,” Paul said gently, turning away. The man grabbed Paul by the elbow to turn him back around. Paul shook his arm loose, squared off, and slowly said, “I want everyone who made the team to stay, and everyone who didn’t to leave. Is that clear?”
    His gaze slowly ranged over the crowd, pausing at Katie. She looked shaken. All the boys were wide-eyed and silent. Paul stood, watched, waited, arms folded in front of his chest. Eventually, those who didn’t make the team filed out of the arena with their muttering and weeping parents.
    He was left with twenty goggle-eyed boys and their parents. “Sorry you had to see that. Some parents become very emotional when their kids don’t make the team.” There were nervous titters. “I’m going to keep this brief. The registration fee for the year is two hundred fifty dollars. Our first practice is”—he glanced down at his clipboard, heart sinking —“next Tuesday at six thirty a.m.” Groans of displeasure filled the arena.
    â€œThese kids are supposed to get up before the crack of dawn, go to practice, and then attend a full day of school?” one mother called out incredulously.
    â€œI don’t make the rules, ma’am, nor do I set the practice time.” Not only that, but I managed to live through it, and so will your son, unless he’s a totally uncommitted wuss. “If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with the board.” Paul smiled at the boys. “I’ll have your jerseys ready for you at the next practice, as well as the team handbook. The name of this team has always been the Panthers. That okay with you guys?”
    The boys nodded. “Cool,” a few murmured.
    â€œGood. That’s it, then. Parents, when you fill out the registration form upon leaving, would you please also consider signing up to volunteer? We need all the help we can get. Thanks again, everybody.” He smiled broadly at the boys. “See you guys next week!”
    â€œSee you, Coach van Dorn!”
    Â 
    Â 
    â€œPaul ?”
    Katie hesitated, wondering if he’d heard her. She’d sent Tuck ahead to grab a place in the registration line for them, then hung back, waiting for the crowd of parents and kids to disperse. Everyone did—except Liz Flaherty, who was obviously wondering what the hell Katie would have to talk to Paul about.
    Hearing his name, Paul turned. Momentary dismay skidded across his features. Katie cringed. She hoped she wasn’t the source of his displeasure.
    â€œLadies?”
    Liz eyed Katie. Katie eyed Liz. “After you,” Liz said politely.
    â€œNo, after you,” said Katie.
    â€œThis is private,” Liz said pointedly.
    â€œSo