The Penalty Box by Deirdre Martin Page A

your car, and the other day I saw you leaving the library with it.”
    â€œIt’s got my laptop in it. And some sociology texts.”
    Paul grinned. “Anything fun?”
    â€œNo. Not really.” She moved her tape recorder to the center of the table.
    Paul frowned. “Do we really need that?”
    â€œI do. I’m the world’s worst note taker. Besides, I don’t want to risk misquoting you.”
    â€œFine.” He smacked the table. “Let’s do it!”
    His enthusiasm was a cover. Katie could feel him tensing as she turned on the tape recorder and once again uncapped her pen. “At the reunion, you were very annoyed when I referred to you as an ‘ex-athlete,’” she began cautiously. “Maybe you can start by telling me how you feel being an athlete has shaped your self-image.”
    Paul chuckled darkly. “Got a few years? No, seriously, I started playing hockey when I was three . . .”
    For the next hour and a half, Katie listened carefully as Paul answered her questions on everything from the influence of coaches to the definition of success. He was a good interviewee: thoughtful, well spoken, with lots of anecdotes both humorous and poignant she’d be able to use. He was also much more patient than she: three times their meal was interrupted by someone wanting an autograph. Katie wanted to tell them to take a hike, but it didn’t seem to bother Paul at all. In fact, he loved it. Katie made a note of that as well.
    â€œLet’s talk about the homoerotic undertones in sports,” she said.
    Paul thrust his head forward as if he hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”
    â€œThe homoerotic undertones,” Katie repeated.
    Paul speared a curly fry. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
    â€œOh, c’mon,” Katie said dubiously. “All that butt slapping and hugging?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œYou don’t think it’s a way for you guys to show physical affection for each other in a way that ensures your masculine identity is in no way impugned?”
    He leaned back, studying her. “Are you making this stuff up?”
    â€œNo. For your information, Paul, studies show that there’s an erotic basis underlying the fraternal bond in male groups.”
    Paul snorted loudly. “I’ve never heard such a load of crap in my life.”
    â€œYou’re threatened by it,” Kate observed, scribbling on her pad.
    â€œI’m not threatened by it!”
    â€œThen why are you getting so upset?”
    â€œI’m not upset!” Paul insisted. “A sports team is a family , Katie. When families are happy about something, they hug each other. End of story.”
    â€œSo I guess you pat your father’s ass when you’re happy.”
    â€œOh, Jesus.” Paul put his hand to his forehead as if warding off a headache. “Fine. We’re all a bunch of macho men who are afraid of being called fags, so we only touch each other affectionately when we’re celebrating a victory. Is that what you want to hear?”
    â€œIf it’s the truth.”
    â€œYou tell me. You’re the one armed with a degree and statistics. I just lived it.”
    Katie decided to change the subject. “Let’s talk about your retirement.”
    â€œWhat about it?” Paul snapped.
    Oh, shit , Katie thought. What dark path had she led their conversation down without meaning to? She was going to have to proceed with caution.
    â€œSome other retired pro athletes have told me—”
    â€œWho else have you talked to? Maybe I should have found that out before I agreed to this.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter .”
    â€œIt does to me.”
    Katie folded her arms across her chest. “Are you telling me you won’t talk to me any further unless you know who else I’ve interviewed?”
    Paul nodded.
    â€œHere,” Katie said,