The Penalty Box by Deirdre Martin Page B

riffling furiously through the paperwork in her canvas bag. “Here are my other sources.” She practically flung the folder at him.
    â€œHmm,” Paul murmured as he scanned the list.
    â€œAs you can see, there are some bigger names there than yours.” Katie snatched the folder back and was shoving it back into her bag when she realized what she’d said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean—”
    â€œWhere were we?” he asked in a tired voice. The anger in his eyes had flamed out. In its stead was melancholy.
    â€œI was about to ask you: I’ve been told that when an athlete retires, or is cut, it’s not uncommon for him to become persona non grata to his former teammates.” She took a deep breath. “Have you found that to be true?”
    Paul pushed a curly fry around his plate with his fork. “Yes.”
    â€œWhy do you think that is?”
    â€œBecause you’re a reminder of what can happen to any of them at any time. They have to cut you off. If they don’t, their concentration will suffer and so will their game.”
    â€œThat seems awfully harsh to me.”
    â€œIt’s just the way it is.” He leaned forward, turning off her tape recorder. “You know what? I’ve had enough of this for today. You’ve got everything you need, right? From those bigger names?”
    â€œPaul—”
    â€œI’m done , Katie.” He slipped out of the booth and stood by the table. “Lunch is on me, by the way.” Without another word he turned and walked away, disappearing into a back office.
    Stunned, Katie slowly packed up her things. Why couldn’t she have watched what she said? Because he’d pissed her off, that’s why. What was the word Bitsy’s husband had used to describe Paul? Moody. Tormented was more like it. Clearly he’d yet to come to terms with his past. He reminded her of so many others she’d interviewed, men who looked in the mirror and thought, “I was somebody!”
    It was sad.
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    Paul had assumed the squirt tryouts would be a breeze, the contenders falling into two distinct camps: kids who could play and kids who couldn’t. Instead, he spent a large part of the afternoon watching fifty boys of varying talents vie for coveted spots on the team. In doing so, he began to understand why so many coaches were hard-asses: you had to be. If you felt bad for every poor kid who wanted a spot on the roster but couldn’t perform, you’d never pull a winning team together. Winning was what it was all about.
    He had them go out on the ice in pairs to assess their passing skills; made them shoot pucks at him as he stood in goal. Some kids had good aim; others couldn’t put the puck in the net if it was the size of a barn. Gauging their speed on the ice was another big factor. He watched their ability to stay on their feet. Finally, he had them play a mock hockey game to see if, even at this young age, they had a sense of where they should be on the ice. They didn’t. Someone would shoot a puck into the corner and they would all go after it, a pack of wolves competing for the wounded rabbit. Still, there were some talented kids, Katie’s nephew among them.
    He and Katie had briefly made eye contact at the beginning of the tryouts. Since then, though, her eyes had been glued to her nephew, and all Paul’s concentration had been on the kids. He hated that he didn’t have time to go away and think about assembling his team. It was traditional in Didsbury for the kids to find out the day of tryouts who had made the team. Clutching his clipboard, Paul walked out of the boys’ locker room to the arena, where the boys and their parents sat expectantly. A knot began forming in his stomach.
    â€œI want to thank all of you for coming today and trying out. Unfortunately, not everyone can make the team. It was very difficult for me to