Page 67 of Penalty Box

We didn’t leave until morning. The road out of San Antonio blurred into open fields and winding backroads. By the time we hit Fredericksburg, the sun was high and hot against the windshield of my Neon.

“Okay, you were right,” Cass said. “This bucket of bolts is good for a road trip.”

She rode with her knees up, one foot on the dash for most of the way, her sunglasses sliding low as she leaned back and took in the endless stretch of sky.

“Told you.”

I tried to keep some levity in my tone, but my stomach was in knots. I hadn’t been home in months, and never in a million years thought it’d be under these circumstances.

We didn’t have time to go in at the house, just swapped the Neon for my dad’s old truck. Hallie was already waiting, still in her work shirt from the feed store, hair in a messy braid.

“Whoa,” she said when she saw Cass. “I didn’t know we could bring a friend.”

“Hey, Hallie.”

My sister didn’t flinch. “You are friends, aren’t you? Or is it more than that?”

“Jesus, Hal.”

“What?” She looked at me innocently. “You don’t bring girls home, so forgive me for being a little… intrigued. So, are you dating or not?”

“No,” Cass and I said in unison.

Hallie narrowed her eyes, not buying it for a second. “How do you know each other then?”

“Work,” I replied. “You know she works at the arena.”

Hallie flashed a ruthless grin. “Do you wish you were dating?”

“Okay, let’s go. We’re going to be late.” I steered Cass toward the truck while Hallie cackled behind us.

Dad didn’t say much, as usual, and played it cool the way he always did when emotions ran high. But I noticed the way he adjusted the air vents so Cass wouldn’t get too warm, or the subtle nod he gave me when she climbed into the truck, like silent approval of whatever this was.

Cass and I sat in the back, and Hallie took the front. The road stretched quiet ahead, live oaks blurring past the windows.

“You okay?” Cass asked, her voice soft.

I didn’t answer right away. The lump in my throat hadn’t moved since I woke up. She didn’t push. Just slipped her hand into mine, gave it a squeeze, and let it rest there. Platonically.

The cemetery was sunbaked and quiet. Coach Landry’s casket sat beneath a makeshift canopy, a handful of folding chairs lined up beneath it. We stood behind the crowd, hands tucked in pockets, the occasional breeze kicking up dust from the gravel path.

I couldn’t help thinking how this was what it all came to—my early years with hockey. Dead and buried with my first coach, the first person to believe in my dream more than I did.

“I’m real sorry for your loss, Mrs. Landry,” I said after the final prayer. Everyone was turning back to go to their cars, and several familiar faces from school jumped out at me. I was in no hurry to catch up with them.

Mrs. Landry smiled through fresh tears. She looked older than I remembered. Smaller, somehow.

She took my hand in both of hers. “He was so proud of you, Mason. Caught every game and kept your rookie card in his wallet.”

My throat burned. “He’s the reason I got to where I am.”

On the way back to the truck, someone called out to me, making me turn back around. Luke Merrimack. Center of our high school line. He’d filled out, dress shirt clinging to him in the heat.

“Well, damn,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you back here. Don’t the Surge have a game tonight?”

“Yeah, but… it’s Coach,” I said simply, glancing toward the grave.

He nodded. “Yeah. I guess even big shots make time for that.”