Page 17 of Penalty Zone
Coming here is a risk I’m willing to take.
A blurry-eyed Benz answers in fuzzy pants with cartoon characters and a dog T-shirt that saysI’d Rather Be Sleeping.
“Ummm, hello?” He runs a hand over his face as if he’s unsure I’m real.
“Can I come in? I brought food and some supplies to help with the aches and pains.” It occurs to me I’ve never been to their apartment.
Benz steps aside, and I catch his sweet amber and patchouli scent. His body radiates sleepy heat, and it’s hard to resist getting closer.
“Mason’s sleeping.”
“Okay.” I set the duffle on the floor and the food on their coffee table. The space is cramped with a galley kitchen, a sofa, and a coffee table, and it has views of the building next door. The furniture’s basic, low end, easy to discard if they move. It’s claustrophobic with hardly any space to walk around. The large TV dominates the room.
Benz must read my mind.
“It’s not much, but we like the location and can afford it if one of us gets traded.” He shrugs.
That’s a smart financial decision, but they could afford a better place after their rookie year.
“Let’s hear it.” Mason stands in his bedroom doorway with his arms folded over his chest.
“I brought a few medical supplies and food.” I gesture to the bags on the table. Most hockey players eat mountains of food after a game.
“We ate.” He doesn’t move.
“I can always eat.” Benz opens the bags and sets out the food containers, then groans. “I love these potatoes. They’re the best in the city.” He beckons Mason over and offers me a shy smile. “You gotta have some.”
There’s an odd sense of pride in buying something Benz loves. Mason sits next to him with their shoulders and legs touching. Their familiarity irks me. It’s ridiculous.
I busy myself with unloading the duffle, a heating pad, cream for sore muscles, and pain relievers. “You can never have enough disposable ice and heat. Did Gray give you any instructions for your injury?”
“Nope, all good.” He picks up a potato and pops it in his mouth.
Benz’s eyebrows rise in surprise at Mason’s answer, but he doesn’t say anything. Mason doesn’t want me to know the seriousness of whatever ails him.
I direct my attention to Benz. “You did well in the press conference, considering.”
Mason snorts.
“What?” I ask.
“Another backhanded compliment. Are you capable of saying anything nice without negating it with a condition? We fucking killed it, playing a great game, and Caleb gave them exactly what they asked. Period. End of story.” He stomps to his room.
I replay my words, which hadn’t come out as I intended.
“You have to understand, everything he does is measured by you. He’s never in his life been asked questions based onhisopinion of his performance. They want to know your thoughts.” Benz yawns and stretches, showing tempting skin.
“I can’t control that,” I say defensively.
“No, but you could be his dad instead of his critic.” He stands. “I’m going to bed.” He turns off the TV and picks up the food containers, putting them in the fridge.
My parents, my father in particular, put pressure on me to succeed. They used me to pull the family out of poverty. I supported them and put my siblings through college. I swore I’d give my son a better life so he wouldn’t know what it meant to be hungry or go without basic necessities. I never considered fatherhood beyond financial support.
I’m not sure how to be a dad to my adult son.
Benz has his back to me, but it’s important to confirm I’ve earned enough of his trust that he doesn’t want a trade.
Nervously, I clear my throat. “Again, I’d like to apologize for suggesting you need medication. It was insensitive and none ofmy business. Your methods work for you, and I should not have said that. I’m sorry.”
