Penalty Box Payback

One

The Wednesday crowd is light enough that I can hear the jukebox shuffle-stuttering through its digital storage, the randomizer stuck on Trooper’s “Raise a little hell” for the third time in a row.

Guys in suits give me a certain flavor of ick. At their best, they remind me of seedy car salesmen. Usually, my mind’s drawn to rich men who slide contracts across mahogany tables and tell you it’s for your own good while they bury your dreams.

I shake it off and walk over.

“What can I get you?”

His sandy hair stays plastered to his slick forehead when he glances up. His eyes do a quick sweep of my face.

“Whatever’s local,” he says. “And is the kitchen still running Ulf’s elk stew?”

“How’d you know about Ulf’s stew?”

“Someone mentioned it,” he replies. “Recommended highly.”

It’s not really an answer. My pen hovers over the order pad half a second too long before I catch myself.

“It’s not on the menu,” I say.

“I noticed.” He gestures at his iPhone, our Instagram menu open on the screen. “That’s why I’m asking. Could I get a bowl?”

I put his order through to the kitchen, getting a grunt of acknowledgment from the chef himself.

Then I pull the pint of beer and place it in front of Paisley Tie.

He wraps a hand around the glass, his eyes scanning the wall behind me.

At the signed jerseys, the wall-mounted broken stick, the framed photos of tournaments and other historic moments.

His gaze lingers as if he’s searching for something specific.

“How’s the room—the, uh, pack—lately?” he asks. “After the way the Wolves choked last spring?”

“Whistler bleeds burgundy and gold.” I shrug. “A bad playoff run doesn’t change that.”

“Mm.” He fishes a pen from his pocket, taps it absently. “Loyalty’s a rare thing.”

The way he says it is off. “In hockey?” I prod. “Or generally?”

“Both.” He meets my gaze for the first time. Holds it a beat too long. His eyes are sharp blue, almost like a Husky’s. His thin lips curve into a small smile that doesn’t reach them.

Without waiting for my reply, he opens his notebook and drops his chin. The overhead light catches his forehead at an unforgiving angle, highlighting a thin sheen of sweat along his receding hairline.

I watch as he scribbles something in his notebook. Recognition nags at me. Faint, unwelcome.

I know him from somewhere. I turn it over in my mind before filing it under later—where I put everything I don’t care to deal with right now. Grabbing a clean rag, I start wiping down the stainless steel drip tray.

Delilah Torres saunters up, an empty tray tucked under her arm, her dark hair wrestled into a precarious twist that’s already losing the fight against frizz.

“Slow night,” she says, leaning her hip against the bar. “Thought we’d have more people here to watch the game.”

“It’s just preseason,” I remind her, nodding toward the TV mounted in the corner. “Plus, we’ll get the post-victory spillover soon enough. Just have one period to go and we’re up two-nothing against Montreal.”

“If they don’t blow the lead.” She rolls her eyes. “I still have PTSD from how they played last spring. Absolute hot garbage.”

“Have some faith. New season, clean slate.” I toss her a folded rag. “Go wipe down those back booths while it’s quiet. I want to be ready when—”

The words die in my throat when the sportscaster returns with an urgent announcement.

“Breaking news out of Whistler tonight, folks. In a blockbuster trade that sends a future first round draft pick and top prospect Caleb Jansson to the Montana Marauders, the Wolves have just acquired star right-winger Gabriel Castellano...”

I freeze.

“Sources say he could be in the lineup as early as Friday’s preseason match against—”

The rest fades to white noise. A faint ringing pierces my ears, muting the surrounding space.

There he is, splashed across the screen in high-def—an official headshot, burgundy jersey, a fresh 3 stitched at the collar.

Gabriel Castellano. Here. In Whistler.

The bar erupts in cheers, regulars high-fiving and debating what this means for playoff chances. But I’m paralyzed, my hands white-knuckling the edge of the bar.

Breathe, Ivy. Just breathe.

The memories threaten to surface—things I’ve worked so hard to forget.

No. Not now. Not here.

“Wow, did you hear that?” Delilah bumps her shoulder into mine, her eyes glued to the screen. “Castellano! That’s huge!”

I manage a weak nod, not trusting my voice. She doesn’t notice my distress, too busy watching the highlight reel now playing on the screen—Gabriel deking defenders, sniping top-shelf goals.

“He’s exactly what they need,” she continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Right-wing scorer with playoff experience. And pretty hot, right?”

My stomach lurches. “I need to check inventory,” I mutter, already backing away from the bar. “Can you cover for a few minutes?”

I don’t wait for her answer, heading for the storeroom with measured steps. Once inside, I brace myself against the shelves, forcing air into my lungs.

Get it together, Hayes. You’re not a teenage girl anymore.

My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain helps ground me in the present. I’d built a life here where I could pretend that night never happened. Where Gabriel Castellano was just another hockey player on another team in another city.

And now he’s here. In my town. My territory.

The unfairness of it burns in my throat. Why Whistler? Why now? Why, out of all the teams in the league, did he have to end up with the Wolves?

I check the liquor shelves, counting bottles I’ve already inventoried twice this week. By the time Delilah pokes her head in, I’ve rebuilt my composure brick by careful brick.

“Ivy? You okay? The bar’s getting slammed.”

“Fine,” I say. “Just double-checking the weekend keg delivery.”

She purses her lips, but doesn’t press.

Straightening, I settle my shoulders back and follow her to the floor, letting the familiar noise of the post-game crowd wash over me. I step right into my usual spot behind the taps, grabbing a fresh pint glass the second I see Marco sliding his empty one across the wood.

“Busy night, yeah? Feels like a Friday,” he says, his cheerful Australian accent cutting effortlessly through the ambient roar. He flashes a grin, stark white teeth popping against his year-round snowboarder’s tan.

“Getting there,” I say, swapping his empty glass for a full Sasquatch Stout. “You survive the afternoon rush at Hidden Bean?”

“Barely. The espresso machine had it out for me today.” He takes the fresh beer with a grateful nod, his short brown hair slightly messy, his easy-going grin widening.

Delilah sidles up next to me, punching an order into the computer. “How do you always look so relaxed when you deal with impatient tourists all day? Please, teach us your ways.”

“It does help that I renewed my annual pass to the Scandinave Spa yesterday, else I might’ve lost it.”

I let out a genuine laugh.

The next two hours pass in a blur of drink orders and easy small talk. The post-game crowd filters in, buzzing with excitement about the trade. I smile and nod and pour, playing my role while my insides twist.

Just as I’m starting to think I might actually survive the night, the front door swings open. A hush falls over the bar.

Left-winger Brock Thompson ducks through first followed by Swedish defenceman Elias Andersson. They pause just inside the threshold, taking in the hockey regalia.

Brock says something low to Elias. Elias nods.

Word of mouth, like Paisley Tie? I wonder, reaching for a clean glass. Either way, this is the kind of organic traction I need the Wolves’ PR team to see.

Then the third one walks in.

Him.

Air whooshes out of my lungs as Gabriel Castellano steps into my bar.

He is taller than I remember—all broad shoulders and dark, artfully messy hair.

He’s wearing dark denim and a white henley that does nothing to downplay the sheer, athletic bulk of him.

He follows Brock and Elias past a string of booths lining the window.

The bar reshuffles itself around them. Heads turn, phones lift, the ambient noise tilts toward his end of the room.

Time slows. The background noise of the bar fades to a dull roar. All I can hear is the thud of my own heartbeat, the rush of blood in my ears. All I can see is him.

Seven years.

Seven years of building something from nothing, of turning my dad’s struggling pub into a place worth fighting for, of learning to say Gabriel Castellano’s name without my pulse tripping over it. Seven years of strengthening the walls between me and that night in Calgary.

The glass in my hand grows slick with condensation and sweat. I set it down before it slips and wipe my hands on my jeans.

Steady. Steady.

These men matter. To the raises I’ve been promising Delilah and Ulf and can’t quite reach yet, the benefits I want to hand them instead of apologies.

To my father’s legacy. To every regular who’s ever set their week down on this bar top because it was the one place that felt safe enough to.

To every choice that’s kept me here, fighting for this place, instead of letting it go.

Gabriel scans the room, taking in the worn wood, sparse crowd, and the staff. When his gaze sweeps over me, there’s no flicker of recognition. No sign that he has any idea who I am or what he did to me.

The realization feels like both relief and a knife-twist. My appearance has changed—hair color, weight, the years etching subtle lines around my eyes. But still. Still.

I watch as they navigate to a corner booth, Gabriel sliding in across from the other guys, lounging with his legs wide like he claimed that cushion for himself.

I scan the floor for Delilah, desperate to foist the Wolves’ table onto her, but she’s cornered at the far end of the bar by a group wearing Montreal Voyageurs’ red-white-gold jerseys. I’m trapped.

You’ve got this.

Breathe. Smile. Serve.

I repeat it like a mantra as I approach their table, order pad in hand, locking my spine into cultivated armor despite the quaking in my core.