Page 1 of Match Penalty

Prologue

Cammy

"Damn sun," I mutter at the early morning light streaming through the expensive blackout curtains, landing squarely on my face. It's the kind of light that demands you wake up, even when you don't want to.

I groan softly, stretching my arms above my head as I try to burrow deeper under the silk sheets. The smell of his deodorant and a hint of me still clings to the bedding, along with the faint smell of sex from last night and then again early this morning before we fell asleep.

Three years of saying no to Jon Paul Dumont, to avoid being another notch on his bedpost, and here I am, completely worn out yet deliciously sated in the guest bedroom of his teammate’s beach house. I allow myself a brief, blissful moment, letting myself sink into the mattress, soaking up the tenderness of my nipples from his teeth and the beautiful soreness between my thighs where he took me—over and over again.

Trying to also forget that he's the reason my team, the Seattle Hawkeyes, were bumped out of their spot in the championship, beating them out of contention three weeks ago. Though watching him play against my dad was something else entirely. Goalies on opposing teams—on opposite sides of the rink.

It's been three years since I caught him staring at me from the ice, his face hidden behind his mask, except for the sharp curve of his smirk. He tossed pucks over the plexiglass, scribbled in silver sharpie...Dinner?

I shook my head no, assuming he thought I was just another puck bunny and feeling insulted by it, but JP didn't stop there. Every game after that, every charity event, every time our paths crossed, he'd toss another puck my way or drop a smooth comment walking past me in the hallway during post-game media interviews, that perfect cupid's bow pulled tight.

JP came with a warning label—his reputation preceding him. Though not the same reputation as his father's, which I'd heard whispers about in hockey circles. The great Jon Paul Dumont Sr., whose drinking had cost him everything—his career, his marriage, his relationship with his son. JP never talks about it, but I'd seen the way he tensed up whenever someone mentioned his father's name.

Three years of saying no. Three years of trading barbs at charity events and all-star games, pretending I don't secretly look forward to the start of a new season when we'll be pushed back into proximity because of our jobs. Because I do.

And now, he's the same man who whispered French in my ear last night—words I didn't understand but melted for anyway—who looked at me across the ice as he won another playoff game, like I was the only thing that mattered.

For once, someone in my life means what they say.

I let out an audible groan at the idea that I can't stay in bed with the sexy goalie a little while longer. After all this time—all those moments where we'd talk for hours, where he'd find excuses to linger longer before getting on the team bus, and all those times I pretended his attention meant nothing—I finally gave in. And now, ordering breakfast and partaking in a few more rounds under these silk sheets with JP would be more fun, but the reality of today hits me like a slap.

I have to get up.

My flight home leaves this morning, and I need to return my rental car. What was I thinking, coming to a Blue Devils' playoff win celebration? If anyone from the Hawkeyes' front office found out that their General Manager's assistant spent the night with the rival team's goalie, I'd never live it down. If my dad found out… I push the thought away.

Besides, last night was supposed to be a quick appearance at Danny Cooper's house—the Blue Devils' right winger. But the second JP's eyes met mine from across the room, his gaze dipped to the puck in my hand—the one he'd tossed me before second period with Cooper's address scribbled on it—and his smile spread. Not the cocky grin I've spent years brushing off, but something real. Genuine. And all at once, I wasn't thinking about the reasons I'd been saying no.

When he suggested we escape the chaotic celebration downstairs and order Chinese food to one of the guestrooms, my usual defenses crumbled. Instead of my typical witty rejection, I found myself following him up the grand staircase, my hand in his, my heart racing with every step.

But one of the biggest reasons I usually decline crosses my mind this morning. The Hawkeyes and the Blue Devils share the longest rivalry in NHL history—a fact neither of us ever let the other forget.

Suddenly the lack of sound and movement on the other side of the bed feels off. I reach across the bed, and my hand brushes cold sheets.

My eyes snap open.

The spot where JP was lying just hours ago is cold, the silk sheets pulled back like he got out of bed in a rush. My heart stutters as I push myself up onto my elbows, scanning the room.

There's a sleek dresser in the corner, his suit jacket still draped over the chair beside it. All of his stuff is still here, besides his keys, wallet, and cell phone that he had on the nightstand before we fell asleep. Wherever he went... he took them with him.

On the dresser, five empty Chinese takeout containers from last night sit next to an untouched glass of water. The sight brings back memories of sharing spring rolls and laughing about all the times I've shot down his dinner invitations. Though I reminded him that he sucker-punched my dad three weeks ago in their head-to-head and might not have the warm welcome he thinks he will.

Almost all of his belongings are here, evidence that I didn't dream last night into existence.

But no JP.

I listen for him, but all I hear are muffled conversations from downstairs, doors opening and closing, and the occasional burst of laughter as the mansion slowly wakes up to its post-game hangover.

He's probably just downstairs brewing coffee. Maybe ordering breakfast in bed.

Dread pools in my stomach anyway. My gut is warning me to lower my expectations and prepare for the worst.

I reach for my phone, scrolling quickly to his number—the one he programmed last night with a confident grin and a promise to keep in touch. He'd even winked and said, "The season’s over. If I come to Seattle, will you see me, mon petit oiseau?"

The way my heart leaped at the thought of him already making future plans with me has me hoping that my gut isn't right, but my past experiences with my family, specifically my mother, tell me to expect disappointment.

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