Page 18 of Match Penalty

I grit my teeth, forcing my tone to stay neutral. “It doesn’t matter. Like I said before, it's ancient history.”

And as long as I have something to say about it, that's how it will stay.

Chapter Five

JP

The smell of sweat clings to the cold air as I walk through the players' tunnel, the sound of guys chirping at each other echoing off the cement walls. For most of them, this is just another day at practice. For me, every moment feels like I’m one mistake away from losing everything I’ve fought to rebuild. The mistake I made out there was unacceptable and could have been prevented if I would have had my eyes where they should have been.

That mistake didn't go unseen. An entire hockey team and several coaches saw me miss a puck headed straight for me. Then they all saw Coach Wrenley trade me out for Olsen, who's still on the long term injury list for another six weeks, at least. Humiliation doesn't begin to describe it. I have to do better if I ever want to earn a spot out of PTO.

"Dumont. A word."

Seven’s voice slices through the noise, stopping me cold. I figured this was coming.

I turn, and he’s standing at the edge of the tunnel, arms crossed, his presence as commanding as it was when I was a kid watching his highlight reels.

"Sure, Coach."

I follow him a few paces into the hallway, the locker room door swinging shut behind us. The tunnel feels colder somehow, the fluorescent lights of the stadium beating down on the hard features of his face. He's not happy—that's easy enough to see from the deep scowl, and sharp lifted eyebrow.

"You’ve got talent, Dumont," he starts, his voice calm but cutting. "Maybe more than your old man ever did. But distractions? They’ll end your career faster than any injury."

I swallow hard, knowing exactly what he’s getting at. This isn't about just any distraction. This distraction has a name, a killer smile, and happens to share half his DNA.

"And staring into the stands during practice?" His tone sharpens. "That’s a distraction you can’t afford."

Cammy. Her name hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. Innocent unless proven guilty.

Seven steps closer, his voice lowering. "I know what you were looking at. And let me make one thing crystal clear: Cammy deserves better than a player who’s looking for something to play with and then toss out with the trash on one of his nights off. Cammy's no puck bunny, Dumont, and I'll never let anyone treat her like one."

His assumptions about what I want from Cammy couldn't be further off base.

"Coach, about Cammy—"

He cuts me off with a raised hand, his expression hardening. "Stop. Whatever you think you’re about to say, don’t. If you want a future here, keep your eyes on the puck and off my daughter."

His footsteps echo as he walks away, leaving me standing there, his words settling like ice in my veins.

The locker room hits me with a wall of noise as I push through the door—guys laughing, gear being tossed, the sharp snap of towels and the underlying tension of a team finding its rhythm.

"Dumont!" Luka Popovich calls out, his Russian accent thick with amusement. "That was some save out there. Oh wait, no it wasn't—guess you were too busy taking in the sights, eh?"

"Rafters needed inspecting," I shoot back, forcing a grin, heading to my stall. "Just making sure this place isn't falling apart around us."

"Maybe check the boards next time," Luka quips, earning chuckles from the guys around him. "They're closer to eye level."

"Or the back of the net," Hunter adds, tossing me a towel. "You know… where the puck ended up?"

Luka grabs the puck sitting next to him and lobs it my way. I catch it in one hand. "Oh look, you left this in the net. Want me to autograph it for you?" he asks, with a smirk.

I roll my eyes but laugh anyway, the tension in my chest easing slightly. The chirping is relentless, sure, but I'd take a little smack talk in the locker room over Coach Wrenley warning me off of his daughter, any day. And after a year and a half off the ice, not knowing if a team would take a chance on me again after the DUI charge, I'm just happy to be back in the locker room.

"Yeah, sure," I shoot back. "With your chicken scratch, I might be able to convince some sucker online to buy it. Maybe I'll get enough to buy a hot dog at the street vendor out front."

"Jesus Christ, Dumont," Scottie Easton, one of our left wingers, says as he strolls back from the showers, a towel slung low around his waist. "Don’t let Popeye sign that biscuit. He’ll devalue it down to nothing more than a glorified paperweight."

Laughter ripples through the locker room. Luka says something in Russian, his tone sharp but amused, though none of us understand a word. He smirks anyway, which only makes it funnier.

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