Page 3 of Match Penalty

The heat of humiliation rushes through me as their laughter fades down the hall. I clutch my phone, the weight of everything crashing down at once: the story, the whispers, the realization that I was just another conquest.

I should have known better.

No... actually, I did know better.

My face burns as I hurry down the grand staircase, past the remnants of the celebration—empty champagne bottles, red solo cups, the faint smell of stale beer, the women slipping out with the same dazed expressions I must be wearing.

By the time I reach my rental car in the circular driveway, my humiliation has hardened into anger. And then I remember the stupid thing I sent Brynn, my stepmom, when she texted last night to check in.

Brynn:Did you have fun tonight?

Me:Yeah, and I take back what I said last week. I think you're right about happily ever after's coming from the most unexpected places.

I cringe, my eyelashes fluttering closed at my error. I never should have sent that. I shouldn't have believed a word he said as he held me close to him, his lips against my temple.

"I don't want this to end after tonight. My contract is up with the Blue Devils. I'll tell my agent to get me a deal with the Hawkeyes... whatever it takes to sign me."

I'd been warned about guys like JP Dumont. Everyone in hockey knows the type: talented, entitled, and fully aware of both. Following in their fathers' footsteps, making the same mistakes, breaking all the hearts. But I thought I was different—I thought I was differentto him.

I grit my teeth, gripping the steering wheel as I start the engine. Through the rearview mirror, I can see the mansion that housed the Blue Devils' game win celebration, now the site of my biggest mistake.

"Hope I never see that asshole again," I mutter under my breath as I pull away.

And I mean it.

Chapter One

Present Day

Cammy

"Everett Kauffman is coming in today," Penelope announces as she breezes past my desk, clutching her dirty chai latte like it's the only thing keeping her upright, her long blonde hair swishing behind her in a low ponytail. The sharp click of her heels against the dark wood floors of this Hawkeyes' suite echoes through the space before she disappears into her office.

I glance at the contracts spread across my desk—returning player contracts and Professional Tryout players, helping to make sure everything is ready for the talent coming back in to start the season—and then at her office door, left ajar for me. The smell of cinnamon and espresso from her usual drink mingles with her vanilla perfume, a familiar scent that usually brings comfort, but today it only heightens my sense that something's off.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Dad:Still on for lunch?

I smile, typing back quickly.

Me:Wouldn't miss it.

These lunch dates with my dad started as his way of making up for lost time, but they've evolved into a weekly check in that we both look forward to.

Four years ago, I moved to Seattle for an internship with the Hawkeyes—the same team my dad used to play for. Since then, I’ve worked my way up, determined to prove myself beyond being Seven Wrenley’s daughter. And these lunches with him were everything I missed growing up, thinking his older brother Eli was my father.

Penelope Matthews, the youngest GM in the NHL, is usually rock solid, but the way she barreled through without her normal cheery "good morning" or even a passing smile tells me that whoever is coming in today has her rattled.

Pushing back my chair, I grab my notebook and follow after her. She's already perched on the edge of her desk, fingers drumming against the to-go cup from Serendipity's Coffee Shop down the street. The moment I step inside, she comes around her desk and heads for the door, softly clicking it shut behind me, the sound low but ominous, like the calm before a storm.

"Everett Kauffman?" I prompt, sliding into one of the leather chairs across from her as she returns to lean against the desk. My pen hovers over the fresh page of my notebook, ready to take notes like I've done countless times in this office over the past four years, working my way up from intern to executive assistant under Penelope. "As in Everett Kauffman? Oldest of the billionaire Kauffman brothers? Didn'tThe Seattle Sunrisejust do a piece on him and his family?"

"Yep, the very one," she says, taking a sip of her drink. "And Phil just signed a deal to sell the Hawkeyes to him."

My notebook slips from my fingers, landing on the floor with a dull thud that seems to echo in the suddenly too-quiet room. "Wait. Phil Carlton is selling the team? Phil, who swore on his mother's grave he'd die before letting anyone else own it?"

I lean down to retrieve my notebook.

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