Page 59 of Match Penalty

The silence in the hallways of the corporate offices is only broken by the distant sound of the cleaning crew's vacuums and the echo of my platform Keds against the polished floors as I head to the breakroom for yet another coffee.

I check my phone, and the time is just after ten p.m.. At this late hour, even most of the cleaning crew have gone home by now, and security has shifted over to the nightly skeleton crew.

I've been cataloging auction items for hours, surrounded by the organized chaos JP and the team created earlier. Every signed jersey, puck, and photo has to be logged, photographed, and entered into the auction database. It's a lot of work, but there's something peaceful about being here alone, about having this massive space to myself.

Well, almost to myself.

Walking back to Penelope’s office with a freshly brewed coffee in my hand, I glance down at the rink from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the hall, and movement catches my eye on the ice below.

JP is still here, driving the Zamboni in smooth, precise circles. The sight of him—knowing that we're the only two in the building outside of security and the remaining cleaning crew—sparks an unexpected sense of camaraderie.

I take a sip of my coffee, admiring his work from a distance and thinking about how kind it was of him to offer Pete the night off. And the way he brought the team up to help me, convincing my dad to bring me a coffee from my favorite coffee shop. He keeps finding ways to take care of the things that I need, even before I know I need them. Things that are important to me.

My phone buzzes with a text. My heart jumps, thinking that it’s him, though I can clearly see that both hands are on the steering wheel, a set of headphones over his ears.

Brynn:Still at work?

Me:Just finishing up. JP's still here, too.

Her response is immediate.

Brynn: ??

Me:Not like that. He's doing Pete a favor, running the Zamboni.

Brynn:Running the Zamboni? Sounds like he wants to polish more than just the ice.??

I ignore her last message, but my eyes drift back to the rink. JP's making another pass, the Zamboni making polished lines on the ice. Even from up here, I can see how relaxed JP is, the easy way he handles the machine. He looks... at peace.

Before I can overthink it, I head for the elevator. I should thank him again for this morning. I mean, it's just professional courtesy.

The ride down to ice level feels both too long and too short. My platforms clap against the cement floors, the sound bouncing off the empty corridor walls as I approach the player tunnel, each step making me question whether or not I should turn back. I realize a little too late that I forgot my coat upstairs. I cross my arms, moving my hands up and down to warm them.

JP spots me, and his whole face lights up in a way that makes my heart stutter.

He guides the Zamboni toward the tunnel entrance, that familiar half-smile playing at his lips. "Hey."

"You call me your little bird," I say.

"You googled it, I assume. You just killed my mysterious edge," he smirks.

"Don't worry, you're still shrouded in mystery, I can assure you," I tease, trying to ignore how good he looks in his after practice sweats, a large jacket over top while he drives. I had no idea that JP on a Zamboni would do it for me… and yet, here we are. "You're still here?"

"I saw the lights on upstairs—figured you were still working." He cuts the Zamboni's engine. "I decided to stay until you were done. I don’t like the idea of you being here by yourself."

“Security’s here…” I say.

He nods, glancing up at the windows to the corporate office where he saw the lights on. “Yeah, I know.”

Something warms in my chest. "So you stayed here for me?"

"That, and I told Pete I'd run the Zamboni so he can finish his carving for the auction. Plus," he adds, shrugging one shoulder, "I like running this thing. Ol' Bessie here knows how to show a guy a good time."

I snicker. "I'm sure you're never short of options for a good time," I say, aiming for teasing but hearing the edge in my voice.

His expression turns serious. "The only good time I'm interested in is time spent with you, Cammy. I'm not interested in anyone else."

Heat floods my cheeks at his honesty. How does he do that? Just say exactly what he's feeling, no games, no pretense? His openness to my closed off walls.

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