Page 60 of Match Penalty

"Want to take a ride with me?" he asks, breaking the moment. “I’ll give you my coat. You look freezing.”

A shiver breaks through as he reminds me that I’m not dressed warm enough for this.

"On that?" I point at the Zamboni.

"Yeah." He nods. "She's a lot more fun than she looks. You should give it a try."

"How do you know I haven't ridden a Zamboni before?"

He shakes his head, his grin soft and teasing. "If you've ridden another team's Zamboni, keep it to yourself. You’ll ruin my new favorite fantasy of you."

He sends me an easy smile—making something so arbitrary like riding a Zamboni feel like a secret he’s sharing with me.

I should say no. Should maintain professional boundaries. I should protect my heart from falling for him again, but he’s making it so difficult.

"Okay," I hear myself say.

“I knew you couldn’t resist ol’ Bessie here.” He unzips his coat and takes it off. “But unfortunately, there’s only one seat. Guess we’ll have to make do.” He slaps his lap to let me know exactly where I’ll be sitting.

I hesitate for half a second, but the way his eyes soften, waiting for my decision, has me stepping forward. He offers me his hand, and I take it. “Okay, just don’t crash. I don’t want to have to explain this one to HR when they're filling out a workers’ comp claim,” I tease, as I take the first step onto the Zamboni and he guides me to settle onto his lap.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,.” His voice is low against my ear, as he settles me onto his lap and then drapes his jacket over us.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, the heat under his jacket warming me.

“Yes. Similar to ol’ Bessie here… you’re a lot more comfortable than you look,” I say.

“Good.” There’s a grin in his tone, and I can feel it radiating off him. “You trust me, right?”

I glance over my shoulder, his face inches from mine. “On the ice? Sure. Off the ice… still deciding.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating where our bodies connect. “That’s fair.”

The Zamboni lurches forward as he puts it back in gear, and we begin to move. I’m hyper-aware of the heat from JP’s chest against my back, the steady pressure of his thighs beneath me. His arm wrapped around my middle protectively, holding me secure as the machine glides across the ice.

We start making slow circles around the rink. JP tells me stories about learning to drive one of these from his dad when he was younger, back when being on the ice meant pure joy to JP, before his father’s expectations and pressure took over.

"He used to be my hero," JP admits quietly. "Before the divorce.”

“How old were you when they separated?”

“Five,” he says. “Looking back, he wasn’t the best father he could have been. He was gone more than he had to be for work. But then he’d show up and there would be these moments when he’d make up for it.”

“Like teaching you how to drive a Zamboni in an empty hockey stadium, just the two of you,” I say, though I can't relate to those childhood memories.

At five years old, Eli, the man I grew up thinking was my father, was struggling with crippling PTSD after losing his best friend to an IED while they were both deployed overseas, and deep down, I think he always knew I wasn’t his. Not to mention that my mother needed constant reassurance that he loved her. She took up what little energy he had for giving a shit.

Eli is so different from Seven, my real father and the man who brings me coffee on a Saturday morning, who kisses the top of my head before he leaves me, who will do anything and take on anyone to protect me. Now at twenty-four years old—and considered a grown woman in society—those moments are starting to heal the little girl in me who was robbed of him.

“The great Jon Paul Dumont Sr.,” JP says, pulling me out of my own memories. “...only to those who don’t know him. But then something happened that made me step back and realize I was following too closely in his footsteps, and I decided to clean up my act to become a better man.”

"What happened that made you want to be a better man?" I ask.

"Meeting you at that first game, tossing you a puck, and you not wanting anything to do with me," he chuckles.

I try to hide the blush blooming in my cheek, so I change the subject.

“You must have had someone in the hockey community that you looked up to growing up?” I ask, adjusting his jacket over my shoulders.

---