Page 61 of Match Penalty

"Yeah, after we moved out, I found someone new.”

“Who?”

He stalls for a second before answering. “Your dad.”

His answer surprises me, but it shouldn’t. My dad has been playing since before JP ever laced up a pair of skates. I listen quietly as he continues.

"Seven's everything I want to be as a goalie, as a franchise player, as a teammate. The man I wish my father had been. And now I see him with Milo and Brynn… and with you. Protective, supportive, puts family first. The man my father will never be. Even when Coach Wrenley puts me through it during drills, I respect him for it.”

I chuckle at the thought of my dad’s perpetual scowl, not that it’s ever aimed at me… usually.

“And the bet? Do you respect him for that?”

He pauses for a moment, as if he’s collecting his thoughts.

“Yes, I respect him for it. He’s trying to protect you, and he’s putting a lot on the line to do it. He’d do anything for you, Cammy—you know that right?”

“And you agreed to it because…?”

He looks at me over my shoulder, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Because I’d do anything for you, too.”

The weight of his words lands squarely between us, heavy and undeniable. As everything feels heavy around us—emotions I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.

I clear my throat, forcing a lighter tone as I lean back slightly. “So,” I say, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “Do you do this often?”

He turns a dial on the machine, making a small adjustment to something. “Do what? Drive the Zamboni?”

“More like, is this how you get all the girls to rideyourZamboni?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.

His eyes shoot up from the dials, locking on mine.

"You're the only girl I've ever given a Zamboni ride to,” he says, his eyes honest, “And you're the only girl I’ll ever ask."

His hand at my waist shifts slightly, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of my shirt. It was an accident, but it still sends a shiver through me. I know he feels it by the way his grip tightens, anchoring me closer.

“Cammy,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly.

“Yeah?” I manage. His fingers skim against my bare skin and then slide further up, under my shirt, his touch burning a trail along my stomach, the delicious feeling of little scratches from a calloused hockey player's hand. “If you want me to stop…”

“I don’t,” I say quickly, cutting him off. My voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to make him pause, his forehead resting against the back of my head for a moment as if he’s gathering himself.

“Good.”

The Zamboni stops in one of the corners of the rink.

I lean back resting my head against his shoulder, giving him better access as his fingers dive under the lacy fabric of my bra. His thumb and index finger find my hardening nipple, pinching gently, pulling a soft whimper from my lips. I arch against him, pressing my ass harder into his lap. A guttural growl vibrates through his chest, and I feel it against my back.

I look up into the stands, remembering where we are. Though no one would be able to see what we’re doing under his jacket if they walked in, I’m sure they could guess.

"The security cameras..." I start.

"They can't see us," he finishes. "We're in their blind spot. And the guys on duty tonight play online poker in the breakroom, ignoring the cameras unless an alarm goes off."

Good to know we have the best of the best on the night crew.

“There’s a blind spot?” I ask. “How do you know where it is?”

“Hunter knows about it. Don’t ask why,” he says, laying a soft kiss behind my ear. “Is this still okay?”

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