Page 66 of Match Penalty

Seven's number. Her father's legacy stretched across her shoulders like a shield, reminding me what’s at stake.

The sight stirs something possessive in my chest. Before I can think better of it, I'm moving toward the group. Cammy's back is to me as she points out the new digital displays, giving me the perfect opportunity.

"Excuse me, Ms. Wrenley," I say, keeping my tone professional. "Could I borrow you for a moment? Equipment issue."

Her eyes gleam back at me the moment they meet, causing my cock to stir. Nowmyequipment issue is a real problem. But as much as I'd like to do something about it, I doubt Cammy would agree to a quickie in the broom closet before the puck drop. Shaking the thought away, I focus on keeping my expression normal as she tilts her head curiously and then answers.

"Of course.” She turns to her tour group next. “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen?"

The moment we're around the corner, I pull her into the equipment closet. The space is tight, filled with the scent of rubber, cleaning supplies, and her perfume.

"JP, what are you doing?"

"You're wearing the wrong number," I say softly, fingers finding the hem of Seven's jersey.

She’s taken by surprise but lifts her arms to let me finish as I slowly lift it over her head, leaving her in a thin camisole that has me rethinking our time constraint. I was supposed to be in the locker room five minutes ago, and Cammy has a hallway full of Everett’s inventors waiting for her.

Before she can protest, I'm pulling my own practice jersey from my bag.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, but she's not stopping me as I help her into it.

The sight of my number stretched across her back unlocks something primal in me. I turn her gently, adjusting the fabric until it sits just right.

"You look good in my number," I say, “Dumont II” written over her shoulders, making me wonder what it would be like to make that permanent.

She looks up at me through her lashes, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "This is a pretty big statement you’re asking me to wear…"

“It’s more than a statement,” I say back.

Voices pass by the door, and reality crashes back in. She steps back quickly, gathering Seven's jersey.

"I have a tour to finish," she says, but there's a smile playing on her lips that’s brighter than it was before.

"Wear it tonight?" I ask before she can leave. "For the game?"

She hesitates for a moment before nodding. My first victory of the night.

But I have one more play to make tonight, and it won’t be in front of the net.

Back in the locker room, Slade's words from weeks ago echo in my head again as I tape up my stick in the locker room.

You want it all?Then prove it. Prove you're not just another player passing through. Prove your end game material.

End game. The word sits heavy in my chest as I suit up. Because that's what Cammy is—what she's always been, if I'm honest with myself. Not just another conquest, not just another chance at redemption.

She's everything.

The energy in the stadium is insane tonight. Fans are on their feet before the puck even drops, the sound of their cheers vibrating through the walls of the arena. It’s my first home game, and I’m locked in, focused on stopping every shot. Everything but this game fades away. Cammy, Coach Wrenley, my father's expectations. Out here on the ice, I have no questions of what I should be doing, this is all muscle memory, split second decisions that have to be made before I even have time to think.

But knowing Cammy's here—in the stands—wearing my jersey, brings an unfamiliar calm I've never felt before. As if no matter what happens out here, I might finally have a shot with her. Or at least, I'm about to find out if I do.

The first period starts strong. My saves are clean, reflexes sharp. Save after save, the crowd chants my name, and I can feel the momentum shifting in our favor.

During a timeout, I spot her in Seven's season ticket seats beside Brynn, my number clearly visible even from the ice. The sight sends a surge of energy through my blood.

Seven's at the bench, arms crossed as he watches me. His expression is unreadable, but I know he's seen the jersey switch. He's watching everything I do out here, judging whether I'm worthy of wearing his team's colors.

Of loving his daughter.

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