Page 67 of Match Penalty

The game is a battle from the start. The Wolverines aren’t pulling any punches, but neither are we. Every shot they take is faster than the last, they want this win just as bad as we do, but my reflexes are on point tonight. After a big glove save midway through the second period, I glance toward the stands where I know she’s sitting.

Sure enough, I find her. Cammy’s leaning forward, her elbows on her thighs, her knee bouncing, completely focused on the game. Her hands clench into fists whenever the puck comes too close to the net. Brynn is next to her, equally engaged but focused on Milo, too, who’s screaming and shouting, cheering on his team.

When the buzzer sounds signaling the end of the period, we’re up 2-1. As I skate toward the tunnel, I sneak another glance in her direction. Our eyes meet, and for a brief second, the chaos of the arena around me fades. Her lips curve into the smallest smile, and my pulse ticks up a notch… as if it wasn’t already beating fast enough.

I force myself to look away before I trip over my own skates. She’ll never let me live that down.

Passing through the players tunnel and the home bench, I glance over to see Seven’s stance, arms still crossed, staring directly at me. The message is clear: Prove it. But I know tonight isn’t just about Cammy. This is about me proving that I’ve earned my spot here.

So I will.

Right before third period starts, I have a puck in my hand, the one I pulled from my bag before we head out for the last period—the one I marked earlier with a silver sharpie.

The toss is perfect, sailing over the glass. Cammy reaches up for it, letting it fall right into her hands. She looks at the puck and then reads the simple message:Dinner?

This time, her smile is different from all the times before. My heart nearly stops when she nods yes.

Suddenly, this isn't just another home game anymore. This is the best night of my career.

I play the final period like I'm invincible, stopping everything that comes my way. Each save feels easier than the last, powered by the knowledge that she's watching, wearing my number, and finally—finally—said yes.

After the final horn and the celebration on the ice, I catch Cammy and Milo at the plexiglass, pounding on it as I skate by. When they both blow me a kiss, I nearly lose my balance and wipe out right there in front of everyone.

After a quick congratulations in the locker room, I'm heading to media in my game-day suit when I spot her waiting near the press room. She's still in my jersey. My chest fills with pride.

"Nice game," she says with a soft smile.

"Nice jersey," I counter, stepping closer.

She glances down at herself. "I'm a little underdressed for dinner now, aren't I?"

I bend down, my lips close to her ear. "Not even close. Seeing you in my jersey is better than lingerie." I lower my voice even more. “I can’t decide if I like it better on you… or laying on my bedroom floor.”

She bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes dilating at my admission. It’s worth every second I've waited for this moment, and it takes everything in me not to kiss her right here as all my teammates walk by.

“Come on, lover boy,” Hunter says, stopping behind me and squeezing my shoulders. “Kiss your girl later, you still have work to do.”

Aleksi gives Hunter a shove to keep him moving down the hallway. “Your public awaits on bated breath to see the beauty,” Aleksi says.

“More like they want their pound of flesh,” I hear Trey say weaving around us.

I wave them off as if it’s not important, but we all know that the press is part of our job, as much as we all hate it. “Yeah, yeah… I’m coming.”

I lean a hand against the cement wall, leaning in closer so no one can hear us, but really it's just because I want her all to myself. "Team's heading to Oakley's to celebrate," I say, Cammy’s eyes twinkling back at me. "We'll make an appearance, then slip out for dinner? Just us?"

She nods, and then licks her lips. "Just us."

My eyes drop to her mouth. "Perfect." I resist the urge to touch her, knowing the media's watching. "Give me fifteen minutes with the press?"

Her breath catches, and I’m not ashamed of the satisfaction that curls in my chest at the sound. I brush my lips against the side of her neck, a barely-there kiss, and feel the shiver that runs through her.

She inhales sharply, her scent—something warm and sweet—filling my lungs. When I pull back, her eyes are wide, the warm honey of her irises darkened and dilated.

“Do you think we have time before your interview?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something unmistakable.

I don’t even hesitate. “Fuck yeah.”

Without another word, I grab her hand, weaving us through the crowd of players and staff. No one pays us much attention, too focused on post-game routines and celebrations. My grip tightens as I lead her toward the back hallway, adrenaline pounding in my veins.

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