Page 76 of Match Penalty

Cammy

Picking out dresses on this Friday afternoon with the girls is exactly what I need after everything. The French style decor of the boutique pulls me out of the hockey world I've felt like I've been drowning in for the last couple of days, waiting impatiently for JP to text me back and explain what the hell happened at Oakley's that night.

"At least try the black one, too," Penelope insists, passing me another dress through the fitting room curtain.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, fingers tracing the small bruise near my hairline, the cut is already smaller. The mark has faded to a yellowish green, barely visible unless you know where to look, but the memory of that night at Oakley's plays in my mind like a movie I can't stop watching.

One moment, I was on top of the world. JP's jersey hung perfectly across my shoulders, his number on my back feeling like a claim, a promise. His hand rested warm and sure against my lower back as he guided me to the table. The kiss he dropped on my head in front of everyone made my heart soar, the sensation between my thighs of where he took me in the broom closet less than an hour earlier still deliciously tingling from the friction.

After all these years between us, of fighting the pull, the attraction neither of us could deny—and then the night when it all went wrong a year and a half ago—it all was leading up to that night at Oakley's, and no one was more ready for it than me.

Our plan was simple: make an appearance, celebrate with the team, and then we'd leave. The dinner date he'd been asking me out on for years was finally going to happen, and I couldn't have been more ready.

Then Oliver Garcia walked in, and I should have known the minute that I saw him that it was a bad omen for our future plans. Only minutes later, everything blew up—everything happened so fast.

The memory floods back, sharp and clear.

I reached them just as the first shove happened. JP immediately pushed me behind him, protective instinct taking over. But there were too many people, too much movement. Someone's elbow caught my temple as they lunged past, sending me stumbling into a table corner.

The pain was sharp but brief—more surprising than anything. But my dad's voice cut through the chaos like a blade: "Cammy!"

Before I could process what was happening, Brynn was pulling me toward the door, Seven's orders ringing in my ears: "Get her home. Now."

I tried to look back, to catch JP's eye, but the last thing I saw was his face—blood on his lip, expression torn between reaching for me and calming down the crowd—trying to regain order with Oakley and the other Hawkeyes players.

"You okay in there?" Brynn calls out, pulling me from the memory.

"Yeah," I manage, though I'm anything but okay. The black dress slides on easier than the green one, but it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. That dinner we never got to have hanging over me like a ghost of what could have been. His lack of correspondence, besides the text he sent before I got back to Brynn's and saw it, might be the most painful of all.

What happened to the JP who sent me countless texts and voicemails after he got bailed out of the jail after the accident? The one who did everything to get my attention—to win me back—only to fold so quickly just because of a little fight at the bar? He's a hockey player for Christ's sake. Of course, there are going to be occasional fights—mostly on the ice, but still.

Something just doesn't add up.

Nothing makes sense.

When I step out, Aria whistles low. "Damn, girl."

"The bruise is barely visible now," Penelope notes, studying my reflection.

"Unlike JP's absence," Aria mutters, earning an elbow from Brynn. "He still hasn't responded to your texts from two nights ago?"

I blow out a breath as I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling three-way mirrors in front of the girls, most of whom have already chosen their dresses. I got here late, trying to get the last people on the donor list confirmed for tickets. With the auction coming up, it's crunch time. Thankfully, at least at work, I'm so busy that I barely think of JP and our fall out. "Nope. I've left text messages and voicemails, and he hasn't returned a single one. I knocked on his door the night that Brynn dropped me back off at my apartment once my dad was satisfied. I didn't have a concussion, but he either wasn't back from the bar, or he was ignoring me. I'm not sure which one is worse."

One of the other doors to the dressing room opens and Kendall walks out fully dressed with the gown she picked out slung over her arm. It's perfect for her, and it was a unanimous vote from all of us when we saw it on her. "Okay, so basically he texted you to end things before you even made it back to Brynn's and now, he's ghosting you?" Kendall asks.

She wasn't at yesterday's Serendipity's lunch break where I filled everyone in on the events that had happened four days ago.

"That about sums it up." I tell her.

She hands her dress to the saleswoman to hold for her while she waits for Aria and me to pick out our dresses, and then takes a seat next to Penelope. "You haven't seen him at work yet?" she asks.

I pause for a second, staring back at myself, unable to think of anything else besides if this dress is enough to bring JP to his knees and realize he made a mistake. "No… I've seen him. Kind of…" I say.

"You're thinking about practice this morning, aren't you?" Brynn asks softly. I already texted her about it during my lunch break.

I am. The memory of watching from the corporate offices as JP ran drills with Seven earlier this morning, the tension between them visible even from three stories up. Though I couldn't hear them, my dad's instructions seemed clipped, professional, but lacking their usual encouragement, and his body language seemed more rigid than usual. JP's movement almost seemed mechanical—robotic— in a way I've never seen before. Like he had no heart in practice at all. As if going through the motions, yet he was still blocking almost every shot.

"He won't even look at me. He saw me standing at the window today during practice and looked away just as quickly." I admit, the words burning my throat. "When I went down to drop off paperwork for Coach Haynes, he walked past me as if he's trying to avoid me even at work. As if I need more ways to be rejected."

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