Page 80 of Match Penalty

Normally, I'd laugh at him thinking that he has any chance of beating me in the next game, but I don't have it in me this time.

I wave in acknowledgment, heading for the showers. The hot water beats against my shoulders, but it does nothing to wash away the memory of that night at Oakley's. The sound of breaking glass. The chaos. The sound of Seven's voice cutting through the crowd. The sight of Cammy's blood.

By the time I'm dressed, most of the guys have cleared out. The locker room feels bigger somehow, emptier. Or maybe that's just me, echoing in all the spaces I've carved out between myself and everyone else for the last week.

I check my phone—no messages, because of course there aren't. I made sure of that.

"Hey JP," Hunter pokes his head back in. "You coming or what?"

"Yeah," I say, shouldering my bag. "I'm coming."

Because what else is there to do? Hockey is all I have left. Might as well lean into it for as long as I still have this team.

In two more days, I have to make a decision to fight to keep it, or do myself the favor of letting go and keeping distance from the woman I want more than any of this. Maybe the best thing I can do is leave and try to forget the moment when I almost had it all—twice.

The diner off Fifth is exactly what you'd expect from a hockey hangout—worn leather booths, memorabilia covering the walls, and enough carbs on the menu to fuel three teams. The familiar bell chimes as we push through the door, and the waitress—the one Olsen's been avoiding—gives us a knowing smile.

"The usual table?" she asks, already grabbing menus.

"Thanks, Bristol," Hunter grins, then stage-whispers, "Olsen says hi."

Olsen's face goes red as she laughs, and I almost smile. Almost.

We slide into our usual booth, the vinyl seats creaking under our weight. I end up wedged between Slade and the wall, trapped in more ways than one.

"So," Hunter starts, studying his menu like he doesn't order the same thing every time, "anyone want to talk about how Dumont's trying to break every save record we have?"

"Trying?" I arch an eyebrow. "Pretty sure I already broke three."

"There he is," Slade elbows me. "I was starting to think we lost you to the robot apocalypse."

The guys laugh, but there's no truth to it. I have been different lately—more focused, more exact, more... empty.

Bristol appears with waters, and Olsen suddenly becomes very interested in his phone. "Ready to order?"

"Give us a minute, will you?" Slade asks with a patient smile, then turns to me once she's gone. "Seriously though, what's going on with you? You're playing better than ever, but..."

"But what?" I challenge, even though I know exactly what he means.

"But you're not you," he finishes. "It's like watching a highlight reel on repeat. Perfect form, zero joy."

I stare at my menu, the words blurring together. "Maybe I'm just focused on the game."

"Bullshit," Hunter cuts in. "This is about Cammy."

The name hits like an ice bath, knocking the air from my lungs. "We're not talking about this."

"Fine," Slade says easily. "Then we'll talk about how you haven't been to team breakfast in the last week. Or how you skip out on every post-practice hangout. Or how—"

"I get it," I snap, then immediately regret it when several heads turn our way, "I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but are you really?" Olsen asks, finally looking up from his phone. "Because it seems like you're just going through the motions."

Before I can respond, Bristol returns with two extra-large orders of fries—on the house—while we wait for our meals. Most of us ordered more than one. We’re here often, always leaving a generous tip, and she knows we’re starving after practice.

Once she walks away, the table falls into an uncomfortable silence.

"She got hurt on my watch, okay? Maybe the Dumont genes run a little deeper than I thought. She's better off without me."

---