Page 9 of Match Penalty

Little did I know that I was minutes away from having the best night of my life, and only hours away from fucking it all up.

"I've always cared, Cammy." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Her eyes cut from mine to the picture in her hand. I see past her carefully constructed walls. There's hurt there—the kind I've caused and the kind that makes my throat tight.

She sets it back down, the mask of perfect professionalism put right back in place. I can't blame her. We're standing in our boss's office after all. And she still thinks I left her for someone else. A truth I can't completely tell her without hurting someone else in the process and potentially earning us both a ten thousand dollar fine and up to four years in jail.

"You must be here for a reason. What can I do for you, so that we can both get back to work?"

I clear my throat. She wants to pretend that there isn't history between us.

Fine.

For now.

After seventeen months, two days, and nine hours of time between us, I'm finally standing in front of her, and yet, she couldn't be any further away.

"Just here to pick up my apartment keys," I say, with a small grin. Inside, though, the tension in her voice claws at me. "The property manager was supposed to send a courier here with them."

"Right," she says as if she just remembered—relieved that I have a real purpose for my visit. She pulls open a drawer, retrieving an envelope. "The Commons, unit 414. Don't worry, I made sure they didn't put us on the same floor," she says, holding out a simple white envelope with my name written on it in her loopy cursive "Jon Paul." The same handwriting she'd left on a note with “no thanks” stuck to a puck I passed her years ago. Still, seeing it brings back memories.

"What a relief. Being on the same floor with you would have been a nightmare," I tease.

Her eyes narrow. The easy laugh I used to get from her all those years ago is nowhere to be heard.

"A two-year lease? That's a lot of commitment for you, isn’t it? Figured you'd like to keep your options open… you know, in case a better apartment calls you in the middle of the night asking for a ride home."

And there it is, the truth of what she thinks I did. Told with the Cammy Wrenley edge: purrs like a kitten, cuts like a razor blade.

I still remember the first thing we said to each other in Cooper's kitchen, before I ordered Chinese and took her upstairs to have her all to myself—no more interruptions.

"You flew all the way down here to watch me play?" I asked, a smirk spread across my lips.

Someone tapped my shoulder to ask if I wanted to take a shot with them, but I couldn't have cared less if anyone else was in the house. Cammy was the only one I wanted to celebrate with.

"Are you kidding? I'd never do that. I just flew down here to tell you that my dad says he still owes you a fat lip for that sucker puck three weeks ago. Want me to pencil you in for next season?" she teased, taking a sip from her red solo cup to hide her grin.

That's the moment I knew I was a goner. If I didn't know it before, I knew it then. Cammy Wrenley is it for me.

No second choice—no runner up—no contingency plan. Only her.

“Trying something new,” I say with a shrug, wanting to address the "apartment knocking on my door" as being Angelica. But I know she won't receive me asking for another chance to prove it right now. Our boss's office isn't the best place to have this out anyway. And I shouldn't enjoy this back and forth with her, but fuck, I'm just glad she's speaking to me at least. “The team wants me close to the arena for physical therapy and my hotel room doesn’t have a coffee maker," I counter.

I don't drink coffee—I hate the stuff.

An energy drink and a candy bar between game periods is more my style.

Her brow arches, unimpressed. "Good luck with that."

"You don’t sound convinced," I shoot back, leaning in just enough to see if her hazel eyes are green or honey brown. An indicator of how pissed off she is at me right now.

Something I picked up on over the years in short moments of close proximity.

To her credit, she doesn't lean back away from me. She stands her ground. Which earns me a better view.

"I don’t have to be." Her tone is smooth, dismissive, an eyebrow cocked.

I should let it drop, but I can’t resist. “Tu ne sais pas à quel point tu m’as manqué,” I say, keeping my voice light.

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