Page 92 of Match Penalty

This time, I don’t hold back.

I shift my weight, winding up with every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering ache in my chest. I release, sending the puck flying hard and fast toward the lower corner.

JP moves before the shot even lands.

Anticipating. Reading me like a damn book.

His pad sweeps out in a clean, precise motion, deflecting the puck effortlessly.

I curse under my breath, skating a sharp circle before returning to the line. The energy in the arena wavers, the tension thick enough to choke on. It all comes down to this.

I lift my gaze toward him, my grip tightening on my stick. He’s already looking at me.

For a single heartbeat, the world narrows down to just us.

I don’t see the crowd. I don’t hear the cheers. I don’t feel the ice beneath my skates.

It’s just JP—his shoulders rising and falling with each breath, his weight shifting slightly, but there’s something different this time.

Something off.

His stance isn’t as sharp. His shoulders aren’t as tense.

And in his eyes, just beneath the steel guard of his mask, there’s something that looks an awful lot likedefeat.

My pulse is erratic now, my breath uneven as I set up for the final shot.

Everything hinges on this.

I wind up, muscles tingling, tensing as I release and swing through with my hockey stick, the puck flying through the air.

And JP... steps aside.

The puck flies cleanly into the net.

The buzzer sounds. The arena erupts. Confetti cannons explode in a flurry of blue and silver.

But I don’t feel like I won.

I stand frozen, my chest heaving, staring across the rink at the black puck in the net. Complete disbelief washes over me. Hot bile bubbles in my stomach, threatening to crawl up my throat with emotion about to boil over. In everything I analyzed, I guess I hadn't been prepared for this scenario.

JP's watching as he lifts his mask. Our eyes collide.

And in that single second, I understand everything.

He let me win.

He’s leaving.

And he’s doing it on purpose. He's leaving me by choice. The pain of that thought sears so deep that it will probably scar.

His stick clatters to the ice as he dips down to pick up the puck, and then he pushes forward, skating straight toward me. My lips curl into a forced smile for the cameras and the guests all applauding for me, but beneath it, anger simmers like a live wire beneath my skin.

He stops, barely inches from me.

“You let me win,” I hiss, breathless.

JP pulls off his mask, his expression unreadable, but his eyes seem sad and yet full of life the moment they meet mine.

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