Page 20 of Match Penalty

Here goes nothing.

Chapter Six

Cammy

Penelope's door clicks open as she comes out of her office after a call with Legal on some new potential player trade deal. She stops at my desk before heading out to lunch.

"How's it going out here?" she asks. I was on a roll sending out emails when she walked in this morning, so she didn't stop at my desk for small talk like she usually does.

"Good," I say, and then hit the send button on my keyboard. "That's the last email to the sponsors from previous years that Autumn gave me." I shake out my hands that are threatening to cramp after sending over a hundred emails all before lunch. "Now I'm waiting on Everett's assistant to send me Kauffman Corp's usual list of charity donors. From what I've heard, it's about three times the size of Autumn's email list. And I still need to head over to merch and get the boxes of gear down to the locker room for the guys to sign tomorrow morning after practice."

Penelope leans against my desk, a knowing smile I've come to dread, when it's aimed at me, plays at her lips. "Well, then I think you'll be happy to hear that I had a player volunteer to help take a little bit of that load off your shoulders."

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of having dead weight in the form of a player "volunteering" out of obligation or duty. Honestly, I'd rather do it myself than deal with a hostage-like situation. "Like I mentioned before, I don't need help. Brynn and I are getting together tonight to go over the list, and I'm sure that Aria would love nothing more than for me to call her from down the hall and get her out of Everett's office. No need to force feed a player to me."

She shakes her head. "No, no. That's the best part—he offered. I didn't even ask for participation," she says. "He came to me."

"A player offered to help me with the auction on his own free will?" I ask with a furrowed brow, not in the least bit buying her story.

Something's up.

"Yep," she grins. "And why wouldn't they? It's for a great cause, and you're a joy to work with."

"HA!" I give a dry laugh—now I know she's lying.

Not because the charity isn't doing amazing things for families—it is. But because never in my life has anyone called me "a joy to work with."

I mean, I'm not tough to get along with or anything, I just take a few minutes to warm up. Like an old automobile.

You have to prime the engine a little before you just jump in and take me for a spin. I like to feel out people's motives before I fully trust them. I can thank my mother for that.

Basically, my hot mess of a family gave me trust issues.

Then, Seven and I reconnected, and the Hawkeyes took me in as one of their own.

"All I'm saying is, he knows the guys." She adjusts her blazer, the gesture too casual to be natural. "And after yesterday morning's practice..."

"Wait…it's not…" I pause, Penelope's lips puckering as if trying not to grin as wide as the Chesshire Cat.

"He wants to make up for yesterday, and I think he could really help you," she says quickly, defending her case.

"With all due respect, Penelope," I start, because, well she is my boss after all, "yesterday's practice is exactly the reason he should be focusing on his game, not charity auctions."

I turn back to my computer screen, hoping she'll drop it. The image of JP missing that save because he was looking at me still makes my stomach twist. "Besides, I told him last week I didn't need his help."

"And yet," Penelope says, looking towards the door and then straightens with entirely too much enthusiasm, "here he comes."

My head snaps up. Sure enough, JP is walking toward my desk, his confidence radiating with every step. His hair is damp as if he just finished a shower after practice, the smell of fresh body wash wafts through the air as he gets closer.

He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted black henley that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath. Muscles I spent hours exploring one night in San Diego. A familiar warmth spreads through my chest before I can stop it.

"I'm headed out for lunch with Slade. I'll leave you to it," Penelope says, her voice dripping with amusement as she retreats.

"Traitor," I mutter, earning a laugh as she walks away.

"Bon aprem, mon petit oiseau," JP says, coming to a stop at my desk. The French rolls off his tongue as sweet as honey, and I hate that I still react to it.

I keep my eyes firmly on my screen. "Still with the French, Jon Paul?"

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