Page 28 of Match Penalty

Cammy.

She's been out there with Seven for the past hour, staying after morning practice wrapped up and the team cleared out. From my position near the tunnel, I can hear the rhythmic thwack of pucks finding their mark against the net.

It's been a few days since I left her apartment and Angelica's poorly timed phone call. I wish I'd known what to say that night to make her believe that nothing happened between Angelica and me, but telling her means exposing Angelica. And then all the work her team has been doing would be a waste.

Above me, Penelope and Everett lean against the railing near the players' tunnel, their heads bent in conversation as they watch Cammy's practice. They've been out here all morning watching the team's practice first, but something about the way they're studying her now feels different. More focused.

My attention shifts back to Cammy as she lines up another shot. The way she squares her shoulders, the slight bend in her knees, the fluid motion of her follow-through—Seven's coaching shows in every movement, but there's something else there, too. Raw talent. Pure Wrenley DNA.

The puck flies, but Seven stops it with his glove.

"Getting better," Seven calls out, pride evident in his voice. "Go again."

That pride—it's something I've never heard in my own father's voice. Jon Paul Senior's idea of encouragement was always more like: "You can do better than that," or "A real champion wouldn't have missed that save." Watching Seven with Cammy, the way he builds her up instead of tearing her down, makes something twist in my chest.

From what Cammy told me that night in San Diego, she only started skating after finding out Seven was her dad. Though she was born with an athletic edge—an all-state volleyball champ with full rides to multiple colleges... just not the University of Washington. She wanted to go to take an internship with the Hawkeyes and be closer to Seven.

I can't tear my eyes away, seeing her out on the ice—my ice. The only thing that would make this better is being out there with her. She sets up another shot, and my goalie instincts kick in automatically. Her wrist shot is lethal—quick release, perfect placement—but her slapshot? That's where the real power lies.

She needs more work, but her skills are impressive for the limited years she’s put in. Seven glances my way, his expression hardening when he catches me watching. The message is clear:Stay away from my daughter.But it's too late for that warning. It was too late the moment I saw her at that first game over four years ago, the first time I tossed her a puck to go out to dinner with me.

I’m not one for the chase—it’s never been my thing. But the moment I saw the look of disgust on Cammy's face when she read “Dinner?” on the puck, she hooked me. That was the first time I had ever gotten a reaction like that from a woman, and it intrigued me. Now, I’m addicted to her snarky comments, the warning look in her eyes, that sharp brow that tells me she thinks I’m full of shit. I have to fucking know what she’s thinking.

What I wouldn’t give to have subtitles for Cammy’s inner thoughts. Those pointed remarks that absolutely destroy me, and yet, I can never get enough.

It’s a game I can’t win but can’t stop playing.

Because I want every part of Cammy. Her rose petals and her thorns.

"JP," Everett calls from above, snapping me out of my trance. "Just the man we wanted to see."

Cammy finishes her last shot—top shelf, right above Seven's shoulder. Seven's attention fixes on me fully now, his protective instincts visible.

"That slapshot challenge you and Cammy proposed," Everett continues, "it's a great idea. I think the live-action interaction could bring in some bigger donors."

"Thanks." I scratch the back of my neck, oddly pleased by the enthusiasm. "It was actually Cammy's idea, too. We worked on it together."

"Speaking of which," Everett's eyes track to the ice where Cammy's just landed another impressive shot, "I've got an investor coming in tomorrow. Deep pockets, lots of connections—exactly the kind of person we need interested in this auction to ensure the foundation gets the funding they need for those family condos near the cancer center."

I see where this is going. "And you want a preview?"

"If you and Cammy wouldn't mind?" Penelope asks, her tone careful. "Just a little demonstration to show him what he could expect from the auction and maybe encourage him to bring some friends along."

"Cammy!" Everett calls out. "Got a minute?"

Her eyes narrow slightly when she spots me, but she manages a smile for the others. "Yes, of course."

On the ice, Seven tells her to go while he grabs the rest of the gear. She heads for us, tugging off her gloves. Her cheeks are flushed from practice, and her nose is red from the chill of the ice, a few strands of hair stuck to her temple. She's beautiful—just like this, raw and real, no walls up yet.

"You look solid out there. Giving your old man a run for his money," Everett says.

"Thanks. He's a great coach. I'm lucky to get to learn from the best." There's pride in her voice, something no one would ever hear in my voice for my own father. The closest I ever got to making Jon Paul Senior proud was the day I signed my first NHL contract—and even then, his first words were about living up to the family name.

As Everett explains the situation, Seven approaches. His eyes meet mine for a moment, his eyes still a warning sign that I'm standing too close to her.

"Sounds good to me," Cammy says, though I know her willingness to be a team player isn't for my benefit.

Seven's jaw tightens, but he turns to Everett. "When were you thinking?"

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