Page 31 of Match Penalty

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, though it holds more edge than humor. "Pretty confident for someone whose teammate just gave up his weak spot.”

JP and I could go rounds back and forth. I know… because we have, on many occasions, but then Everett's voice booms across the ice. "There they are!" He strides toward us with a man in an expensive suit—presumably the investor. I straighten my shoulders, grateful for the interruption. "Mark, these are the two I was telling you about. Jon Paul Dumont, our goalie, and Cammy Wrenley—Seven Wrenley's daughter."

Mark shakes both our hands, his enthusiasm evident in his firm grip. His eyes linger on me a moment longer than necessary, clearly trying to reconcile my presence on the ice. I'm used to that look—the one that says “coach's daughter doesn't quite explain what I'm doing here with a stick in my hands.” But his smile is warm nonetheless.

"Everett says you've got something special planned for the auction?" Mark's polished exterior barely contains his curiosity.

"A slapshot challenge," JP explains, his professional charm sliding into place—the same voice he used to use for post-game interviews. "Guests can donate for a chance to score on a pro goalie. Olsen Bozeman should be cleared by Dr. Hensen by then. He and I will take shifts, and donors can pay as many times as they want to take three shots against either one of us."

"And you're going to demonstrate out on the ice for us?" Mark asks me.

"That's the plan." I twirl my stick, a nervous habit. "Though usually I'm the one organizing events, not participating in them."

“A Dumont and Wrenley showdown,” Mark says, “I like it. Donors will like it, too. This could be a big pull to get more donors in the door.”

I never thought of it that way, but of course that’s how outsiders see it.

"Well then," Everett claps his hands together, "let's see what you two have planned for the auction. Good luck.”

Before Everett walks away, he leans in closer. “I’ve got a hundred bucks on you. Give him hell.”

The vote of confidence from Everett is what I needed. The longer I see what he's doing with this team to build up community around the city and going big with his own money to help make sure that this charity is a huge success, the more I believe in Phil Carlton's decision.

They retreat to the bench, leaving JP and me alone on the ice. The arena feels smaller somehow, like the walls are closing in. Or maybe that's just the weight of everyone's eyes on us, the whispered conversations, the anticipation hanging thick in the air.

JP settles into position, and I take my place. Three shots. That's all I need. Just one has to get past him. I close my eyes for a moment, remembering countless hours practicing with my dad, his voice steady.

"Read the goalie, find the weakness, commit to your shot."

The first puck feels heavy in my hands as I set it down. JP's weight shifts slightly left—he's expecting me to go right. It's such a subtle tell that most people wouldn't notice it, but I’ve spent more time analyzing his every move—more than I thought I had—over the years. I adjust my angle at the last second, sending the puck high glove side.

He catches it cleanly, the smack of rubber against his glove echoing through the arena. Even through his mask, I can see the satisfaction in his eyes. That little head tilt he does when he's pleased with himself—some things never change.

There are a few light claps for Dumont and a few “boos” from Hunter and Aleksi, but I ignore it, setting up for my second attempt. My hands are shaking slightly as I position the puck. This time I go low, trying to sneak it between his pads. He drops into a butterfly, the puck bouncing harmlessly off his leg pad.

"Come on, Wrenley!" Hunter shouts. "Show him what you've got!"

"You got this, Cammy!" Brynn's voice carries from somewhere above, steady and encouraging.

One shot left. My palms sweat inside my gloves as I line up the final attempt.

I channel my shot, putting everything I have into it. The puck flies true, heading for the top corner. For a split second, I think I've got him. Hope surges through me—and then his glove flashes up, snagging it out of the air like it was meant for him all along. Like everything about me has always belonged to him, whether I wanted it to or not.

The team erupts, a few cheers but mostly playful booing at JP for shutting me out. I’d laugh at the antics if losing didn’t mean something else—something I agreed to.

A date.

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, try to swallow down the disappointment and something else that feels dangerously like excitement… maybe even relief? Is that even possible? Like this bet is forcing us together without me having to fully drop my guard.

He skates toward me, his mask pushed up to reveal that infuriating smile that still keeps me up thinking about it. Sweat glistens on his forehead, a drop sliding down his temple. I remember how that skin felt under my fingers, how his smile felt against my lips.

"Looks like you owe me a date," he says quietly, close enough that only I can hear. His breath fogs in the cold air between us, mingling with mine.

“A bet is a bet,” I say.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do, Cammy. I’d rather you come because you wanted to. Not just because you lost our bet.”

Suddenly, I feel a heavy presence near us by the home bench.

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