Page 73 of Match Penalty

Again.

This all feels like Déjà vu.

I push away from my desk, unable to focus on the auction paperwork spread out in front of me. The arena feels different today, colder somehow. Through my office window, I can see the team practicing on the ice below. JP's guarding the net, his movements smooth yet mechanical as he blocks shot after shot.

He's playing better than ever. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because while I'm up here falling apart, he seems completely fine. More than fine—he's excelling.

My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps. But it's just Brynn.

Brynn:You okay? Haven't heard from you since that night.

Me:I'm fine. JP's not talking to me.

Brynn:What do you mean not talking to you?

Me:Radio silence since Oakley's. Won't answer calls or texts.

Brynn:Want me to talk to Seven?

Me:No. I need to handle this myself.

It was his day off yesterday, and when I went to his apartment door to see if he was home so he could offer me an explanation in person, no one answered. His car wasn't in the parking garage either.

I watch as JP makes another impossible save, the small crowd of practice observers cheering—mostly Hawkeyes staff and coaches and family members. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself too rigid, too controlled.

Something's wrong. I know it in my bones.

The problem is, he won't let me close enough to figure out what it is.

I grab my jacket. If he won't answer my calls, I'll make him face me in person. I've done the waiting game before—back when he first left, when I spent months wondering what I did wrong, why I wasn't enough.

I'm not doing it again.

I spend the time during the walk down to the ice level preparing myself for the physical version of our digital interaction—which is a cold shoulder. How did we get here when only a couple of days ago, he pulled his jersey over my head like a claim and took me against the broom closet wall without a condom? Now, I doubt he'd even respond via carrier pigeon.

Practice is wrapping up; I can hear Coach Haynes giving final instructions, the sound of skates scraping ice as players head toward the tunnel.

I position myself near the locker room entrance, heart pounding. JP will have to pass by here. He'll have to acknowledge my existence.

The players start filing past, some nodding in greeting, others too focused on their post-practice routines to notice me. And then I see him, bringing up the rear, his mask pushed up on top of his head.

"JP!"

He freezes, his eyes meeting mine for a split second before darting away. The look in them is a mixture of pain and distance, as if he's shut down. There's no sparkle in them anymore—no fire. I take in a deep inhale.

"Cammy, can I grab you for a second?"

Matt's voice cuts through the moment, and I want to scream in frustration. The equipment manager is standing just a few feet away, holding a stack of jerseys and wearing an apologetic expression.

"You can see me?" I ask Matt as JP walks past us.

"Uh, yes Cammy, I can see you," he says with confusion as if he’s not sure if he answered the question correctly.

"Good, I thought maybe I died and returned as a ghost, and now I'm invisible."

I turn to see JP's shoulders tense. He's taking large steps away from us, but at least he heard me.

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