Page 7 of Match Penalty

Chapter Two

JP

For the last year and a half while rehabbing my knee in Toronto, I’ve been dreaming about this ice. This is where I convince everyone I’m more than my father’s son, more than the headlines. More than the guy who left her.

Coach Wrenley’s standing at the boards, arms crossed, watching my every move with the same intensity that made him a legend. The same intensity I used to study in game tapes as a kid, learning every technique, every nuance of his style.

"Again," Seven calls out, his voice echoing through the empty practice facility. "This time, watch your left post. You're leaving it exposed on the transition."

I nod, resetting my position. My knee twinges slightly—a reminder of why it took me two weeks on PTO to get signed instead of just signing with one of the other two teams that wanted me. A PTO here was better than signing anywhere else, and it paid off. It was tense between Coach Wrenley and I on day one, but the moment we're back on the ice, it seems like all of that fades away—both of us knowing we have a job to do out here.

After everything.

The fact that Cammy's here, just a few floors above us in the corporate offices, makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with the drills Seven is running me through. It's been four and a half years since the first time I spotted her sitting across rivalry lines, four and a half years of finding excuses to linger after games just to see her smile, of tossing pucks with dinner invitations she always turned down. Then finally—one perfect night that ended in disaster, followed by a year and a half of silence.

"Focus, Dumont," Seven barks, pulling me back to the present. "You wanted to train under me? Then train. Leave everything else outside the rink."

If he only knew that "everything else" was his daughter. That I've been trying to get to Seattle since the DUI and my knee injury. To explain. To make things right.

But Seven Wrenley isn't just my childhood idol anymore—he's Cammy's father and my goalie coach. And after what happened in San Diego, I'm pretty sure he'd sooner break my other knee than let me anywhere near her.

"Better," Seven says as I make another save. "But you're still thinking too much. Let your instincts take over."

My instincts. Right. The same instincts that got me into this mess in the first place. That night in San Diego cost me everything—my contract, my reputation, and most importantly, her. And no matter how much I want to explain, I know it might not be enough to fix what I broke.

The practice session stretches on, each save bringing a new correction from Seven. His coaching style is exactly what I expected—demanding and precise. It's everything I've wanted since I was six years old, watching him shut out Montreal in Game 7 of the playoffs.

"You've got the raw talent," Seven says during a water break, his tone thoughtful. "Always have. But talent isn't enough in this league. You need focus."

I take a long drink, buying time before I respond. "Is that why you agreed to work with me? To see if I could focus?"

He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I agreed because Haynes asked me to. Because every goalie coach in the league knows you've got something special. But mostly?" He pauses, and I can feel the weight of what's coming. "I agreed because I wanted to see for myself what a year and a half off the line would do to you. What kind of player it would make you. If it would shake the arrogant Dumont genes out of you."

The words hit like they intended, like a punch to the stomach, but I don't let it show. He'll be watching to see if I keep my cool or fly off the handle like my father. "I'm not him."

"Prove it," Seven says simply, then skates back to position. "Again. This time, focus on your glove side. You're dropping it too early."

I reset, trying to push everything else aside. The memory of my father's drinking, of the night he got in a bar fight and my mother stepped in to stop it. She ended up taking the hit that was meant for my father. That night was her last straw with my father’s drinking and fighting. She filed for divorce soon after, moving me to Toronto.

The weight of my father’s legacy has followed me my whole career. The constant comparisons, the whispered expectations. Bouncing from rich stepdad to rich stepdad, as my mom remarried another three more times, every one of them expecting me to turn out like my father—hiring nannies so they never had to interact with me.

Movement in the corporate windows above catches my eye. Cammy's there, watching. Even from this distance, I can feel the electricity between us. Four and a half years of wanting her, three of those years I spent trying to prove I was worth her time, of fighting against my reputation and her hesitation. Then one perfect night where everything felt possible, followed by the worst morning of my life, and then the last year and a half trying to give her space, not being able to tell her the real reason I left that night…

"Eyes on the puck, Dumont," Seven barks, and I snap back to attention just in time to make a save.

But it's sloppy, and we both know it.

"That's enough for today," Seven says, his disappointment evident. "Hit the showers. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

I nod, gathering the pucks. "Yes, Coach."

He starts to skate away, then pauses. "Why the Hawkeyes, JP? You had other options—New York, Texas—I heard Toronto wanted you. Teams that would've signed you outright instead of the work you've had to put in the last two weeks. Why here?"

This is the question I've dodged from everyone who’s asked. I could avoid the truth and say it's about wanting to be part of a winning organization. It wouldn’t be untrue but it’s not the full reason. I’m here to prove to Cammy that I’m not who she thinks I am, and I’m here to prove to Seven that I’m good enough to play for him. So I give him a partial truth.

"Because I have something to prove, and I have to do it here," I say finally.

Seven's expression shifts, something like recognition flickering across his face. "Just remember why you're here. To play hockey. Nothing else."

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