Page 79 of Match Penalty

"Looking sharp out there," Trey says as we break for water. "Though you might want to ease up before you break something. Your intensity's been through the roof lately."

If only he knew. The intensity isn't about hockey—it's about not looking up, not letting myself think about her, about that night at Oakley's, about the way her blood looked dripping down her face.

"Just focused," I say, taking a long drink.

"Yeah?" Slade skates up, his expression knowing. "On the game or on avoiding a certain someone?"

I ignore him, skating back to the crease. The ice welcomes me back, cold and unforgiving, just like I need to be.

Because every save, every blocked shot, every moment of perfect positioning is one more reminder that I'm doing the right thing. That keeping her safe means keeping my distance. That some goals aren't worth the risk of scoring.

Even if it kills me to walk away.

The locker room used to feel like home. Now, it's just another place where I'm going through the motions, peeling off my pads while the guys' voices bounce off the walls around me.

"Food?" Hunter calls out, already halfway out of his gear. "I'm thinking about that diner off Fifth. The one with the waitress Bozeman's afraid to talk to."

"I'm not afraid," Olsen protests, throwing a roll of tape that misses Hunter by inches. "I don't date during the season."

"Bullshit. You dated that cheerleader from the Seattle football team for three months last year. And you've been on the Long Term Injury list for months, so being on the team isn't an excuse," Slade laughs. "The last time we went there for dinner, you physically hid behind your menu when Bristol came by to take your order."

The familiar rhythm of their chirping washes over me as I focus on my routine. Pads off, hung properly. Skates untied with careful attention. Each motion is deliberate, a distraction from the thoughts I can't quite shake.

"Dumont?" Luka calls out. "You in or what?"

It's been a week since the incident at Oakley's, and I've kept mostly to myself, I'll admit that.

I glance up, finding several pairs of eyes on me. "Yeah, I'll meet you there."

"That's what you said last time," Wolf points out from across the room, slinging a towel around his waist and heading for the showers, "and then you bailed."

"And the time before that," Hunter adds.

"I'll be there," I cut in, sharper than intended. The locker room falls quiet for a beat too long.

Slade breaks the silence, his voice casual but his eyes knowing. "Better be. You owe me for the NHL 25 match I beat you in two weeks ago."

I manage a grin that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Pretty sure you still owe me from the match before that."

"Details, details," he waves it off, but I catch the way he studies me, like he's trying to read between the lines of my carefully constructed expressions.

The guys return to their usual chatter—upcoming game strategies, weekend plans, the latest drama with the team's new social media manager trying to get Hunter to do a podcast with a woman from Bleacher Report—but I feel disconnected from it all, like I'm watching a TV show about someone else's life.

"Hey," Slade's voice is low as he drops onto the bench beside me. "You know you don't have to do this, right?"

"Do what?" I ask, though we both know what he means.

"This whole lone wolf thing. The team's got your back. And I don't know what's going on with you and Cammy, but you've been off this last week—"

"Don't," I cut him off, the word coming out rougher than intended. "Just... don't."

I haven't told him about Cammy. About the text I sent, ending it to protect her from me at Seven's request. But I don't have to. Slade is intuitive enough to know that something is going on.

He holds up his hands in surrender, but his expression says this conversation isn't over. "All I'm saying is, sometimes the best defense is a good offense."

"Save the hockey metaphors for the ice," I mutter, standing to grab my bag.

"Fine," he calls after me. "But you better actually show up to the diner this time. I wasn't kidding about you owing me, and I plan on kicking your ass next week, too. Wouldn't want those bets stacking up too tall, wouldn't want to bleed you dry."

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