Page 8 of Match Penalty

The warning in his tone is clear. He might not know it all, but he can see it in my eyes—he knows I'm up to something, and that it might not be something he'll like.

I shower and change quickly, my mind racing. It took a year and a half to get back here, confirming my knee is solid, training with a rehab sports specialist, convincing teams I wasn't the screw-up the media painted me as after San Diego. A year and a half of missing her, of carrying her bright green hair tie on my wrist like a goddamn rosary, wondering if I'd ever get the chance to explain.

The elevator doors open on the corporate level, and I step out before I can talk myself out of it. The office suite is quiet, most people out for lunch.

My knee twinges in pain as I walk down the third-floor hallway of the Hawkeyes’ corporate office.

Everything here feels sleek and polished—brass nameplates, espresso-stained wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rink below, and memorabilia in shadow boxes on the walls to pay homage to the long history of players who have all skated here before me.

It feels quiet for a Monday afternoon, but I'm not complaining. I'd rather be here than sitting in my hotel room watching more sports media on TV.

They've been having a field day since the Hawkeyes announced my PTO signing—former all-star goalie Jon Paul Dumont attempting a comeback after a career-ending injury and his run-in with the law. It's all a little dramatic if you ask me. The headlines are mixed forThe Seattle Sunrise:HAWKEYES GAMBLE ON DAMAGED GOODSandHOCKEY LEGEND, JON PAUL DUMONT SENIOR'S PRODIGAL SON RETURNS TO THE ICE.

Some want a good comeback story, others want a dumpster fire, but what they can all agree on… they hope my first season back on the ice brings in high ratings.

As if they couldn't do worse, they put my father's name in the headline. It will only spur his "tough love" text even further, reminding me not to fuck up my second chance. But mostly, he just doesn't want me to embarrass the family name—his name. Not that I'll answer him back. I haven't in over a decade. Sadly, it hasn't stopped him from coming to my games for the media attention—looking like the doting father supporting his protégé son.

I pause at the nameplate on the door:Penelope Matthews, General Manager.

My hesitation isn't because I'm about to walk into the GM's office. I've met Penelope before, and as long as I do my job, I don't see us having any issues. It’s the woman sitting just outside Penelope's door who has my pulse hammering.

Fuck it—here it goes.

I twist the handle and push through.

My vision seeks her out, landing on her instantly.

Cammy Wrenley.

I pause at her desk, memories flooding back—her rolling her eyes at that first puck I tossed her, the way she'd try not to smile when I'd find her at charity events, how she'd pretend to be annoyed when I'd speak French just to get under her skin. Three years of pursuing her, of learning every little detail I could—how she takes her coffee (three raw sugars, splash of cream), how she bites her lip when she's trying not to laugh at my jokes, how her eyes light up when she talks about hockey. Three years of wanting more than just one night, of trying to show I'm capable of more than the reputation that I might have earned.

She's bent over her desk, her dark caramel hair cascading down over her shoulders, typing furiously, a pen caught between her teeth. Her hair is longer than the last time I saw her, but the sharp focus in her deep hazel eyes is the same.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take a second to drink her in. Cammy Wrenley—coach’s daughter, my unresolved past, and the only person who's ever unsteadied me.

"Bonjour, chérie," I say, walking up to her desk. Her head snaps up, and I watch the recognition flicker across her face.

She straightens in place behind her desk, clicking the top of her pen twice in rapid repetition, and then sets it down, probably convincing herself that stabbing me in the throat with it wouldn't be worth the jail time.

"Jon Paul," she says, knowing full well that I hate my full name. A nugget of information I told her when she was wrapped in my arms in my teammate’s guest bedroom. Her voice is short, professional, but laced with ice. "I wasn’t aware you started today."

Somehow, I doubt that's true. I guarantee she knows every player signed on the roster, but I'll play along. No need to get on the administration's bad side if I can avoid it.

"Just signed the PTO paperwork," I say, leaning a thigh against her desk. "Looks like we're on the same team now."

"Not exactly." She says, turning back to her work, dismissing me. "The administrative office and player facilities are in different levels of the stadium for a reason. And besides, PTO isn’t a confirmed spot on the roster. You still have to prove yourself to Coach Haynes."

I expected the cold shoulder after the dozens of texts and voicemails that I sent her after I got bailed out of jail went unanswered. But experiencing it firsthand feels heavier than I imagined it would.

I cross my arms over my chest, noticing how she tenses at my movement. "Come on, Wrenley. A year and a half is a long time to hold a grudge."

"I'm not holding anything," she says, shuffling some papers on her desk, still not looking at me. "But unlike you, I still have work to do today."

"Have you always been this bad at lying?" I ask, unfolding my arms to pick up a photo frame from her desk—her with a toddler, her half-brother, Milo—Coach Wrenley's son. Wrenley's wife, Brynn, and Milo have been out to watch practice since I started skating with the team. "How's the little guy?"

She snatches the frame back. "Milo's fine. And you can stop pretending to care about my family."

There's a fire in her eyes. She’s fiercely protective of them. But that’s something she told me herself, in San Diego, sitting on a king size bed eating chow mein and pot stickers out of a to-go box that I ordered in to get her away from all the noise downstairs. The second I saw her walk into Cooper's place in that dress, I knew all the hard work of trying to get her attention for years had finally paid off.

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