Page 91 of Match Penalty

I tug off the emerald gown and slip into something easier—black leggings, my favorite oversized Hawkeyes hoodie, and sneakers. Something practical. Something safe.

By the time I make it back down to the players’ tunnel, the final donor is stepping up to take their last shot. JP and Olsen have been at this for over an hour, effortlessly blocking shots from fans, donors, and even a few local celebrities. The line has finally dwindled, but from the buzz in the arena and the thick stack of donation envelopes, I know we’ve exceeded expectations.

Everett takes the stage, his voice booming over the speakers as he delivers his closing remarks.

The crowd filters into the arena, where the rink gleams under bright lights. My dad has disappeared into the locker room to change out of his tux and into his gear while I stand at the tunnel entrance, trying to steady my nerves.

"Cammy."

I turn to find my dad approaching, hockey stick in hand. His expression is softer than I expected.

"Dad, I—"

He holds up the stick. "I took a minute to think about it while I was changing, and I realized that this is your shot to take. Not mine."

"What?" I blink at him, confused.

"I've been trying to protect you," he says quietly. "Maybe too much. Someone already took that chance away from me once." His eyes shift toward JP, who's now skating lazy circles in the goal crease. "I think I've been trying to make up for lost time. Maybe I overcompensated a little bit."

He extends the stick. "But this is your decision. The one you have to live with, not me."

With trembling hands, I take the stick. The weight feels right, familiar.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Everett's voice booms through the arena. "Please welcome Cammy Wrenley!"

The crowd cheers as I step onto the ice. I can see in JP’s body language that he wasn't expecting this change. He wasn't expecting me to come out and score the goal that sends him packing. There's a flash of hurt in his eyes, but the moment he blinks, it's gone again, replaced with his usual casual confidence.

He skates out to where I’ll be shooting from and lays out two pucks, and then reaches into his jersey and pulls out a puck from his chest protector, adding it to the end of the line. Then he skates back to the net.

JP stands tall in the crease, his stance relaxed, his body loose. But I know him. I know that’s all for show. Beneath the mask, beneath the cocky swagger, he’s locked in, every muscle coiled, his sharp blue eyes tracking my every move.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like he’s daring me to come for him.

A flicker of memory flashes through my mind—JP at the rink weeks ago, helping the kids who came in early, lacing up their skates, showing them how to hold a stick properly. He wasn’t putting on a show. He wasn’t playing a role. He was just JP—the one I keep falling for, the one I keep losing.

Why can’t I have that JP? Where did he go?

The thought ignites something deep inside me, fueling the fire burning in my chest as I drop into position, the puck in front of me.

I line up carefully, exhaling slowly through my nose.

Keep it simple. Precise. Controlled, I coach myself.

I draw back and release, the puck slicing cleanly through the air toward the top corner.

But JP barely moves.

His glove snaps up—lightning fast, effortless—snatching the puck mid-air like it’s nothing.

The crowd groans in disappointment. A smirk tugs at the corners of JP’s mouth beneath his mask, and my stomach knots. He’s playing with me.

My jaw tightens as I skate back to the shooting line, rolling my shoulders to shake off the doubt creeping in, because his slapshot isn't just for fun. It will define both of our careers after this moment.

I position myself again, my heart thudding a steady rhythm in my ears.

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