Page 90 of Match Penalty

The knife twists deeper whenshearrives.

Angelica.

She’s stunning, of course—elegant in a sleek black evening gown that clings in all the right places, her makeup flawless, her confidence effortless. My stomach churns as JP moves toward her, greeting her with a familiarity that makes my stomach turn and my heart drop.

And then he touches her.

Not in an overt way, not in a way anyone else would think twice about, but his hand settles at the back of her arm as he leans in, guiding her through the crowd with quiet authority. I recognize the way he speaks, the way he gestures, the way his hand lingers just long enough to be noticed.

It’s the same way he’s touched me.

The same way he led me into Oakley’s that night, his hand resting protectively on my back. Though it's not lost on me that his hand settles so much higher on her than it did on me. It's a small victory, but at the end of the day, he's here with her, not me.

A sharp burst of laughter carries across the room—her laughter—and something inside me snaps. I need air. I need space. I need to not be here, standing in the middle of the ballroom, feeling like a damn fool for still caring.

"I need to check in with the sound guy for the slapshot challenge," I tell Brynn, my voice clipped.

Her eyes flick between me and JP, narrowing slightly like she knows exactly what’s going through my head. But to her credit, she doesn’t call me on it.

“Want me to come with you?” she asks instead, ever the best friend, stepmother, and angel on my right shoulder, always talking me off a ledge.

I shake my head. “I got it.”

I move quickly, heels clicking against the polished floors as I put as much distance as possible between myself and the sight of JP and Angelica.

The next few hours pass in a blur of donor conversations, auction logistics, andnot lookingin JP’s direction. The tension in my chest stays put, a constant weight pressing down on me no matter how many smiles I fake or how many hands I shake.

By the time the slapshot challenge nears, the chatter in the arena has reached a fever pitch.

Thank God for Kendall clearing Olsen yesterday, I remind myself. The Hawkeyes’ starting goalie is now ready to be put back into the regular season, and with him officially cleared, it means JP won’t be the only one in the net tonight. The crowd is practically throwing down donations for a chance to take shots against two professional goalies.

JP and Olsen have already started taking donors down to the players' tunnel, the line shockingly long—way longer than I expected. Men in expensive suits, women in heels they’ll regret wearing on the ice, though Juliet thought of this and a red carpet is out on the ice to allow people to walk comfortably in normal shoes.

Kids bouncing on their toes, all itching for their moment to go head-to-head against NHL goalies.

I scan the scene, my clipboard clutched tightly in my hands. Everything is running smoothly. I catch a glimpse of Everett, our eyes meeting briefly and he nods in approval—he's pleased with the auction. But we'll see how pleased he is with me after my dad and JP go head to head. Will I even have a job if JP leaves and this whole bet sees the light of day?

My eyes drift back to the ice.

JP stands near the entrance to the tunnel, laughing at something one of the donors said, his mask hanging from his fingertips. His eyes flicker up—to me—like he can feel me watching.

I hold my breath. Then, ever so slightly, his lips quirk.

That damn smirk.

The one that says I see you, Cammy. I know you’re watching.

The one that used to wreck me.

The one that still does.

I rip my gaze away and force my attention back to my checklist, ignoring the way my pulse skates wildly out of control. I will not let him get under my skin.

Not tonight.

With the night winding down, I slip away to the office to change out of my dress. My role isn’t over yet—there’s still cleanup, organizing, and making sure all auction items are accounted for.

And if things don’t go the way I want them to during the slapshot challenge, at least I’ll be comfortable when I inevitably end up hiding in a bathroom stall, crying my eyes out.

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