Page 107 of Penalty Kiss
My father looks at me as if I’ve asked him to choose between the person he loved and the person who remains. For the first time, the man behind the patriarch looks lost.
He’s silent for a long time, his gaze distant. The powerful CEO is gone, replaced by a man who looks his age. Tired. Haunted.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with an emotion I’ve never heard from him before. Grief. There’s no empire inhis stance, only the wreckage of a man who lost too much and never learned how to let go.
“Celeste…” he starts, then stops, clearing his throat. “Your mother was… a force of nature. Wild and beautiful and utterly free. Loving her was the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. I never tried to control her. I just… let her be. And I lost her.”
He finally looks at me, his eyes filled with pain. “When you were born, looking so much like her, with that brilliant, terrifying mind… I was so afraid of losing you, too. I thought if I could keep you close, guide you, protect you… I thought that was how I could keep you safe. How I could love you without failing.”
He gestures vaguely toward the window, toward the town. “I loved your mother by letting her choose. And she chose you. I should have loved you the same way.”
The confession hangs in the air between us. It’s not an excuse. It’s not an apology that magically erases years of pain. But it’s the truth. Broken but real.
My own anger dissolves, leaving only a hollow ache. All this time, I thought he was trying to turn me into a corporate tool. But he was just a man, terrified of repeating his greatest loss.
“I don’t want to be an employee, Dad,” I whisper, tears finally blurring my vision. “I just want to be your daughter.”
He takes a hesitant step toward me, then another. For the first time since I was a child, he reaches out and pulls me into a stiff, unpracticed hug. I can feel the rigid set of his shoulders. But I lean into it anyway. Just a father and a daughter, trying to find our way back.
When I lift my head, Cam is in the kitchen doorway, one hand bracing on the frame. His brown warm eyes find mine, steady and sure.
Then he moves. Before I can process it, he crosses the room and wraps his big arms around both of us. My father stiffens like someone just suggested karaoke at a board meeting, but Cam just holds on, unfazed.
“Family hug,” he says gruffly, as if that explains everything.
I choke on a laugh against my father’s shoulder, half crying, half mortified. My dad looks appalled. Cam looks smug. And somehow, impossibly, the heaviness in the room lightens just enough for us to breathe.
Chapter 19
New Game Plan
Cam
Dr. Martinez adjusts his glasses, medical clearance forms spread across the polished table like battle plans. “Your cognitive function has improved significantly, Cameron. Memory retention is stable. Reaction times are within normal range.”
He meets my gaze, steady. “To put it plainly—the data is conclusive. You no longer have Post-Concussion Syndrome.”
For a beat, the words don’t land. Then they slam through me like the cleanest hit of my career.
Not foggy. Not broken. Not the guy who forgets names mid-sentence or stares at a doorframe wondering why I walked into the room.
Air rushes into my lungs so fast. My chest burns, my throat locks. I want to laugh, shout, flip the table—something to match the way relief detonates in my ribs.
I drag a hand down my face, and a shaky grin splits wide anyway. “So… I’m me again.”
Martinez’s mouth curves just slightly. “You were always one of a kind, Cameron. But yes—your brain’s healed. You’re cleared.”
A joyous sound escapes me—half laugh, half exhale, raw and real. For the first time in months, I feel whole.
Team owner Harrison Webb clears his throat. The air in the room, already thin, seems to get sucked toward him, a fortress of mahogany and quiet power. "Cameron, let's cut to it. We're prepared to offer you a three-year extension."
He slides a folder across the polished table. I don't need to open it. My agent’s been leaving me voicemails for a week, his voice getting progressively more frantic. I already know the back-channel feelers from other teams could spark a bidding war. But this, right here, is the one that’s supposed to feel like coming home.
The GM, James Clark, leans forward, his expression earnest. "It's an eight-figure deal, Cam. Full salary, performance bonuses, the works. We want you to wear the 'C' next season. We want you to lead this team."
The captaincy. The one thing I’d always dreamed of, the letter stitched over my heart.
Webb nods towards the doctor, and adds the final nail. "We are very happy you cleared PCS. Can’t wait to see you back on the ice. You're one of the best in the league."
