Page 80 of Penalty Kiss
"I want to." The words come out more intense than I intended, but they're true. "I want you to meet them. I want them to see what I see."
"Which is?"
"The woman I'm completely, irrationally, permanently gone for."
She bites her lip, that tell-tale sign that she's fighting a smile. "Even if she comes with baggage that includes designer scarves and threatening texts?"
"Especially then." I tug her closer until she's standing flush against my knees. "I want you there tomorrow. When I pick them up. I don't want to face them alone."
It's a massive ask, inviting her into the very heart of my family pressure. She doesn't hesitate.
"Okay," she says, her voice firm. "I'll be there."
In that moment, she's not someone I'm protecting. She's my partner. My ally. And the thought of facing my family with her by my side makes me feel stronger than I have in months.
"You sure? Luke's going to grill you like a hostile witness, and Dad's going to use his scary military voice."
"I've handled worse." Her smile turns wicked. "Besides, I have excellent references. Mrs. Henderson loves me."
I throw back my head and laugh, some of the tension finally easing from my shoulders. "Oh great, you're going to weaponize Mrs. Henderson against my family."
"If necessary." She's absolutely serious, and it's both terrifying and arousing. "What else should I know about them?"
"Dad's Danish-American, military background, a decorated trauma surgeon. He doesn't do small talk, but he's fair. Calls me Cameron." I think about how to describe the man who taught me to skate at four and perform emergency triage at fourteen. "He's the reason I know how to stay calm under pressure."
"And Luke?"
"Younger brother, also a trauma doctor at a Level I trauma center in Texas. He likes to act like the responsible one. Follows in Dad's footsteps. Brilliant, disciplined, everything I'm not." The old insecurity creeps in, the one I thought I'd outgrown. "The golden child of the family."
Tara's expression sharpens. "Everything you're not?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't." Her voice gets that edge it had when she was telling off the rude customer last week. "Explain it to me."
I start to deflect with humor, but something in her eyes stops me. She's not going to let me slide past this one.
"They save lives for a living," I say quietly. "I play a game. And lately, I can't even do that without my brain betraying me."
"Cam."
"I know, I know. Hockey matters, it brings joy to people, whatever. But when you're sitting across from two men who pull people back from the brink of death every day, scoring goals feels pretty trivial."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me like she's reading the fine print I keep hidden. "What were you like as a kid?"
The subject change catches me off guard. "Smaller."
Her brows jump. "Smaller?"
"At ten, I was the half-Korean, half-sized runt on a rink full of kids built like linebackers. Parents and kids both thought they were hilarious. 'Soy sauce.' 'Too small to skate with the big boys.'"
I rub the back of my neck, surprised by how much it still stings. "It hurt.
So I learned two moves. One—make them laugh with me so they wouldn't laugh at me. Two—outwork everyone until nobody could say I didn't belong."
Her mouth presses into a thin line, like she wants to kiss the memory off my skin. "That's awful."
"It was gasoline." I shrug. "I cracked jokes so I didn’t crack skulls. Then I doubled down on the grind. If they wanted to slap a stereotype on me, fine—I’d use it as fuel. Work harder. Hit sharper. Outlast the kids, beat the college boys, and win against half the pros. Keep pushing even when a few pucks and elbows ring my bell."
