Match Penalty: Coach’s Daughter Hockey Romance (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series Book 1)

The sound of blades scratching against the ice drowns out any other thoughts I have besides watching Luka, Trey, and Slade heading straight for me. Slade shoots the puck to Trey as they haul ass toward me. I keep my vision on the puck, my breathing synchronizing, my mind quieting. Out here there’s only one thing on my mind—blocking that puck.

I focus on the familiar weight of my gear, the way my pads settle against my legs as I drop into position. Practice has become my sanctuary lately—the one place where muscle memory can override everything else.noveldrama

Trey shoots the puck to Luka at the last second.

‘Heads up, beauty!’ Luka calls out, winding up for a shot.

I track the puck’s trajectory, my movements automatic. High glove side, trying to catch me cheating left. The save is clean, maybe too clean. Everything feels mechanical lately, precise in a way that has my save percentage climbing but my chest feeling hollow.

‘Getting cocky there, Dumont,’ Aleksi chirps, skating past with a grin. ‘You know what they say about goalies who peak during practice.’

‘Better than peaking after two pumps like you, Mäkelin,’ I shoot back, earning a chorus of ‘oohs’ from the team.

The banter feels good, normal even. But there’s a distance to it now, like I’m watching from behind glass. Just like I’m watching her.

I catch a flash of movement in the corporate offices above—Cammy’s silhouette against the window. My chest tightens as she pauses, papers in hand, clearly visible even from here. Three stories of space between us, and she still feels within reach.

‘Again!’ Coach Wrenley’s voice snaps me back to the ice. ‘Two-on-one drill. Slade, Hunter—show our goalie what a real shot looks like.’

I force my eyes away from the window, settling into position. Slade and Hunter weave down the ice, their passes quick and spot on. The shot comes fast—Hunter to Slade then back to Hunter—but I’m already moving, stretching out to make the save.

‘Nice work, Dumont,’ Seven calls out, the words clipped but genuine.

The praise should feel good. After all, Seven Wrenley, who I grew up emulating, is telling me that I had a good practice. Instead, it all falls flat. Because I know the cost of earning it—my relationship with Cammy. I’ve thrown myself into hockey because it’s all I have left.

There is still an edge to the glances between Seven and me. The bet we agreed to still lingers between us, and with only two more days until the auction, it’s evident that it’s on both of our minds.

‘Looking sharp out there,’ Trey says as we break for water. ‘Though you might want to ease up before you break something. Your intensity’s been through the roof lately.’

If only he knew. The intensity isn’t about hockey—it’s about not looking up, not letting myself think about her, about that night at Oakley’s, about the way her blood looked dripping down her face.

‘Just focused,’ I say, taking a long drink.

‘Yeah?’ Slade skates up, his expression knowing. ‘On the game or on avoiding a certain someone?’

I ignore him, skating back to the crease. The ice welcomes me back, cold and unforgiving, just like I need to be.

Because every save, every blocked shot, every moment of perfect positioning is one more reminder that I’m doing the right thing. That keeping her safe means keeping my distance. That some goals aren’t worth the risk of scoring.

Even if it kills me to walk away.

The locker room used to feel like home. Now, it’s just another place where I’m going through the motions, peeling off my pads while the guys’ voices bounce off the walls around me.

‘Food?’ Hunter calls out, already halfway out of his gear. ‘I’m thinking about that diner off Fifth. The one with the waitress Bozeman’s afraid to talk to.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Olsen protests, throwing a roll of tape that misses Hunter by inches. ‘I don’t date during the season.’

‘Bullshit. You dated that cheerleader from the Seattle football team for three months last year. And you’ve been on the Long Term Injury list for months, so being on the team isn’t an excuse,’ Slade laughs. ‘The last time we went there for dinner, you physically hid behind your menu when Bristol came by to take your order.’

The familiar rhythm of their chirping washes over me as I focus on my routine. Pads off, hung properly. Skates untied with careful attention. Each motion is deliberate, a distraction from the thoughts I can’t quite shake.

‘Dumont?’ Luka calls out. ‘You in or what?’

It’s been a week since the incident at Oakley’s, and I’ve kept mostly to myself, I’ll admit that.

I glance up, finding several pairs of eyes on me. ‘Yeah, I’ll meet you there.’

‘That’s what you said last time,’ Wolf points out from across the room, slinging a towel around his waist and heading for the showers, ‘and then you bailed.’

‘And the time before that,’ Hunter adds.

‘I’ll be there,’ I cut in, sharper than intended. The locker room falls quiet for a beat too long.

Slade breaks the silence, his voice casual but his eyes knowing. ‘Better be. You owe me for the NHL 25 match I beat you in two weeks ago.’

I manage a grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. ‘Pretty sure you still owe me from the match before that.’

‘Details, details,’ he waves it off, but I catch the way he studies me, like he’s trying to read between the lines of my carefully constructed expressions.

The guys return to their usual chatter—upcoming game strategies, weekend plans, the latest drama with the team’s new social media manager trying to get Hunter to do a podcast with a woman from Bleacher Report—but I feel disconnected from it all, like I’m watching a TV show about someone else’s life.

‘Hey,’ Slade’s voice is low as he drops onto the bench beside me. ‘You know you don’t have to do this, right?’

‘Do what?’ I ask, though we both know what he means.

‘This whole lone wolf thing. The team’s got your back. And I don’t know what’s going on with you and Cammy, but you’ve been off this last week—’

‘Don’t,’ I cut him off, the word coming out rougher than intended. ‘Just… don’t.’

I haven’t told him about Cammy. About the text I sent, ending it to protect her from me at Seven’s request. But I don’t have to. Slade is intuitive enough to know that something is going on.

He holds up his hands in surrender, but his expression says this conversation isn’t over. ‘All I’m saying is, sometimes the best defense is a good offense.’

‘Save the hockey metaphors for the ice,’ I mutter, standing to grab my bag.

‘Fine,’ he calls after me. ‘But you better actually show up to the diner this time. I wasn’t kidding about you owing me, and I plan on kicking your ass next week, too. Wouldn’t want those bets stacking up too tall, wouldn’t want to bleed you dry.’

Normally, I’d laugh at him thinking that he has any chance of beating me in the next game, but I don’t have it in me this time.

I wave in acknowledgment, heading for the showers. The hot water beats against my shoulders, but it does nothing to wash away the memory of that night at Oakley’s. The sound of breaking glass. The chaos. The sound of Seven’s voice cutting through the crowd. The sight of Cammy’s blood.

By the time I’m dressed, most of the guys have cleared out. The locker room feels bigger somehow, emptier. Or maybe that’s just me, echoing in all the spaces I’ve carved out between myself and everyone else for the last week.

I check my phone—no messages, because of course there aren’t. I made sure of that.

‘Hey JP,’ Hunter pokes his head back in. ‘You coming or what?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, shouldering my bag. ‘I’m coming.’

Because what else is there to do? Hockey is all I have left. Might as well lean into it for as long as I still have this team.

In two more days, I have to make a decision to fight to keep it, or do myself the favor of letting go and keeping distance from the woman I want more than any of this. Maybe the best thing I can do is leave and try to forget the moment when I almost had it all—twice.

The diner off Fifth is exactly what you’d expect from a hockey hangout—worn leather booths, memorabilia covering the walls, and enough carbs on the menu to fuel three teams. The familiar bell chimes as we push through the door, and the waitress—the one Olsen’s been avoiding—gives us a knowing smile.

‘The usual table?’ she asks, already grabbing menus.

‘Thanks, Bristol,’ Hunter grins, then stage-whispers, ‘Olsen says hi.’

Olsen’s face goes red as she laughs, and I almost smile. Almost.

We slide into our usual booth, the vinyl seats creaking under our weight. I end up wedged between Slade and the wall, trapped in more ways than one.

‘So,’ Hunter starts, studying his menu like he doesn’t order the same thing every time, ‘anyone want to talk about how Dumont’s trying to break every save record we have?’

‘Trying?’ I arch an eyebrow. ‘Pretty sure I already broke three.’

‘There he is,’ Slade elbows me. ‘I was starting to think we lost you to the robot apocalypse.’

The guys laugh, but there’s no truth to it. I have been different lately—more focused, more exact, more… empty.

Bristol appears with waters, and Olsen suddenly becomes very interested in his phone. ‘Ready to order?’

‘Give us a minute, will you?’ Slade asks with a patient smile, then turns to me once she’s gone. ‘Seriously though, what’s going on with you? You’re playing better than ever, but…’

‘But what?’ I challenge, even though I know exactly what he means.

‘But you’re not you,’ he finishes. ‘It’s like watching a highlight reel on repeat. Perfect form, zero joy.’

I stare at my menu, the words blurring together. ‘Maybe I’m just focused on the game.’

‘Bullshit,’ Hunter cuts in. ‘This is about Cammy.’

The name hits like an ice bath, knocking the air from my lungs. ‘We’re not talking about this.’

‘Fine,’ Slade says easily. ‘Then we’ll talk about how you haven’t been to team breakfast in the last week. Or how you skip out on every post-practice hangout. Or how—’

‘I get it,’ I snap, then immediately regret it when several heads turn our way, ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

‘Yeah, but are you really?’ Olsen asks, finally looking up from his phone. ‘Because it seems like you’re just going through the motions.’

Before I can respond, Bristol returns with two extra-large orders of fries—on the house—while we wait for our meals. Most of us ordered more than one. We’re here often, always leaving a generous tip, and she knows we’re starving after practice.

Once she walks away, the table falls into an uncomfortable silence.

‘She got hurt on my watch, okay? Maybe the Dumont genes run a little deeper than I thought. She’s better off without me.’

Slade’s eyebrows furrow. ‘That’s what this is about? Are you serious?’ Slade says finally. ‘You think you and Cammy are going to end up like your parents? Oliver fucking Garcia is the only motherfucker responsible for what happened to Cammy that night. And I get it—you’re protecting her. Noble, self-sacrificing, very on-brand for you,’ he says sarcastically, ‘but have you considered that maybe she doesn’t want to be protected? If you haven’t noticed, Cammy isn’t exactly a wilting wallflower. She can hold her own. You’re not giving her a chance.’

I think about the cut on her forehead, the way my heart stopped when I saw Seven lifting her off Oakley’s wood floors and Brynn wrapping her arm around her, pulling Cammy out of the bar. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘It never is,’ Hunter agrees. ‘But man, you’re playing like you’ve got nothing left to lose. And that’s not okay.’

‘Maybe I don’t,’ I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

The table falls silent again, but this time it’s heavy with understanding. These guys know loss—we all do. It comes with the sport, and everyone one of us has had loses in other parts of our lives. But this is different. This is about choosing to lose something before it can be taken away.

‘You know what your problem is?’ Slade says suddenly, stealing a fry from Hunter’s plate. ‘You’re thinking like a goalie. You’re on the defense.’

‘That’s literally my job,’ I point out.

‘On the ice, sure. But off it?’ He shakes his head. ‘Sometimes you have to take the shot, even if you might miss.’

I think about the upcoming charity auction, about Seven’s challenge. About how easy it would be to just… let the puck go in. To walk away from everything—the team, the city, her.

Watch my entire life go up in flames, and watch it happen from between the pipes.

‘Or sometimes you come to terms with the fact that you can’t win every game,’ I say back.

This isn’t about a game, or a shot… this is about doing what’s right for Cammy, no matter what it costs me.

Soon, the baskets of fries are gone, and Bristol shows up with our food. The guys carry on about our next game and the team we’re up against, as I quietly eat, thinking about everything Slade and Hunter said.

The walk back to my apartment feels longer than usual. The guys offered to share an Uber, but I needed the air. Needed the space to think.

My phone vibrates, Angelica’s name lighting up the screen. For a moment, I considered letting it go to voicemail, but I’ve been avoiding her calls and texts since the fight at the bar.

‘Hey,’ I answer, my breath fogging in the cold November air.

‘Hey…’ she starts. ‘Are we finally going to talk about what happened at Oakley’s? You know I saw the news. Did you think I’d forget?’

I close my eyes, remembering the way Cammy looked in my jersey that night. The way she fit against me. The way everything felt right until it all went wrong.

‘Of course, I didn’t think you’d forget—you never forget my shortcomings. Like I said before, it’s your worst quality.’

She chuckles. ‘Yes, well, you weren’t blessed with an obnoxious little sister, so God gave you me.’

‘So, he’s the one I have to blame for this phone call? Got it,’ I say. ‘Is that all you had to call about?’ I ask, hopeful but knowing it never goes this easy.

‘Not a chance. Sounds like Garcia strikes again huh? Ballsy for him to think he could walk into the Hawkeyes lair without getting served up. That idiot always did have bigger balls than brains.’

That earns her a chuckle from me. It feels foreign almost, as if it’s not coming from me.

‘I think he forgot that he’s no longer traveling with a group of hockey players willing to fight his battles for him.’

‘And Cammy? I think I heard something about that,’ she says.

‘She got hurt because of me,’ I say quietly.

‘No, she got hurt because some drunk idiot punched a wasp’s nest and got stung. That’s not on you.’

‘You didn’t see her face after it happened.’

‘I didn’t have to see her face to know what this is about. You think this is history repeating. That your mom stepping in for your dad is going to happen to Cammy—’

‘Ang—’

‘No… you’ve silenced me long enough over the last week, and now you’ve answered my call because deep down, you want to hear what I have to say.’

She got that wrong. I don’t want to hear what she has to say, but I know well enough that if I didn’t answer the phone, she’d fly her happy ass down here to tell it to my face.

‘Okay then, say your peace,’ I sigh, stuffing one hand into my jacket pocket.

‘You need to fix this with her. You’re not your father’s son—’

‘Ang—’ I try again.

‘JP, you’re not him. And Cammy’s not your mom. There’s no way that your dad would do what you’ve done for me—what you’ve done for her. You’re protective and caring. You want to shield those you love even when it means taking the hit yourself.’

I get to the end of the cross walk. I pull my hand out of my jacket and slam it against the crosswalk button as I wait for it to signal WALK, frustration building. I can do everything right, but I still don’t get Cammy. ‘What do you want from me, Angelica?’

‘I want you to fight,’ she says simply. ‘For once in your life, I want you to fight for what you want instead of accepting what other people think you deserve.’

The words echo in the empty street, cutting through my carefully constructed defenses.

‘That’s why I’m coming to town,’ she continues, softer now. ‘My flight lands tomorrow morning.’

‘Angelica, you don’t have to—’

‘Yes, I do. Because someone needs to knock some sense into you before this charity game. And since Cammy can’t do it herself—because you won’t let her—it might as well be me. You won her over without even telling her about San Diego. You kept our secret intact, and she still fell in love with you a second time. Don’t you get it? Cammy sees the real you through it all.’

I think about the upcoming game, about Seven’s challenge. About how easy it would be to just let the puck slip past, to give everyone what they think they want.

‘The couch pulls out into a bed. I’ll have it made up for you,’ I say finally, because there’s no point in arguing with Angelica when she gets like this.

‘Thanks. And JP?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Stop practicing so hard. Your save percentage is already ridiculous, and we both know you’re not doing it for the team.’

I hang up, her words following me the rest of the way home. She’s right—I have been pushing harder, playing better. But not because I want to win.

Because when I’m focused on stopping pucks, I don’t have to think about everything else I’ve lost. About how empty my apartment feels without Cammy’s laughter filling it. About how the arena feels colder now that I can’t look up and meet her eyes.

Tomorrow, Angelica arrives. Maybe she can help me figure out where I’ll end up if I leave the Hawkeyes. I need to learn to accept that walking away might be the right thing to do.

The elevator doors open to my level after a run with Hartley this evening, and I notice that I missed a text from Angelica—her flight landed early. I pocket my phone as I step out seeing Angelica standing at my apartment door, her rolling bag in hand and her laptop bag over her shoulder.

‘You look like shit,’ she announces, as I walk up.

‘Missed you too,’ I mutter, pushing the door open and holding it for her as she walks in first in her high powered lawyer suit and heels. ‘Make yourself at home. I just got back from a run with Hartley. I’m going to jump into the shower first,’ I say, dropping my apartment key and phone on the kitchen island.

‘Oh, I plan to,’ she says, already laying out on the couch, stretching out her legs, and kicking off her heels as she grabs the remote control to the TV. ‘And when you’re done, we’re having a real conversation about Cammy.’

I’m under the hot spray, trying to wash away the weight of the last six days, when I hear my phone ringing in the other room. Angelica’s voice carries through the bathroom door.

‘Hello? Yes, this is Angelica. JP’s in the shower right now…’

My stomach drops as I realize who must be calling. I shut off the water, but by the time I get to the door, wrapped in a towel, the call has ended.

‘Was that…’ I ask, pointing to the phone in her hand. I can’t bring myself to say her name, hoping my instincts are wrong.

‘That was Cammy,’ Angelica says quietly, holding my phone. ‘And based on how quickly she hung up, I’m guessing she doesn’t know I’m in town.’

‘Fuck.’ The word echoes in the quiet apartment. Because of course this would happen now. Of course, Cammy would call at the worst possible moment.

‘You need to call her back,’ Angelica says. ‘Explain—’

‘Explain what?’ I cut her off. ‘That the woman she thinks I left her for in San Diego is the same woman currently in my apartment tonight, after I ended things with the woman I’m in love with for the second time? Yeah, that’ll go over well.’

‘Better than letting her think history is repeating itself.’ Angelica’s voice is sharp.

The memory of that night still haunts me. Cammy’s hair spread across the sheets, smiling over at me before she fell asleep, and then that late night phone call, the wreck, the ambulance lights, the mug shot.

‘To do that, I have to tell her the truth. Something that puts too much in danger. And what does it matter anymore anyway? Being with me means I’ll keep letting her down.’

Angelica’s expression changes. His eyebrow lifts as if she figured it out. ‘So that’s really what this is about isn’t it? Falling short. You’re scared that you’re going to fall short in Cammy’s eyes, like you think you did in your father’s, and in Seven’s, and in the Blue Devils who dropped you. But she’s the one you’re the most scared to let down, so you’re ending it before it breaks your heart.’

‘I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me, Ang. You’re a lawyer not a shrink.’

‘You know I’m right,’ she says but I turn to walk down the hall. ‘Come on JP, tell me, what part did I get wrong?’ She challenges me.

I know she’s bating me. No matter how I answer she’s got me, so I’ll give her the truth. ‘I’m not ending it before it breaks my heart. You can’t break something that’s already broken,’ I admit. Her eyes soften toward me but I’m done with conversations tonight. ‘I’m going to bed.’ I head toward my room down the hall, then pause. ‘Thanks for coming, Ang. Even if your timing is terrible.’

‘Someone has to save you from yourself.’ She calls after me. ‘Might as well be me.’

‘Yeah… we’ll see.’