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

The arena banquet room shimmers like a winter wonderland, transformed from its usual rugged charm into an elegant gala space. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across white-draped tables while fairy lights twinkle overhead. I grip my clipboard tighter, using the endless auction details as armor against the emptiness in my chest.

Juliet did an amazing job. This place is stunning. It’s my turn to make sure that we raise enough to build the condos.

‘Final sound check is done,’ Juliet confirms, appearing at my elbow. ‘And the silent auction displays are getting lots of attention.’

I nod, scanning the growing crowd of Seattle’s elite in their finest evening wear. ‘Perfect. Has the catering team set up the—’

The words die in my throat as JP walks in.

He walks in, a striking figure in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, the black fabric emphasizing his broad shoulders and athletic build, his hair gelled but only brushed back casually with his fingers. His bow tie sits slightly askew—just enough to make my fingers itch to straighten it. To touch him one last time. To have those mesmerizing blue eyes back on me again.

Our eyes meet across the room and everything else fades away. The noise of the crowd, the sparkle of the lights, the weight of my clipboard—nothing else exists except for us. For a moment, I see a flicker of something like longing in his expression before he quickly diverts his attention from me again.

But not for long.

Like a magnet, his gaze snaps back, as if he physically can’t stop himself. I force myself to look away first, but not before I catch the way his fingers tighten around his whiskey glass, his knuckles going white. His eyes travel slowly—too slowly—making their way from my perfectly manicured toes, peeking out from the high slit of my emerald dress, to the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, the corseted bust that lifts just enough to remind him exactly what he lost.

And judging by the way his jaw tenses, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, it’s working.

Then someone steps in—Coach Evans from the Seattle football team—shaking JP’s hand, momentarily pulling his attention away. The moment between us snaps, but the lingering tension is still there, simmering beneath the surface.

I inhale sharply and grab my phone, my pulse thrumming as I fire off a text before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Stop staring.

I don’t expect a response. But my phone buzzes almost instantly.

JP: I can’t.

I look up from my phone to see his eyes are back on me. And then another text hits.

JP: You look beautiful tonight.

I read the text over and over again, wishing there was more context to it. Wishing he’d offer an explanation for his actions.

‘Cammy?’ Brynn touches my arm. ‘Aria is laying out some additional items on the tables but wants your approval.’

‘Of course. I’m happy to take a look,’ I manage, turning towards her to follow her across the room. I feel JP’s eyes on me as I walk away.

I throw myself into work, using each task as a shield against JP’s presence. Every checklist, every conversation, every auction detail becomes a distraction, a desperate attempt to keep my mind off the fact that he’s here.

But no matter how hard I try, my eyes betray me.

JP moves through the room effortlessly, his French charm a well-oiled machine as he shakes hands with donors, leans in just enough to make each conversation feel intimate, and throws out that devastating smile that could melt ice. He’s good at this—at making everyone feel special. Like they’re the only person in the world when he’s looking at them.

I would know.

Because once upon a time, he made me feel that way too.

Right up until he didn’t.

The knife twists deeper when she arrives.

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, and not looking in 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.

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.

This time, I don’t hold back.

I shift my weight, winding up with every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering ache in my chest. I release, sending the puck flying hard and fast toward the lower corner.

JP moves before the shot even lands.

Anticipating. Reading me like a damn book.

His pad sweeps out in a clean, precise motion, deflecting the puck effortlessly.

I curse under my breath, skating a sharp circle before returning to the line. The energy in the arena wavers, the tension thick enough to choke on. It all comes down to this.

I lift my gaze toward him, my grip tightening on my stick. He’s already looking at me.

For a single heartbeat, the world narrows down to just us.

I don’t see the crowd. I don’t hear the cheers. I don’t feel the ice beneath my skates.

It’s just JP—his shoulders rising and falling with each breath, his weight shifting slightly, but there’s something different this time.noveldrama

Something off.

His stance isn’t as sharp. His shoulders aren’t as tense.

And in his eyes, just beneath the steel guard of his mask, there’s something that looks an awful lot likedefeat.

My pulse is erratic now, my breath uneven as I set up for the final shot.

Everything hinges on this.

I wind up, muscles tingling, tensing as I release and swing through with my hockey stick, the puck flying through the air.

And JP… steps aside.

The puck flies cleanly into the net.

The buzzer sounds. The arena erupts. Confetti cannons explode in a flurry of blue and silver.

But I don’t feel like I won.

I stand frozen, my chest heaving, staring across the rink at the black puck in the net. Complete disbelief washes over me. Hot bile bubbles in my stomach, threatening to crawl up my throat with emotion about to boil over. In everything I analyzed, I guess I hadn’t been prepared for this scenario.

JP’s watching as he lifts his mask. Our eyes collide.

And in that single second, I understand everything.

He let me win.

He’s leaving.

And he’s doing it on purpose. He’s leaving me by choice. The pain of that thought sears so deep that it will probably scar.

His stick clatters to the ice as he dips down to pick up the puck, and then he pushes forward, skating straight toward me. My lips curl into a forced smile for the cameras and the guests all applauding for me, but beneath it, anger simmers like a live wire beneath my skin.

He stops, barely inches from me.

“You let me win,” I hiss, breathless.

JP pulls off his mask, his expression unreadable, but his eyes seem sad and yet full of life the moment they meet mine.

“A bet’s a bet, Cammy,’ he says, handing me the puck that I scored against him.

“That’s not an answer,” I snap, gripping the puck tightly. “Why did you step aside? Did you do it for her?”

He shakes his head. ‘She’s only ever been a friend, Cammy—nothing more.’ His gaze holds mine, something honest flickering in his eyes. “I’m stepping aside because I’m not fighting you anymore. You’re getting what you want. You win.”

Before I can respond, he steps closer and reaches up with his barehand, his thumb brushing over my cheek. His skin is surprisingly warm despite being out here for that last hour. I wish I was strong enough to step out of his touch—but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s probably the last time he’ll ever touch me, and I wish I was brave enough to reach out and touch him, too. But the hurt he’s put me through demands self-preservation.

His voice drops. “I’m not mad at how this ended, I’m just sorry I couldn’t be everything you deserve,’ he says, pulling his hand back from my skin and dropping his hand to his side. ‘Je t’aime. I need you to know that.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. ‘What does that mean?’ I ask. It’s significant—I can feel it.

‘You’re not ready to hear it. Maybe you never will be,’ he says.

‘Tell me? Please.’ I beg.

He licks his lips, and I almost think he debates it, but then he doesn’t. ‘My apartment key is taped to the puck. Will you drop it off for me in the morning to the property management office?’

I nod, unable to come up with a response. I can’t believe he packed up his apartment before all of this. How long ago did he decide that he was going to walk away?

My vision drifts to the green hair band and he follows my eyes. ‘Do you mind if I keep it? It would be hard to part with it now,’ he says.

I nod, staring down at the puck in my hands to keep the tears at bay, but when I look up, the crowd is starting to fill in around us and JP is already skating away. I can’t process all these feelings at once and the image of JP getting further and further away has my heart shattering in a million pieces. I knew this would hurt, but it’s more painful than I ever imagined it would be.

I feel a presence at my side. ‘I love you?’ Aria says, leaning forward to read something. ‘Who wrote that on the puck? Kind of a weird place to write it.’

Then it dawns on me with Aria’s translation.

He let the puck go past him because he loves me.

I turn and race toward the players tunnel, trying desperately to weave between people without slipping on my ass. The dense crowd makes it harder to get through.

The minute I make it to the tunnel, he’s nowhere in sight, and then I feel a hand reach out and grab me. I spin to see who it is—praying—hoping, it’s him. But then I see her.

Angelica.

‘We need to talk,’ she says, her expression stern. ‘About San Diego. About why he really left that night.’

‘I don’t have time for this, I have to—’

‘He won’t tell you the truth,’ she cuts me off. ‘But I will. It’s time you knew everything.’

The seriousness of her expression tells me that she has the information I’ve been begging JP to tell me.

‘Everything?’ I ask.

‘Not here,’ Angelica says, glancing at the celebrating crowd. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk? It’s sensitive information that can’t get out.’

I lead her to my office, my mind racing. The confetti from the challenge still clings to our hair, a glittering reminder of JP’s final words before he skated away.

Je t’aime.

I love you.

The words echo in my head as I close the office door behind us. Angelica doesn’t sit, instead she paces near my window.

‘I wanted to tell you this when you called two nights ago, but you hung up,’ she starts. She looks nervous for someone who I suspect thrives on dramatic courtroom moments. ‘JP and I agreed to keep this a secret but I think you need to know the truth. But you have to promise to keep our secret.’

‘Why wouldn’t he tell me any of this?’ The words come out sharper than intended. This would have cleared up so much.

Angelica turns to face me, and I’m struck by the guilt in her expression. ‘Because he thinks protecting the people he loves means sacrificing himself. Even if it costs him everything.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘That night in San Diego… I was the one driving the car.’

Shock hits me harder than I expect. ‘What?’

‘I had gotten some bad news… a setback on a case I’ve been working on for years. I was a mess, drinking too much at the party downstairs. This football player wouldn’t leave me alone, kept getting handsy…’ She wraps her arms around herself, the memory clearly painful. ‘I called JP in a panic—he was with you.’

My throat tightens as pieces start falling into place. ‘You knew he was with me?’

‘He’s never shut up about you. He texted me when you showed up to the party. He was so happy. Meeting you all those years ago changed him into a better person. You need to know that.’

‘So, you two…’ I start, hoping she will finish the rest for me.

Her nose wrinkles at the thought of what I’m insinuating. ‘Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not my type and even if he were, I spent a lot of years front row to JP being… well, a man-slut, for lack of a better word. Not to mention that he threw up on me in high school at his mom’s third wedding,’ she grimaces. ‘There are just some things you never come back from. But we’ve always been fiercely protective of each other. I spent my life in foster care with no real family, and as you probably know… his family sucks, so we sort of made our own—just the two of us. That’s why when I called… he showed up.’

My brain is reeling with this new information.

‘So if he wasn’t taking you home to…’ I can’t even say the words out loud.

‘He told me he needed to go back up, to let you know what was happening. But I was drunk and scared and stupid.’ Angelica’s voice cracks. ‘I grabbed his keys and ran to his car. He barely made it into the passenger seat before I took off. I missed the turn and we ended up hitting the guardrail.’

‘Oh my God,’ I say.

‘I still feel guilty about everything. I could have killed us. And then JP called an ambulance for me and moved me into the passenger side so that he would take the fall.’

The missed calls, the desperate voicemails, the way he tried to explain but never gave away what happened that night.

‘You’re the one that got the DUI expunged,’ I say, piecing it together. ‘But why would he take the fall?’

‘Because I’m working on a huge non-profit court case fighting for foster kids who are stuck in the system, and a DUI would have gotten me dropped from the case I’ve been working on for years. It’s the same case that I was upset about at the party.’

I scratch the top of my brow trying to piece all of this together. ‘So, why hasn’t he said any of this to me?’ I ask.

‘In the state of California, JP could do ten years in prison for tampering with evidence, and I could do ten years for lying to the police to protect him. The statute of limitations is three years. We agreed to wait to tell you until then. But he’s lost so much trying to protect us both, and now he’s losing it all again after building it back up. I can’t let him do this.’

Suddenly, everything makes sense.

His secret, their close bond, his DUI getting expunged—her becoming a sports talent agent to help him get back what he lost. Everything is fitting into place. Except one thing… breaking it off after the bar.

I flash her the puck he gave me. The silver marker visible.

She reads it and gives me a small smile. ‘He loves you Cammy—he always has. He called me the first night over four years ago when he tossed you that first puck. He said you turned him down. Do you know what I asked him?’ she says, walking over and taking a seat on my desk.

I shake my head. The idea that he would have called her that night and told her about me means something. That night was as significant to him as it was to me.

‘I teased him, asking him if you were the one. And his reply was instant. He said ‘yes,’’ she smiles. ‘He didn’t want to leave you that night. I’m the one that made him. And I promise you that his secrets have only been to protect me. It’s been killing him not to tell you.’

I sink into one of the reception chairs, the room spinning slightly.

Angelica nods. ‘He went to jail for me. Lost his spot with the Blue Devils. Lost you.’ She meets my eyes. ‘I’ve spent the last year and a half trying to make it right. Got his record expunged, helped him rebuild his career. But I couldn’t fix what mattered most to him—getting you back.’

‘Then why did he break it off after the fight at Oakley’s?’ My voice breaks on the question.

She takes in a deep sigh.

‘He has this idea that loving him means getting hurt. His mom, me, you…’

‘Where is he?’ I stand up, suddenly desperate to find him. ‘I need to—’

‘He’s gone,’ Angelica cuts me off gently. ‘He took the transfer to Canada. His flight is boarding right now.’

The words feel like ice in my veins. ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘He can’t be…’

I rush past her, out of my office and through the arena halls. I’m grateful that I changed already as my flats slap against the concrete floors of the stadium as I run for my car— praying I’m not too late.

I make it to The Commons. Maybe Angelica was wrong and he changed his flight. I unlock the door with the key he left me. Inside, the space is empty except for standard furniture. On the coffee table, a PlayStation 3 sits with a note: For Aleksi.

My eyes blur with tears as I spot another note on the kitchen island. With trembling hands, I unfold it:

Cammy,

You are the most incredible person I’ve ever met. You’re smart, talented, and so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. You’re going to do amazing things, and I don’t want to be the reason you don’t.

You deserve someone who makes your life easier, not harder. But I’m not strong enough to stay away on my own, not with you only three floors above me. The best thing I can do for you is give you space to move forward with your life.

Je t’aime,

JP

I clutch the note to my chest, tears falling freely now. All this time, I thought he was running away. But he was trying to run toward something better for everyone else, no matter what it cost him.

My phone buzzes—

Unknown: This is Angelica. His phone is off, but he’s headed to the farm team.

I wipe my eyes, determination replacing despair.

Me: Text me the details. All of them.

Unknown: What are you going to do?

I look down at JP’s note, at the words ‘Je t’aime’ written in his messy scrawl. The same words he whispered before skating away.

Me: I’m going to find him. And then I’m going to bring him home.