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

My phone buzzes as I head for the rink, heading for the preview, though my nerves feel like someone dropped them in a blender and hit the power button.

Brynn: Stop ignoring me. What happened with JP two nights ago? Spill!

I bite back a smile, grateful for something else to occupy my thoughts instead of what’s waiting for me out on the ice.

Me: Have you forgotten that I have a preview today? I’m a little busy at the moment.

Brynn: I know, I’m in the stands. I can see you.

I glance up to see Brynn across the stadium sitting with Milo and Aria. She lifts his little mitten covered hand to wave at me. I give him a little wave back. I shoot her a quick text back since I don’t see Everett in the stands yet.

Me: He helped me clean up and then he left. That’s it.

I know she’ll keep bugging me if I don’t just answer her.

Brynn: You expect me to believe that nothing happened?

Me: He got a call from his “agent” Angelica Ludwig and then went on his merry way.

Brynn: Wait, Angelica Ludwig. Isn’t that the girl he got in the accident with?

I don’t text back. She’s smart enough to put the rest together, and honestly, this situation still stings.

Brynn: Cammy, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Did you ask him about that night? Why he left?

I skate out on the ice, seeing JP already on the ice in front of the goalie.

I wave my phone at her and set it on the sideboard along the home bench to show her that I am no longer getting her messages. I notice JP’s phone sitting there too, along with his water bottle.

I need to focus, if I want to win this thing. I can’t keep checking her messages.

Her reasoning that the way he looks at me means something is completely wrong, because he looked at me a lot that night we spent in that guestroom and still left.

The Hawkeyes’ arena isn’t usually lively at this time in the morning, post-practice. Players who normally rush for the showers linger in the stands, their voices bouncing off empty seats and plexiglass. I pause at the tunnel entrance, taking in the scene.

My stomach twists as I catch snippets of whispered bets and predictions floating down from the stands. This wasn’t supposed to be a team event. Just a quick preview for Everett’s investor. But word spread fast when Everett asked for a preview between JP and me, and now it feels like the whole organization is here to witness whatever’s about to happen.

I adjust my stick tape for the third time, the familiar ritual doing little to calm my nerves. The cold seeps through my dad’s old practice jersey, but my palms are sweating inside my gloves.

‘Ready for this?’ Hunter calls from the bench, his grin visible even from here. ‘My money’s on you, Wrenley.’

‘Betting against your own goalie?’ Luka asks, clutching his chest in mock offense. ‘That’s cold, man.’

‘What can I say? I like an underdog.’ Hunter winks at me, and I manage a small smile.

‘Hey Wrenley,’ Aleksi calls out, leaning over the boards. ‘Monty’s got a weak spot, high glove side when he’s tired. And he always leans left after a butterfly save.’

‘Mäkelin!’ JP shouts from the net. ‘Whose team are you on?’

‘I’m on Cammy’s team… obviously,’ Aleksi grins.

Their banter helps settle my nerves, until I spot my dad standing near the tunnel. His arms are crossed, jaw set. He almost appears to be holding himself back from skating out here to take my spot, but he wouldn’t embarrass me like that. He knows I’ve been training, and after all, no one else knows what’s on the line besides JP and me.

JP’s already going through his warm-up routine. Even from here, I can read the familiar patterns—the way he stretches each leg, adjusts his facemask. The same ritual I’d seen each time the Hawkeyes played against the Blue Devils, back when I knew better than to trust a hockey playboy. Back before I spent that night believing every promise he whispered against my skin.noveldrama

The scrape of my skates against ice feels deafening as I make my way to center ice. Each stride brings me closer to him, and my heart pounds harder with every foot of distance I close. I catch Brynn’s eye in the stands. She gives me an encouraging thumbs up. I didn’t tell her about the bet, and I’m glad I didn’t—the pressure of her watching, knowing what’s on the line as well, would have my heart beating faster.

‘Looks like we’ve drawn a crowd,’ he says as I glide closer, that hint of amusement in his voice. His eyes catch mine through his mask. ‘Still good with our bet? If you want to back out, now is the time.’

‘Worried you’ll lose?’ I shoot back, though my heart races and my hands sweat at the memory of our deal. Three shots. If he blocks them all, I owe him a date. If I score, he backs off. The stakes feel impossibly high, especially with the weight of everyone’s eyes on us.

‘Never. I won’t lose today. The incentive to win is too high,’ he grins, adjusting his mask. I stare at his Hawkeyes jersey. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in an official game day jersey. Number 51. The same number he wore in San Diego. ‘Just making sure you’re ready to follow through when I win.’

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, though it holds more edge than humor. ‘Pretty confident for someone whose teammate just gave up his weak spot.”

JP and I could go rounds back and forth. I know… because we have, on many occasions, but then Everett’s voice booms across the ice. ‘There they are!’ He strides toward us with a man in an expensive suit—presumably the investor. I straighten my shoulders, grateful for the interruption. ‘Mark, these are the two I was telling you about. Jon Paul Dumont, our goalie, and Cammy Wrenley—Seven Wrenley’s daughter.’

Mark shakes both our hands, his enthusiasm evident in his firm grip. His eyes linger on me a moment longer than necessary, clearly trying to reconcile my presence on the ice. I’m used to that look—the one that says “coach’s daughter doesn’t quite explain what I’m doing here with a stick in my hands.” But his smile is warm nonetheless.

‘Everett says you’ve got something special planned for the auction?’ Mark’s polished exterior barely contains his curiosity.

‘A slapshot challenge,’ JP explains, his professional charm sliding into place—the same voice he used to use for post-game interviews. ‘Guests can donate for a chance to score on a pro goalie. Olsen Bozeman should be cleared by Dr. Hensen by then. He and I will take shifts, and donors can pay as many times as they want to take three shots against either one of us.’

‘And you’re going to demonstrate out on the ice for us?’ Mark asks me.

‘That’s the plan.’ I twirl my stick, a nervous habit. ‘Though usually I’m the one organizing events, not participating in them.’

“A Dumont and Wrenley showdown,” Mark says, “I like it. Donors will like it, too. This could be a big pull to get more donors in the door.”

I never thought of it that way, but of course that’s how outsiders see it.

‘Well then,’ Everett claps his hands together, ‘let’s see what you two have planned for the auction. Good luck.”

Before Everett walks away, he leans in closer. “I’ve got a hundred bucks on you. Give him hell.”

The vote of confidence from Everett is what I needed. The longer I see what he’s doing with this team to build up community around the city and going big with his own money to help make sure that this charity is a huge success, the more I believe in Phil Carlton’s decision.

They retreat to the bench, leaving JP and me alone on the ice. The arena feels smaller somehow, like the walls are closing in. Or maybe that’s just the weight of everyone’s eyes on us, the whispered conversations, the anticipation hanging thick in the air.

JP settles into position, and I take my place. Three shots. That’s all I need. Just one has to get past him. I close my eyes for a moment, remembering countless hours practicing with my dad, his voice steady.

‘Read the goalie, find the weakness, commit to your shot.’

The first puck feels heavy in my hands as I set it down. JP’s weight shifts slightly left—he’s expecting me to go right. It’s such a subtle tell that most people wouldn’t notice it, but I’ve spent more time analyzing his every move—more than I thought I had—over the years. I adjust my angle at the last second, sending the puck high glove side.

He catches it cleanly, the smack of rubber against his glove echoing through the arena. Even through his mask, I can see the satisfaction in his eyes. That little head tilt he does when he’s pleased with himself—some things never change.

There are a few light claps for Dumont and a few “boos” from Hunter and Aleksi, but I ignore it, setting up for my second attempt. My hands are shaking slightly as I position the puck. This time I go low, trying to sneak it between his pads. He drops into a butterfly, the puck bouncing harmlessly off his leg pad.

‘Come on, Wrenley!’ Hunter shouts. ‘Show him what you’ve got!’

‘You got this, Cammy!’ Brynn’s voice carries from somewhere above, steady and encouraging.

One shot left. My palms sweat inside my gloves as I line up the final attempt.

I channel my shot, putting everything I have into it. The puck flies true, heading for the top corner. For a split second, I think I’ve got him. Hope surges through me—and then his glove flashes up, snagging it out of the air like it was meant for him all along. Like everything about me has always belonged to him, whether I wanted it to or not.

The team erupts, a few cheers but mostly playful booing at JP for shutting me out. I’d laugh at the antics if losing didn’t mean something else—something I agreed to.

A date.

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, try to swallow down the disappointment and something else that feels dangerously like excitement… maybe even relief? Is that even possible? Like this bet is forcing us together without me having to fully drop my guard.

He skates toward me, his mask pushed up to reveal that infuriating smile that still keeps me up thinking about it. Sweat glistens on his forehead, a drop sliding down his temple. I remember how that skin felt under my fingers, how his smile felt against my lips.

‘Looks like you owe me a date,’ he says quietly, close enough that only I can hear. His breath fogs in the cold air between us, mingling with mine.

“A bet is a bet,” I say.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do, Cammy. I’d rather you come because you wanted to. Not just because you lost our bet.”

Suddenly, I feel a heavy presence near us by the home bench.

“Bet?” I hear my dad’s voice. “What bet?”

“Just a friendly wager. Nothing big,” I tell him, for some reason jumping in to protect JP.

There’s no way my dad would stand for the terms of our arrangement.

I can tell that he isn’t buying it, but before he can ask follow-up questions, Everett and Mark make their way down to us.

‘What if I take Cammy’s place?’ my dad says, his voice cutting through the air like a slapshot.

Every muscle in my body tenses as I turn to face him. He’s already stepping onto the ice, his skates slicing into the surface with practiced ease.

‘A battle between the old goalie and the new?’ Mark says, his excitement bubbling over. ‘Now that’s something no one will want to miss. I hope you ordered enough tickets, Everett, because this event is about to sell out fast.’

‘What do you say, Dumont?’ my dad asks, his eyes never leaving JP.

JP doesn’t flinch, his jaw tightening as he meets my dad’s gaze. ‘I’m in.’

‘Perfect,’ Mark says, already turning to Everett and Penelope to hammer out details. But I can’t focus on them. Not when my dad and JP are locked in a silent battle of wills.

‘Since you seem to like bets,’ my dad says, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass, ‘how about we make one of our own?’

The air feels heavier, every sound in the arena fading into the background as his words sink in.

‘If I get a puck past you, you agree to leave the Hawkeyes. No arguments, no explanations. You forfeit your PTO and you walk away.’

“Dad—” I say but JP cuts me off.

‘And if I shut you out?’ JP asks. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, a determination that makes my chest ache. ‘I want your approval. No more warnings, no more interference. You let me stay here.’

There’s no way that Penelope, Coach Haynes, or Everett would be happy to hear this bet.

JP’s eyes flicker to me and that’s when I realize that this doesn’t have anything to do with hockey… this has everything to do with me.

“Fair enough,” my dad says, offering out his hand.

“Wait—stop…This is ridiculous! Neither of you can make that call,’ I say, stepping forward, my voice echoing across the ice. ‘You can’t just bet his career on one shot. What would Coach Haynes or Everett say about this?” I ask, trying to bring my voice down so the entire stadium doesn’t hear us, and also to bring them both to their senses.

Neither of them look at me. They shake hands, the weight of their agreement settling over the rink like a storm cloud.

Without another word, my dad turns and skates off, his shoulders rigid as he heads for the stands. Brynn’s eyes meet mine, wide with disbelief as she mouths, What just happened?

I shake my head, my stomach churning as JP turns to face me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.

This isn’t just about a shot anymore. It’s about hearts and careers and second chances—and I’m not sure any of us are ready for what happens next.

Especially me.