My phone buzzes for the third time as I walk through the quiet corridors of the Hawkeyes’ stadium. My hair’s still damp from the post-practice shower, and the chill seeping through my skin makes me grateful for my thick team hoodie.


    My phone buzzes as I pull on my jacket. The screen lights up with Angelica’s name.


    <b ss="calibre13">Angelica: </b>You’re trending again. Congrats, Dumont. #GoalieComeback is all over socials and I woke up to several emails requesting one-on-one interviews and sponsorship offers. The Dumont gravy train is back on track.<b ss="calibre13"></b>


    <b ss="calibre13">Me: </b>I only care about one thing. Getting off PTO and earning a permanent spot on the team. I need that contract, Ang.


    Her response is immediate.


    <b ss="calibre13">Angelica: </b>I know. And with Everett wanting to make waves in the sports world, this is improving your chances. So don’t screw it up. If anyone from the media asks about the DUI charges or anything from that night, you say “noment.”


    My jaw clenches as I type. Being in this situation and not being able to tell Cammy the truth is what bothers me the most.


    <b ss="calibre13">Me: </b>There has to be another way to get her to trust me without anyone knowing what happened that night.


    <b ss="calibre13">Angelica: </b>You got her to trust you once. Just do it again.<b ss="calibre13"></b>


    I exhale. It took me three years to get Cammy to show up, to break through her walls and show her that I was worth taking a chance on. And if it takes me another three years, I’d do it dly. But now I’m fighting against more than just hearsay. She thinks she’s experienced it firsthand. Angelica’s right, of course. I can’t afford any mistakes—on or off the ice.


    I type a quick response before shoving the phone into my pocket.


    <b ss="calibre13">Me: </b>Got it. Stay focused. Don’t talk to strangers.


    <b ss="calibre13">Angelica: </b>Love you


    <b ss="calibre13">Me: </b>Je t’aime aussi


    I pocket my phone, Angelica’s words echoing in my head as I make it to the edge of the rink, my vision fixes on the figure moving across the ice with deadly determination.


    Cammy.


    She’s been out there with Seven for the past hour, staying after morning practice wrapped up and the team cleared out. From my position near the tunnel, I can hear the rhythmic thwack of pucks finding their mark against the.


    It’s been a few days since I left her apartment and Angelica’s poorly timed phone call. I wish I’d known what to say that night to make her believe that nothing happened between Angelica and me, but telling her means exposing Angelica. And then all the work her team has been doing would be a waste.


    Above me, Penelope and Everett lean against the railing near the yers’ tunnel, their heads bent in conversation as they watch Cammy’s practice. They’ve been out here all morning watching the team’s practice first, but something about the way they’re studying her now feels different. More focused.


    My attention shifts back to Cammy as she lines up another shot. The way she squares her shoulders, the slight bend in her knees, the fluid motion of her follow-through—Seven’s coaching shows in every movement, but there’s something else there, too. Raw talent. Pure Wrenley DNA.


    The puck flies, but Seven stops it with his glove.


    ‘Getting better,’ Seven calls out, pride evident in his voice. ‘Go again.’


    That pride—it’s something I’ve never heard in my own father’s voice. Jon Paul Senior’s idea of encouragement was always more like: ‘You can do better than that,’ or ‘A real champion wouldn’t have missed that save.’ Watching Seven with Cammy, the way he builds her up instead of tearing her down, makes something twist in my chest.


    From what Cammy told me that night in San Diego, she only started skating after finding out Seven was her dad. Though she was born with an athletic edge—an all-state volleyball champ with full rides to multiple colleges… just not the University of Washington. She wanted to go to take an internship with the Hawkeyes and be closer to Seven.


    I can’t tear my eyes away, seeing her out on the ice—my ice. The only thing that would make this better is being out there with her. She sets up another shot, and my goalie instincts kick in automatically. Her wrist shot is lethal—quick release, perfect cement—but her pshot? That’s where the real power lies.


    She needs more work, but her skills are impressive for the limited years she’s put in. Seven nces my way, his expression hardening when he catches me watching. The message is clear: <em ss="calibre12">Stay away from my daughter.</em> But it’s toote for that warning. It was toote the moment I saw her at that first game over four years ago, the first time I tossed her a puck to go out to dinner with me.


    I’m not one for the chase—it’s never been my thing. But the moment I saw the look of disgust on Cammy’s face when she read “Dinner?” on the puck, she hooked me. That was the first time I had ever gotten a reaction like that from a woman, and it intrigued me. Now, I’m addicted to her snarkyments, the warning look in her eyes, that sharp brow that tells me she thinks I’m full of shit. I have to fucking know what she’s thinking.


    What I wouldn’t give to have subtitles for Cammy’s inner thoughts. Those pointed remarks that absolutely destroy me, and yet, I can never get enough.


    It’s a game I can’t win but can’t stop ying.


    Because I want every part of Cammy. Her rose petals and her thorns.


    ‘JP,’ Everett calls from above, snapping me out of my trance. ‘Just the man we wanted to see.’


    Cammy finishes herst shot—top shelf, right above Seven’s shoulder. Seven’s attention fixes on me fully now, his protective instincts visible.


    ‘That pshot challenge you and Cammy proposed,’ Everett continues, ‘it’s a great idea. I think the live-action interaction could bring in some bigger donors.’


    ‘Thanks.’ I scratch the back of my neck, oddly pleased by the enthusiasm. ‘It was actually Cammy’s idea, too. We worked on it together.’


    ‘Speaking of which,’ Everett’s eyes track to the ice where Cammy’s justnded another impressive shot, ‘I’ve got an investoring in tomorrow. Deep pockets, lots of connections—exactly the kind of person we need interested in this auction to ensure the foundation gets the funding they need for those family condos near the cancer center.’


    I see where this is going. ‘And you want a preview?’


    ‘If you and Cammy wouldn’t mind?’ Penelope asks, her tone careful. ‘Just a little demonstration to show him what he could expect from the auction and maybe encourage him to bring some friends along.’


    ‘Cammy!’ Everett calls out. ‘Got a minute?’


    Her eyes narrow slightly when she spots me, but she manages a smile for the others. ‘Yes, of course.’


    On the ice, Seven tells her to go while he grabs the rest of the gear. She heads for us, tugging off her gloves. Her cheeks are flushed from practice, and her nose is red from the chill of the ice, a few strands of hair stuck to her temple. She’s beautiful—just like this, raw and real, no walls up yet.


    ‘You look solid out there. Giving your old man a run for his money,’ Everett says.


    ‘Thanks. He’s a great coach. I’m lucky to get to learn from the best.’ There’s pride in her voice, something no one would ever hear in my voice for my own father. The closest I ever got to making Jon Paul Senior proud was the day I signed my first NHL contract—and even then, his first words were about living up to the family name.


    As Everett exins the situation, Seven approaches. His eyes meet mine for a moment, his eyes still a warning sign that I’m standing too close to her.


    ‘Sounds good to me,’ Cammy says, though I know her willingness to be a team yer isn’t for my benefit.


    Seven’s jaw tightens, but he turns to Everett. ‘When were you thinking?’


    ‘Tomorrow. After morning skate,’ Everett replies. ‘Does that work for everyone?’


    We all nod, and slowly the group disperses. Seven lingers for a moment, his gaze promising bodily harm if I step out of line, before following Everett and Penelope toward the locker room.


    My phone buzzes again in my pocket—probably Angelica with more advice—but I ignore it. Instead, I catch up to Cammy before she can escape. ‘Hey, that was some pshot out there.’


    She pauses, surprised by the genuinepliment. ‘Thanks.’


    ‘You’ve been practicing.’


    ‘Maybe.’ A hint of pride creeps into her voice, her hazel eyes sparking with thatpetitive edge I can never resist.


    I hesitate, then grin. ‘Want to make this preview interesting?’


    Her eyebrow arches, and her lips twitch like she’s already calling my bluff. ‘Interesting how?’


    ‘Simple. Three shots,’ I say, stepping closer. Her scent—something soft and faintly floral—makes my chest tighten. ‘If I block all three, you agree to a real date with me. Dinner, conversation, no running away afterward.’


    She scoffs, crossing her arms. ‘And if I score?’


    I shrug, feigning casual. ‘Your call. What do you want?’


    Cammy studies me for a long moment, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. Then a sly smile curls the edges of her mouth. ‘Fine. If I score, you tell Penelope you’re stepping away from the auction to focus on your knee. No excuses. No interference.’


    Her words hit harder than a pshot, but I keep my expression steady. Of course she’d use this to push me away—it’s ssic Cammy. Practical, guarded, and unwilling to risk opening the door to something she can’t control.


    ‘Deal,’ I say, extending my hand.


    Her hand meets mine, her grip firm, her eyes locked on mine. ‘Deal.’


    As she pulls away, that fire in her gaze ignites, and I know I’m in trouble. But I’ve spent thest hour watching her practice, studying her tells. The way her weight shifts before a wrist shot. The way her shoulders tighten before a pshot.


    I’m not letting a single puck past me.


    I watch her walk away, thatpetitive spark in her eyes lighting a fire under my skin. She thinks this is about the auction. About proving myself to the team. And yeah, maybe it started that way. But this isn’t about charity events or careerebacks.


    This is about her and what I’m willing to do to get her back, no matter the cost, no matter the stakes.


    I can still feel the hockey calluses on her palm where it pressed against mine, the strength behind her handshake that said she has no intention of letting me win. And I’m fine with that—hell, I want the challenge.


    Because this isn’t just a game to me. This is my shot at proving I’m not the guy she thinks I am. At showing her that even after everything, I’m still here. And this time, I’m not walking away.


    I pull out my phone, seeing Angelica’stest text.


    <b ss="calibre13">Angelica: </b>Booked a flight for the opener. Still have seats for me?


    <b ss="calibre13">Me: </b>Always.


    I touch the green hair band on my wrist—her hair tie, the one I’ve worn ever since that night. Some guys have lucky socks or pre-game rituals. I have this small piece of her, reminding me of everything I’m fighting to get back.


    Tomorrow, I’ll need all the luck I can get.