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

Tonight, the office is silent.noveldrama

No chatting office staff, no players, no media. It’s calming almost, no pressure for deadlines, no phones ringing, no fires to put out. Just me and my little carved finch that now lives next to my computer screen.

JP tried to be sneaky, dropping in on my desk before he left, but of course I knew immediately who left it. My heart squeezes at the sentiment.

The silence in the hallways of the corporate offices is only broken by the distant sound of the cleaning crew’s vacuums and the echo of my platform Keds against the polished floors as I head to the breakroom for yet another coffee.

I check my phone, and the time is just after ten p.m.. At this late hour, even most of the cleaning crew have gone home by now, and security has shifted over to the nightly skeleton crew.

I’ve been cataloging auction items for hours, surrounded by the organized chaos JP and the team created earlier. Every signed jersey, puck, and photo has to be logged, photographed, and entered into the auction database. It’s a lot of work, but there’s something peaceful about being here alone, about having this massive space to myself.

Well, almost to myself.

Walking back to Penelope’s office with a freshly brewed coffee in my hand, I glance down at the rink from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the hall, and movement catches my eye on the ice below.

JP is still here, driving the Zamboni in smooth, precise circles. The sight of him—knowing that we’re the only two in the building outside of security and the remaining cleaning crew—sparks an unexpected sense of camaraderie.

I take a sip of my coffee, admiring his work from a distance and thinking about how kind it was of him to offer Pete the night off. And the way he brought the team up to help me, convincing my dad to bring me a coffee from my favorite coffee shop. He keeps finding ways to take care of the things that I need, even before I know I need them. Things that are important to me.

My phone buzzes with a text. My heart jumps, thinking that it’s him, though I can clearly see that both hands are on the steering wheel, a set of headphones over his ears.

Brynn: Still at work?

Me: Just finishing up. JP’s still here, too.

Her response is immediate.

Brynn: 👀

Me: Not like that. He’s doing Pete a favor, running the Zamboni.

Brynn: Running the Zamboni? Sounds like he wants to polish more than just the ice. 😏

I ignore her last message, but my eyes drift back to the rink. JP’s making another pass, the Zamboni making polished lines on the ice. Even from up here, I can see how relaxed JP is, the easy way he handles the machine. He looks… at peace.

Before I can overthink it, I head for the elevator. I should thank him again for this morning. I mean, it’s just professional courtesy.

The ride down to ice level feels both too long and too short. My platforms clap against the cement floors, the sound bouncing off the empty corridor walls as I approach the player tunnel, each step making me question whether or not I should turn back. I realize a little too late that I forgot my coat upstairs. I cross my arms, moving my hands up and down to warm them.

JP spots me, and his whole face lights up in a way that makes my heart stutter.

He guides the Zamboni toward the tunnel entrance, that familiar half-smile playing at his lips. ‘Hey.’

‘You call me your little bird,’ I say.

‘You googled it, I assume. You just killed my mysterious edge,’ he smirks.

‘Don’t worry, you’re still shrouded in mystery, I can assure you,’ I tease, trying to ignore how good he looks in his after practice sweats, a large jacket over top while he drives. I had no idea that JP on a Zamboni would do it for me… and yet, here we are. ‘You’re still here?’

‘I saw the lights on upstairs—figured you were still working.’ He cuts the Zamboni’s engine. ‘I decided to stay until you were done. I don’t like the idea of you being here by yourself.’

“Security’s here…” I say.

He nods, glancing up at the windows to the corporate office where he saw the lights on. “Yeah, I know.”

Something warms in my chest. ‘So you stayed here for me?’

‘That, and I told Pete I’d run the Zamboni so he can finish his carving for the auction. Plus,’ he adds, shrugging one shoulder, ‘I like running this thing. Ol’ Bessie here knows how to show a guy a good time.’

I snicker. ‘I’m sure you’re never short of options for a good time,’ I say, aiming for teasing but hearing the edge in my voice.

His expression turns serious. ‘The only good time I’m interested in is time spent with you, Cammy. I’m not interested in anyone else.’

Heat floods my cheeks at his honesty. How does he do that? Just say exactly what he’s feeling, no games, no pretense? His openness to my closed off walls.

‘Want to take a ride with me?’ he asks, breaking the moment. “I’ll give you my coat. You look freezing.”

A shiver breaks through as he reminds me that I’m not dressed warm enough for this.

‘On that?’ I point at the Zamboni.

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘She’s a lot more fun than she looks. You should give it a try.’

‘How do you know I haven’t ridden a Zamboni before?’

He shakes his head, his grin soft and teasing. ‘If you’ve ridden another team’s Zamboni, keep it to yourself. You’ll ruin my new favorite fantasy of you.’

He sends me an easy smile—making something so arbitrary like riding a Zamboni feel like a secret he’s sharing with me.

I should say no. Should maintain professional boundaries. I should protect my heart from falling for him again, but he’s making it so difficult.

‘Okay,’ I hear myself say.

“I knew you couldn’t resist ol’ Bessie here.” He unzips his coat and takes it off. “But unfortunately, there’s only one seat. Guess we’ll have to make do.” He slaps his lap to let me know exactly where I’ll be sitting.

I hesitate for half a second, but the way his eyes soften, waiting for my decision, has me stepping forward. He offers me his hand, and I take it. “Okay, just don’t crash. I don’t want to have to explain this one to HR when they’re filling out a workers’ comp claim,” I tease, as I take the first step onto the Zamboni and he guides me to settle onto his lap.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,.” His voice is low against my ear, as he settles me onto his lap and then drapes his jacket over us.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, the heat under his jacket warming me.

“Yes. Similar to ol’ Bessie here… you’re a lot more comfortable than you look,” I say.

“Good.” There’s a grin in his tone, and I can feel it radiating off him. “You trust me, right?”

I glance over my shoulder, his face inches from mine. “On the ice? Sure. Off the ice… still deciding.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating where our bodies connect. “That’s fair.”

The Zamboni lurches forward as he puts it back in gear, and we begin to move. I’m hyper-aware of the heat from JP’s chest against my back, the steady pressure of his thighs beneath me. His arm wrapped around my middle protectively, holding me secure as the machine glides across the ice.

We start making slow circles around the rink. JP tells me stories about learning to drive one of these from his dad when he was younger, back when being on the ice meant pure joy to JP, before his father’s expectations and pressure took over.

‘He used to be my hero,’ JP admits quietly. ‘Before the divorce.”

“How old were you when they separated?”

“Five,” he says. “Looking back, he wasn’t the best father he could have been. He was gone more than he had to be for work. But then he’d show up and there would be these moments when he’d make up for it.”

“Like teaching you how to drive a Zamboni in an empty hockey stadium, just the two of you,” I say, though I can’t relate to those childhood memories.

At five years old, Eli, the man I grew up thinking was my father, was struggling with crippling PTSD after losing his best friend to an IED while they were both deployed overseas, and deep down, I think he always knew I wasn’t his. Not to mention that my mother needed constant reassurance that he loved her. She took up what little energy he had for giving a shit.

Eli is so different from Seven, my real father and the man who brings me coffee on a Saturday morning, who kisses the top of my head before he leaves me, who will do anything and take on anyone to protect me. Now at twenty-four years old—and considered a grown woman in society—those moments are starting to heal the little girl in me who was robbed of him.

“The great Jon Paul Dumont Sr.,” JP says, pulling me out of my own memories. “…only to those who don’t know him. But then something happened that made me step back and realize I was following too closely in his footsteps, and I decided to clean up my act to become a better man.”

‘What happened that made you want to be a better man?’ I ask.

‘Meeting you at that first game, tossing you a puck, and you not wanting anything to do with me,’ he chuckles.

I try to hide the blush blooming in my cheek, so I change the subject.

“You must have had someone in the hockey community that you looked up to growing up?” I ask, adjusting his jacket over my shoulders.

‘Yeah, after we moved out, I found someone new.”

“Who?”

He stalls for a second before answering. “Your dad.”

His answer surprises me, but it shouldn’t. My dad has been playing since before JP ever laced up a pair of skates. I listen quietly as he continues.

‘Seven’s everything I want to be as a goalie, as a franchise player, as a teammate. The man I wish my father had been. And now I see him with Milo and Brynn… and with you. Protective, supportive, puts family first. The man my father will never be. Even when Coach Wrenley puts me through it during drills, I respect him for it.”

I chuckle at the thought of my dad’s perpetual scowl, not that it’s ever aimed at me… usually.

“And the bet? Do you respect him for that?”

He pauses for a moment, as if he’s collecting his thoughts.

“Yes, I respect him for it. He’s trying to protect you, and he’s putting a lot on the line to do it. He’d do anything for you, Cammy—you know that right?”

“And you agreed to it because…?”

He looks at me over my shoulder, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Because I’d do anything for you, too.”

The weight of his words lands squarely between us, heavy and undeniable. As everything feels heavy around us—emotions I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.

I clear my throat, forcing a lighter tone as I lean back slightly. “So,” I say, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “Do you do this often?”

He turns a dial on the machine, making a small adjustment to something. “Do what? Drive the Zamboni?”

“More like, is this how you get all the girls to ride your Zamboni?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.

His eyes shoot up from the dials, locking on mine.

‘You’re the only girl I’ve ever given a Zamboni ride to,” he says, his eyes honest, “And you’re the only girl I’ll ever ask.’

His hand at my waist shifts slightly, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of my shirt. It was an accident, but it still sends a shiver through me. I know he feels it by the way his grip tightens, anchoring me closer.

“Cammy,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly.

“Yeah?” I manage. His fingers skim against my bare skin and then slide further up, under my shirt, his touch burning a trail along my stomach, the delicious feeling of little scratches from a calloused hockey player’s hand. “If you want me to stop…”

“I don’t,” I say quickly, cutting him off. My voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to make him pause, his forehead resting against the back of my head for a moment as if he’s gathering himself.

“Good.”

The Zamboni stops in one of the corners of the rink.

I lean back resting my head against his shoulder, giving him better access as his fingers dive under the lacy fabric of my bra. His thumb and index finger find my hardening nipple, pinching gently, pulling a soft whimper from my lips. I arch against him, pressing my ass harder into his lap. A guttural growl vibrates through his chest, and I feel it against my back.

I look up into the stands, remembering where we are. Though no one would be able to see what we’re doing under his jacket if they walked in, I’m sure they could guess.

‘The security cameras…’ I start.

‘They can’t see us,’ he finishes. ‘We’re in their blind spot. And the guys on duty tonight play online poker in the breakroom, ignoring the cameras unless an alarm goes off.’

Good to know we have the best of the best on the night crew.

“There’s a blind spot?” I ask. “How do you know where it is?”

“Hunter knows about it. Don’t ask why,” he says, laying a soft kiss behind my ear. “Is this still okay?”

“Yes. It’s still okay.”

His other hand leaves the wheel, snaking around to rest just above the waistband of my jeans, his thumb brushing over the exposed skin of my hip. The sensation sends a wave of heat coursing through me.

JP’s lips trail along the curve of my neck, leaving a slow burn in their wake that cools quickly from the chill of the rink. I tilt my head to the side, giving him better access as his hand moves back and forth, kneading each breast, giving attention to both. His other hand snakes down over my belly, sneaking down past the waistband of my jeans, his fingertips teasing against bare skin.

I reach up and cup the back of his neck, giving me somewhere to anchor myself to him. I rotate my hips, feeling his hard length under me, grinding slowly on top of him. He groans at the friction, his hand continuing its descent down my body until his middle finger slides through my slick folds, swirling over my clit and sparking a heat deep inside of me, his touch deliberate and maddeningly slow.

My nails dig deeper into the back of his neck as I struggle to stay grounded. He presses soft kisses along my neck, murmuring words of praise that I can’t quite make out in broken French. But there are some I catch that have my body responding to him. “Such a good girl,” “…soaking wet pussy just for me,’ ‘…I never thought I’d get you like this,” and “…you’re my fantasy, Cammy.”

I breathe out his name, my voice trembling with need.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, his voice steady. “Just let me take care of you.”

His words send another wave of liquid heat soaking through my panties and lubricating his fingers, and when his finger dips lower, sliding inside me, I gasp. The way he moves is unhurried, exploring, his thumb coming back up to rub slow, lazy circles over my clit as he pumps his finger in and out. My hips instinctively roll to meet his hand, chasing the pressure that’s quickly building inside me.

“You feel like silk on my fingers,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. “The softest thing I’ve ever felt.”

“I can’t believe I’m letting you fuck me on a Zamboni,” I say breathlessly.

“I haven’t fucked you yet, mon ange. This is just foreplay.”

I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out, the overwhelming sensation of his fingers working me driving me closer to the edge. His free hand cups my breast again, his thumb flicking over my nipple, adding to the chaos of sensations flooding my body.

I can’t stop the soft whimper that escapes my lips as he curls his finger just right, hitting a spot that sends a bolt of pleasure shooting through me. My head falls back harder against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to my temple, his movements relentless, his fingers stroking just right, drawing me closer and closer to the brink.

The tension coils tighter in my stomach, a pressure so intense I feel like I might burst into flames. And then, with one final stroke, I do. My body pulsates around his fingers as the pleasure crashes over me, wave after wave pulling me under. I cry out softly, his name a breathless whisper on my lips, knowing that someone other than JP in this stadium might hear me, as he holds me through it.

As the aftershocks ripple through me, his hand slows, his touch gentle now. He kisses the side of my neck again, his lips lingering as I come down, my body still trembling from the release.

“You’re incredible,” he says, his voice thick with awe. “Watching you fall apart in my lap…” He trails off, his lips brushing against my skin. “I’ll never forget it.”

I turn my head to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and intense, his expression raw. My chest tightens at the sight, my heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. Without thinking, I lean in and kiss him, pouring every emotion I can’t say into it. He kisses me back as if he knows what I’m trying to tell him, his hand still resting on my waist, holding me close like he never wants to let go. But slipping away is the last thing on my mind.

The rumble of the Zamboni fades into the background as JP moves us across the ice, his grip firm on my waist.

As we near the Zamboni bay, the massive garage doors open, revealing the dimly lit, heated space beyond. The warmth hits my skin, a stark contrast to the cool bite of the ice, and I shiver—not from the temperature, but from the anticipation curling in my stomach.

JP reaches past me, his fingers grazing my hip as he presses the button to seal us inside. The mechanical whir of the doors closing is the last sound of the outside world before we’re completely alone, tucked away from prying eyes.

I twist, turning in his lap to face him, my legs sliding to either side of his hips—straddling him. JP’s hands immediately settle on my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send another shiver through me. His eyes meet mine, dark and filled with raw, unfiltered desire.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Cammy,” he murmurs, his pupils dilated, his cock hard underneath me.

“Am I?” I ask, a teasing edge to my tone as I press myself closer, feeling the length of him beneath me. His sharp intake of breath fuels my boldness.

He doesn’t answer with words—he doesn’t need to. His hands move to my hips, guiding me to grind against him, and the friction is enough to pull a soft moan from my lips.

‘You’ve been driving me crazy all night,’ he murmurs, his lips brushing against mine. ‘I can’t hold back.’

“Then don’t hold back,” I whisper, my voice unsteady as I press my hands to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palms.

That’s all it takes.

JP surges forward, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss so fierce it leaves me gasping. His hands slide under my shirt, gripping my waist, then gliding up the smooth expanse of my back before yanking the fabric over my head. My skin prickles with heat, and the coolness of the rink as I push his jacket from my shoulders, letting it pool at our feet, lost to the urgency consuming us.

We move frantically, shedding layers in a fevered blur of motion. The quiet thumps of our clothes hitting the Zamboni, the floor, the tool bench—it all melts together, background noise to the rush of need pounding through my veins.

His lips never leave mine, his kisses deep and consuming, his hands mapping every inch of bare skin as he backs me toward the side of the Zamboni. I gasp as the cool metal presses against my back, the contrast against my heated flesh sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

“Fuck, Cammy,” he groans, his lips tracing a slow, agonizing path down my neck, his stubble scraping just enough to make my breath hitch. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I do. Because he does the same to me.

His hands slide lower, gripping my thighs before lifting me onto the edge of the Zamboni. I brace myself against the machine as he steps between my legs, his body flush against mine, nothing between us now.

“JP,” I breathe, my fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

His mouth claims mine again, slower this time, deeper—like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me. His hands explore the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the heat between my thighs.

Then he stills, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath ragged. “I don’t have a condom.” His voice is rough, like it pains him to admit it. “Tell me this is okay. Tell me you want this.”

I don’t hesitate. “I do. I’m on birth control,” I whisper, my nails digging into his shoulders as I pull him impossibly closer. “I want you, JP. I’ve always wanted you.”

Something shifts in his expression, something desperate and reverent, like the weight of my words hit deeper than I expected.

Then he’s there, aligning himself with me, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. His breath shudders as he pushes forward, the slow, torturous slide of him stretching me inch by inch stealing the air from my lungs.

A strangled moan escapes me, my head tipping back as my body adjusts to the sheer fullness of him.

“Cammy,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips, holding me steady as he bottoms out, completely buried inside me. “Jesus, you feel—” He cuts himself off with a curse, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he exhales heavily.

We stay like that for a moment, our bodies locked together, our breaths mingling in the heated air of the garage. The scent of ice and machinery lingers faintly, but all I can focus on is him—his warmth, his scent, the way his fingers tighten just enough to let me know he’s barely holding on.

Then he moves.

Slow at first, his hips rolling against mine, dragging out the sensation until I’m trembling beneath him. His hands slide up my ribs, his thumbs grazing the sensitive undersides of my breasts before his mouth follows, lips closing around my hardening nipple, sucking just enough to make my back arch pressing me further into him.

I whimper, my nails raking down his back as I rock against him, meeting each thrust with a desperation that makes my head spin.

“Fuck,” he groans against my skin. “You’re perfect. This—” He thrusts deeper, hitting just the right spot to make my vision blur. “This is fucking perfect.”

He speeds up, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that’s both frantic and unhurried, like we’re both desperate and unwilling for it to end too soon. Each roll of his hips sends pleasure rippling through me, my body tightening, coiling, ready to snap.

I gasp, my legs tightening around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.

His hand slips between us, his fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves between my thighs, as if he knows my body better than I do. The moment he presses down, my body shatters around his cock. Pulsating over and over, squeezing him tight inside of me, milking him as I come.

I cry out his name, clinging to him as I free fall from the cliff, diving into an ocean of white-hot bliss, my vision almost blacking out as I come harder than I thought was physically possible.

JP curses, his grip on my hips tightening as he thrusts once, twice more before he stills, his entire body tensing as he finds his own release, spilling into me with a guttural groan. Filling me completely, without a condom.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound in the garage is our ragged breathing.

Then, with a satisfied sigh, JP pulls me against him, cradling me in his arms. He kisses the top of my head, his lips lingering as he murmurs, “I think I’m going to need to drive the Zamboni more often.”

I let out a breathless laugh, my body still humming from the aftershocks. “As long as I’m your passenger.”

His arms tighten around me, his voice filled with certainty. “You’re the only one. I promise.”

JP’s lips brush against my temple, his arms still wrapped around me as we catch our breath. The heat between us lingers, but now it feels so much more than just sex… everything feels so different.

“I walked here from the apartment, but I saw your car in the players parking lot. Can I drive you home? I’m not ready to let you out of my sight yet.”

I should say no. Should maintain some distance. But… I don’t want to anymore. He told me that he’ll tell me what happened in San Diego, as soon as he can. Maybe I need to trust him—but can I?

God, I want to.

‘Okay,’ I hear myself say.

As we leave the stadium hand in hand toward the parking lot. I can only think of one thing.

Maybe some chances are worth risking. Even if they might break your heart.