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

For the last year and a half while rehabbing my knee in Toronto, I’ve been dreaming about this ice. This is where I convince everyone I’m more than my father’s son, more than the headlines. More than the guy who left her.

Coach Wrenley’s standing at the boards, arms crossed, watching my every move with the same intensity that made him a legend. The same intensity I used to study in game tapes as a kid, learning every technique, every nuance of his style.

‘Again,’ Seven calls out, his voice echoing through the empty practice facility. ‘This time, watch your left post. You’re leaving it exposed on the transition.’

I nod, resetting my position. My knee twinges slightly—a reminder of why it took me two weeks on PTO to get signed instead of just signing with one of the other two teams that wanted me. A PTO here was better than signing anywhere else, and it paid off. It was tense between Coach Wrenley and I on day one, but the moment we’re back on the ice, it seems like all of that fades away—both of us knowing we have a job to do out here.

After everything.

The fact that Cammy’s here, just a few floors above us in the corporate offices, makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with the drills Seven is running me through. It’s been four and a half years since the first time I spotted her sitting across rivalry lines, four and a half years of finding excuses to linger after games just to see her smile, of tossing pucks with dinner invitations she always turned down. Then finally—one perfect night that ended in disaster, followed by a year and a half of silence.

‘Focus, Dumont,’ Seven barks, pulling me back to the present. ‘You wanted to train under me? Then train. Leave everything else outside the rink.’

If he only knew that ‘everything else’ was his daughter. That I’ve been trying to get to Seattle since the DUI and my knee injury. To explain. To make things right.

But Seven Wrenley isn’t just my childhood idol anymore—he’s Cammy’s father and my goalie coach. And after what happened in San Diego, I’m pretty sure he’d sooner break my other knee than let me anywhere near her.

‘Better,’ Seven says as I make another save. ‘But you’re still thinking too much. Let your instincts take over.’

My instincts. Right. The same instincts that got me into this mess in the first place. That night in San Diego cost me everything—my contract, my reputation, and most importantly, her. And no matter how much I want to explain, I know it might not be enough to fix what I broke.

The practice session stretches on, each save bringing a new correction from Seven. His coaching style is exactly what I expected—demanding and precise. It’s everything I’ve wanted since I was six years old, watching him shut out Montreal in Game 7 of the playoffs.

‘You’ve got the raw talent,’ Seven says during a water break, his tone thoughtful. ‘Always have. But talent isn’t enough in this league. You need focus.’

I take a long drink, buying time before I respond. ‘Is that why you agreed to work with me? To see if I could focus?’noveldrama

He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. ‘I agreed because Haynes asked me to. Because every goalie coach in the league knows you’ve got something special. But mostly?’ He pauses, and I can feel the weight of what’s coming. ‘I agreed because I wanted to see for myself what a year and a half off the line would do to you. What kind of player it would make you. If it would shake the arrogant Dumont genes out of you.’

The words hit like they intended, like a punch to the stomach, but I don’t let it show. He’ll be watching to see if I keep my cool or fly off the handle like my father. ‘I’m not him.’

‘Prove it,’ Seven says simply, then skates back to position. ‘Again. This time, focus on your glove side. You’re dropping it too early.’

I reset, trying to push everything else aside. The memory of my father’s drinking, of the night he got in a bar fight and my mother stepped in to stop it. She ended up taking the hit that was meant for my father. That night was her last straw with my father’s drinking and fighting. She filed for divorce soon after, moving me to Toronto.

The weight of my father’s legacy has followed me my whole career. The constant comparisons, the whispered expectations. Bouncing from rich stepdad to rich stepdad, as my mom remarried another three more times, every one of them expecting me to turn out like my father—hiring nannies so they never had to interact with me.

Movement in the corporate windows above catches my eye. Cammy’s there, watching. Even from this distance, I can feel the electricity between us. Four and a half years of wanting her, three of those years I spent trying to prove I was worth her time, of fighting against my reputation and her hesitation. Then one perfect night where everything felt possible, followed by the worst morning of my life, and then the last year and a half trying to give her space, not being able to tell her the real reason I left that night…

‘Eyes on the puck, Dumont,’ Seven barks, and I snap back to attention just in time to make a save.

But it’s sloppy, and we both know it.

‘That’s enough for today,’ Seven says, his disappointment evident. ‘Hit the showers. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.’

I nod, gathering the pucks. ‘Yes, Coach.’

He starts to skate away, then pauses. ‘Why the Hawkeyes, JP? You had other options—New York, Texas—I heard Toronto wanted you. Teams that would’ve signed you outright instead of the work you’ve had to put in the last two weeks. Why here?’

This is the question I’ve dodged from everyone who’s asked. I could avoid the truth and say it’s about wanting to be part of a winning organization. It wouldn’t be untrue but it’s not the full reason. I’m here to prove to Cammy that I’m not who she thinks I am, and I’m here to prove to Seven that I’m good enough to play for him. So I give him a partial truth.

‘Because I have something to prove, and I have to do it here,’ I say finally.

Seven’s expression shifts, something like recognition flickering across his face. ‘Just remember why you’re here. To play hockey. Nothing else.’

The warning in his tone is clear. He might not know it all, but he can see it in my eyes—he knows I’m up to something, and that it might not be something he’ll like.

I shower and change quickly, my mind racing. It took a year and a half to get back here, confirming my knee is solid, training with a rehab sports specialist, convincing teams I wasn’t the screw-up the media painted me as after San Diego. A year and a half of missing her, of carrying her bright green hair tie on my wrist like a goddamn rosary, wondering if I’d ever get the chance to explain.

The elevator doors open on the corporate level, and I step out before I can talk myself out of it. The office suite is quiet, most people out for lunch.

My knee twinges in pain as I walk down the third-floor hallway of the Hawkeyes’ corporate office.

Everything here feels sleek and polished—brass nameplates, espresso-stained wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rink below, and memorabilia in shadow boxes on the walls to pay homage to the long history of players who have all skated here before me.

It feels quiet for a Monday afternoon, but I’m not complaining. I’d rather be here than sitting in my hotel room watching more sports media on TV.

They’ve been having a field day since the Hawkeyes announced my PTO signing—former all-star goalie Jon Paul Dumont attempting a comeback after a career-ending injury and his run-in with the law. It’s all a little dramatic if you ask me. The headlines are mixed for The Seattle Sunrise: HAWKEYES GAMBLE ON DAMAGED GOODS and HOCKEY LEGEND, JON PAUL DUMONT SENIOR’S PRODIGAL SON RETURNS TO THE ICE.

Some want a good comeback story, others want a dumpster fire, but what they can all agree on… they hope my first season back on the ice brings in high ratings.

As if they couldn’t do worse, they put my father’s name in the headline. It will only spur his ‘tough love’ text even further, reminding me not to fuck up my second chance. But mostly, he just doesn’t want me to embarrass the family name—his name. Not that I’ll answer him back. I haven’t in over a decade. Sadly, it hasn’t stopped him from coming to my games for the media attention—looking like the doting father supporting his protégé son.

I pause at the nameplate on the door: Penelope Matthews, General Manager.

My hesitation isn’t because I’m about to walk into the GM’s office. I’ve met Penelope before, and as long as I do my job, I don’t see us having any issues. It’s the woman sitting just outside Penelope’s door who has my pulse hammering.

Fuck it—here it goes.

I twist the handle and push through.

My vision seeks her out, landing on her instantly.

Cammy Wrenley.

I pause at her desk, memories flooding back—her rolling her eyes at that first puck I tossed her, the way she’d try not to smile when I’d find her at charity events, how she’d pretend to be annoyed when I’d speak French just to get under her skin. Three years of pursuing her, of learning every little detail I could—how she takes her coffee (three raw sugars, splash of cream), how she bites her lip when she’s trying not to laugh at my jokes, how her eyes light up when she talks about hockey. Three years of wanting more than just one night, of trying to show I’m capable of more than the reputation that I might have earned.

She’s bent over her desk, her dark caramel hair cascading down over her shoulders, typing furiously, a pen caught between her teeth. Her hair is longer than the last time I saw her, but the sharp focus in her deep hazel eyes is the same.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take a second to drink her in. Cammy Wrenley—coach’s daughter, my unresolved past, and the only person who’s ever unsteadied me.

‘Bonjour, chérie,’ I say, walking up to her desk. Her head snaps up, and I watch the recognition flicker across her face.

She straightens in place behind her desk, clicking the top of her pen twice in rapid repetition, and then sets it down, probably convincing herself that stabbing me in the throat with it wouldn’t be worth the jail time.

‘Jon Paul,’ she says, knowing full well that I hate my full name. A nugget of information I told her when she was wrapped in my arms in my teammate’s guest bedroom. Her voice is short, professional, but laced with ice. ‘I wasn’t aware you started today.’

Somehow, I doubt that’s true. I guarantee she knows every player signed on the roster, but I’ll play along. No need to get on the administration’s bad side if I can avoid it.

‘Just signed the PTO paperwork,’ I say, leaning a thigh against her desk. ‘Looks like we’re on the same team now.’

‘Not exactly.’ She says, turning back to her work, dismissing me. ‘The administrative office and player facilities are in different levels of the stadium for a reason. And besides, PTO isn’t a confirmed spot on the roster. You still have to prove yourself to Coach Haynes.’

I expected the cold shoulder after the dozens of texts and voicemails that I sent her after I got bailed out of jail went unanswered. But experiencing it firsthand feels heavier than I imagined it would.

I cross my arms over my chest, noticing how she tenses at my movement. ‘Come on, Wrenley. A year and a half is a long time to hold a grudge.’

‘I’m not holding anything,’ she says, shuffling some papers on her desk, still not looking at me. ‘But unlike you, I still have work to do today.’

‘Have you always been this bad at lying?’ I ask, unfolding my arms to pick up a photo frame from her desk—her with a toddler, her half-brother, Milo—Coach Wrenley’s son. Wrenley’s wife, Brynn, and Milo have been out to watch practice since I started skating with the team. ‘How’s the little guy?’

She snatches the frame back. ‘Milo’s fine. And you can stop pretending to care about my family.’

There’s a fire in her eyes. She’s fiercely protective of them. But that’s something she told me herself, in San Diego, sitting on a king size bed eating chow mein and pot stickers out of a to-go box that I ordered in to get her away from all the noise downstairs. The second I saw her walk into Cooper’s place in that dress, I knew all the hard work of trying to get her attention for years had finally paid off.

Little did I know that I was minutes away from having the best night of my life, and only hours away from fucking it all up.

‘I’ve always cared, Cammy.’ The words slip out before I can stop them.

Her eyes cut from mine to the picture in her hand. I see past her carefully constructed walls. There’s hurt there—the kind I’ve caused and the kind that makes my throat tight.

She sets it back down, the mask of perfect professionalism put right back in place. I can’t blame her. We’re standing in our boss’s office after all. And she still thinks I left her for someone else. A truth I can’t completely tell her without hurting someone else in the process and potentially earning us both a ten thousand dollar fine and up to four years in jail.

‘You must be here for a reason. What can I do for you, so that we can both get back to work?’

I clear my throat. She wants to pretend that there isn’t history between us.

Fine.

For now.

After seventeen months, two days, and nine hours of time between us, I’m finally standing in front of her, and yet, she couldn’t be any further away.

‘Just here to pick up my apartment keys,’ I say, with a small grin. Inside, though, the tension in her voice claws at me. ‘The property manager was supposed to send a courier here with them.’

‘Right,’ she says as if she just remembered—relieved that I have a real purpose for my visit. She pulls open a drawer, retrieving an envelope. ‘The Commons, unit 414. Don’t worry, I made sure they didn’t put us on the same floor,’ she says, holding out a simple white envelope with my name written on it in her loopy cursive ‘Jon Paul.’ The same handwriting she’d left on a note with “no thanks” stuck to a puck I passed her years ago. Still, seeing it brings back memories.

‘What a relief. Being on the same floor with you would have been a nightmare,’ I tease.

Her eyes narrow. The easy laugh I used to get from her all those years ago is nowhere to be heard.

‘A two-year lease? That’s a lot of commitment for you, isn’t it? Figured you’d like to keep your options open… you know, in case a better apartment calls you in the middle of the night asking for a ride home.’

And there it is, the truth of what she thinks I did. Told with the Cammy Wrenley edge: purrs like a kitten, cuts like a razor blade.

I still remember the first thing we said to each other in Cooper’s kitchen, before I ordered Chinese and took her upstairs to have her all to myself—no more interruptions.

‘You flew all the way down here to watch me play?’ I asked, a smirk spread across my lips.

Someone tapped my shoulder to ask if I wanted to take a shot with them, but I couldn’t have cared less if anyone else was in the house. Cammy was the only one I wanted to celebrate with.

‘Are you kidding? I’d never do that. I just flew down here to tell you that my dad says he still owes you a fat lip for that sucker puck three weeks ago. Want me to pencil you in for next season?’ she teased, taking a sip from her red solo cup to hide her grin.

That’s the moment I knew I was a goner. If I didn’t know it before, I knew it then. Cammy Wrenley is it for me.

No second choice—no runner up—no contingency plan. Only her.

“Trying something new,” I say with a shrug, wanting to address the ‘apartment knocking on my door’ as being Angelica. But I know she won’t receive me asking for another chance to prove it right now. Our boss’s office isn’t the best place to have this out anyway. And I shouldn’t enjoy this back and forth with her, but fuck, I’m just glad she’s speaking to me at least. “The team wants me close to the arena for physical therapy and my hotel room doesn’t have a coffee maker,’ I counter.

I don’t drink coffee—I hate the stuff.

An energy drink and a candy bar between game periods is more my style.

Her brow arches, unimpressed. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘You don’t sound convinced,’ I shoot back, leaning in just enough to see if her hazel eyes are green or honey brown. An indicator of how pissed off she is at me right now.

Something I picked up on over the years in short moments of close proximity.

To her credit, she doesn’t lean back away from me. She stands her ground. Which earns me a better view.

‘I don’t have to be.’ Her tone is smooth, dismissive, an eyebrow cocked.

I should let it drop, but I can’t resist. “Tu ne sais pas à quel point tu m’as manqué,” I say, keeping my voice light.

Her eyes narrow further, suspicion flaring. “What did you just say?”

‘Nothing you’d care to hear,’ I reply, leaning back as if I hadn’t just bared a fraction of my soul.

Her glare could cut through diamond, but before she can retort, Penelope’s door swings open.

“JP,” Penelope says brightly. ‘Did you get your key from Cammy?’

‘Just about to,’ I say, reaching for the envelope.

Cammy, ever the professional, hands it over without another word, her focus already shifting back to her computer.

Penelope glances between us, and for a moment, I wonder if she notices the tension. But she just smiles. “Cammy, did you get the list from Autumn this morning? We’ll need everything ready by next week for Everett’s first big event as the new owner.”

‘Yes, I printed the list earlier, and I’m already making notes for Brynn and me to meet up and brainstorm,’ Cammy replies, her voice neutral.

I glance at the printed sheet on her desk, reading the list out loud.

“Kids with Cancer Foundation Auction – Item Collection List. What’s that?” I ask, glancing at Cammy and then Penelope.

‘We’re helping Briggs Conley’s charity to raise funds for family condos near the cancer center. The Hawkeyes have been heavily involved with the charity since Briggs started it years ago, and Cammy volunteered to head up the auction item collection,’ Penelope explains.

‘Sounds like a big project,’ I say casually.

‘Not your concern,’ Cammy says under her breath but loud enough for me to hear, her tone colder than the rink three floors below us.

Penelope nods. ‘It is. Everett Kauffman is expecting this to be the biggest fundraiser that the charity has ever seen, which means Cammy could use some help.”

My ears perk up. “What kind of help?”

Cammy shoots me a look that says if I volunteer, she’ll change her mind about that prison sentence and stab me with the pen after all.

“Just someone who could help facilitate between the locker room and our office. Someone who knows the players and can convince them to participate with more than just signed gear and cash donations. Not that we don’t appreciate those,” she adds quickly.

‘Like a liaison?’ I ask.

Penelope lights up. ‘Exactly!’

“I could pitch in if you need,” I offer.

It sounds easy enough, and it’s for a good cause.

Cammy shakes her head instantly, her eyes darting from me to Penelope. ‘That’s really not necessary—’

“Really? Are you sure? Having someone on the team would be a huge help for Cammy,” Penelope says, the sound of hope in her voice.

“Whoa, hold on…” Cammy jumps in, “The season starts soon, and he should be focused on the season opener… right?” she asks, looking between us. “Besides, Brynn and I have it covered, I promise.”

Penelope’s lips purse in disappointment but then nods in agreement.

“She’s right,” Penelope says, causing Cammy’s shoulders to relax a little. “You have a lot on your plate as it is. And the team needs you more than we do. I’m sure one of the assistant coaches would be willing to help out.”

A cell phone rings inside Penelope’s office, cutting through the tension. She offers a quick goodbye and disappears inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Cammy might be right about one thing: my focus should be on the ice. It’s been over a year since I’ve played at a professional level, not since the Stanley Cup—a moment that feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. But I know her suggestion wasn’t for my benefit. Cammy doesn’t want me in her orbit, let alone involved in the auction project.

I should be laser-focused on my comeback, proving to the Hawkeyes that signing me wasn’t a mistake. Solidifying my place within the Hawkeyes gives me two things:

One, proving to everyone—including myself—that I belong here.

Two, staying close to Cammy. If I can’t find a way to get her to trust me, while still keeping what happened that night in my Ferrari from coming out, at least I can be near her.

Her sharp gaze makes it clear she’d rather I stay in the past where I belong, my priorities feel… blurry.

‘You’re still here?’ she finally bites out, sitting back in her chair and typing up an email.

‘Just soaking in the warm welcome,’ I say, flashing her a grin.

Her eyes narrow, her jaw tightening but whatever snarky comeback she’d like to say, she’s biting it back.

I push off her desk, slipping the envelope into my back pocket. “For what it’s worth, Cammy…” My voice drops just enough to soften. “It’s good to see you again.”

Her expression flickers—confusion, maybe doubt—but she shuts it down just as quickly. “Save your charms for your female fans, Dumont. They’re the only ones buying it.”

A call comes in on her desk phone, perfectly timed to end the conversation.

I watch her turn away. Everything’s changed—my career, my priorities—but being in the same room with her still stirs something I can’t quite name, something I’m not sure I’ll ever find anywhere else… with anyone else.

The headlines are already writing my eulogy—“Dumont’s Last Stand.” Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is my last chance to prove I’m still the player I used to be. Or maybe I’m chasing something I’ll never have again.

I force my feet to move, pushing through the door and out into the hallway. My knee aches with every step. I need to get moved into the new apartment and get ice on it. It’s a brutal reminder of how far I’ve fallen and how much further I have to go. Rehab, practice, the media circus waiting to devour me—it’s all waiting outside this office, and it’s all on me to survive it.

Cammy doesn’t look back, her voice steady and calm as if I’m not even here. It’s like I don’t belong in this office—or her life. Maybe I never did. But as I leave, the ache in my chest tells me one thing hasn’t changed: she’s still the only thing worth fighting for.