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

The roar of the crowd fills the arena as I stand just outside the tunnel, gripping my hockey stick. My heart pounds, but not from nerves. This isn’t like last year when everything felt make-or-break. This time, it’s just fun—well, mostly.

I take a deep breath and glance toward my dad. Seven stands beside me, arms crossed, watching the ice with his usual intensity. When he looks down at me, though, his expression softens.

“You ready, kid?” he asks, his voice rough with emotion.

I nod, adjusting my gloves. “Always.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, then sits down beside me on the bench, the weight of his presence grounding me. “I was thinking about the first time I taught you to skate,” he says, shaking his head with a small smile. “You were stubborn as hell.”

I grin. “Wonder where I got that from?”

“Must’ve been your mother,” he quips, but his smile fades into something softer. “Cammy… I want you to know that no matter what happens out there tonight, I’m proud of you. Not just for this—” he gestures toward the ice, where the slapshot challenge is about to take place, “but for everything. For standing your ground, for following your heart, for knowing what you want and fighting for it.”

Emotion tightens my throat, and I blink rapidly to keep it at bay. “You really mean that?”

Seven nods. “I do. And I know I gave JP a hard time, but… he’s proven himself. Not just as a player, but as a man. The way he looks at you, the way he takes care of you—I see it now. And I see the way you take care of him, too.”

I reach for his hand, squeezing it. “Thanks, Dad.”

His lips twitch. “Now don’t let him win out there.”

A laugh bursts from my chest as I stand, giving my skates one last adjustment. “Oh, I don’t plan on it.”

As I skate toward center ice, my eyes immediately locking onto JP. Everything else fades away. He stands tall in full goalie gear, tapping his stick against the ice, that familiar cocky smirk hidden behind his mask. His eyes, though, tell me everything—they’re full of warmth, pride, and just a little bit of mischief.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Cammy Wrenley, our defending champion! Can she score again this year?’

The crowd cheers as I take my spot at center ice. This year’s slapshot challenge has drawn even more attention than last year’s—thanks to the millions raised. Autumn wasn’t on maternity leave this year, and she and Juliet outdid themselves, transforming the event into a spectacle with a light show, live music, and a packed arena filled with die-hard hockey fans and supporters of the cause.

Of course, JP and I helped with the live auction items again.

JP stands in the crease, leaning on his stick, casual and cocky, waiting for me like he always does.

The last year flashes through my mind—the off-season in Cancun with my dad, Brynn, and Milo, where JP fit into our family like he was always meant to be there. Lazy beach mornings, JP hoisting my little brother onto his shoulders and letting him “play hockey” with a stick twice his size. Nights filled with laughter, with whispered promises, with learning each other in ways that go beyond words.

We’d come back to Seattle as more than just a couple. We were a team. And when we decided to upgrade to a bigger two-bedroom apartment in The Commons, it wasn’t just about space—it was about building something permanent together. A life, a home, a future.

JP taps his stick against the ice, drawing me back to the present. The challenge. The bet we made before the season started—one shot, just like last time. But this time, there’s nothing on the line except our pride and maybe, just maybe, the kind of competitive tension that would lead to some truly great sex later tonight.

I roll my shoulders back, watching the way his stance shifts, the way his body readies for me. He’s studying me, anticipating me, the way he always does.

‘You ready for this, Dumont?’ I call, raising a brow.

“Don’t go easy on me, Wrenley,” his voice echoing through the mic on the arena speakers, teasing, full of challenge.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

He chuckles, low and knowing. “Good. Because we both know you like it when I make you work for it.”

Heat rushes through me, but I smirk, keeping my expression playful. “Talk all you want, Dumont. You still have to stop me.”

‘I will, and then I’m changing that last name,’ he teases.

He told me he wants the name on my game day jersey to match his all of last season. It’s a comment I’ve become accustomed to, but it never ceases to pull butterflies from my belly.

I line up the puck, taking a deep breath, letting every memory of every shot I’ve ever taken against him flood my mind. The ones he’s blocked. The ones I’ve scored. The ones that led to playful fights that turned into something much, much hotter behind closed doors.

The first puck skates down the ice with a sharp crack of my stick. He blocks it effortlessly, flashing the crowd with a dramatic glove save. The arena oohs and aahs, eating up his theatrics.

The second puck? Same result. This time, he lets it bounce off his chest protector, skating out just a little to smack it back toward me with his stick.

He’s toying with me. And I love it.

By the time I line up for my third and final shot, the crowd holds its breath. I wind up, putting every ounce of force and precision I have into the shot. The puck slices through the air, hurtling straight for the top corner of the net.

JP dives—but he’s too slow.

The puck hits the back of the net with a satisfying clang, and the stadium erupts. Confetti cannons go off, showering the ice in blue and silver. I throw my arms up in victory, laughing as the players walk out onto the ice from the tunnel, each holding a single red rose.

Twenty-two roses. Twenty-two players. By the time JP skates up to me, my arms are overflowing with long stems.

He stops in front of me holding the puck I scored on him in his glove. He pulls his goalie helmet off and drops it to the ice. The air between us shifts, the playful teasing giving way to something deeper.

When he speaks, his voice carries even through the deafening noise. “I have a question to ask you.”

At that moment, I already knew what he’s going to ask. My throat clogs—emotions quickly bubbling to the surface with his surprise.

He drops to one knee right there on the ice, in front of a stadium full of friends, family, donors, and fans, flipping the puck over to reveal the words written in a silver Sharpie.

Marry Me?

My breath catches, and tears prick my eyes—I clutch the roses with one arm as my free hand reaches up to cover my mouth. I had no idea—no inkling—but the signs were there… I should have seen them. The bigger apartment he pushed for, the wedding venue in Cancun that he claimed he accidentally stumbled upon one day, the private dinner he and my dad went to weeks ago that he said I wasn’t invited to—JP was asking my dad for his blessing. He had to have been. It all makes sense now.

The world blurs, narrowing down to just him, kneeling before me with that lopsided grin that made me fall in love with him in the first place. With that first puck he tossed me years ago. I feel like I barely know those two people anymore. JP and I have changed—grown—and we did it together.

“Yes,” I whisper, then louder, “Yes!” I yell as I drop all of the roses to the ground and leap into his arms, laying a kiss on his lips.

The crowd roars, but it all fades away as JP slips the ring onto my finger. He stands, pulling me into his arms, and kisses me like we’re the only two people in the world.

The cheers swell again, and when we pull apart, I see Seven skating out onto the ice, a jersey in his hands. He stops in front of JP, holding it out with a small, rare smile. They share a hand shake as if this was all planned, but of course it was.

“Here,” he says, his voice gruff. “This is for you.”

JP takes the jersey and unfolds it. The back reads Mrs. Dumont in bold letters, with the number one printed beneath.

Seven leans down and presses a quick kiss to my head. “Congrats, kiddo,” he says softly before turning and skating off.noveldrama

JP holds up the jersey, his grin widening as he drapes it over my shoulders.

“You’re my number one, Cammy,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Nothing will ever change that.”

I laugh through my tears, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him again as the crowd cheers.

In this moment, with JP by my side and our future stretched out before us, I know I’ve finally found my forever.

Later tonight, in our apartment, we’ll have our own version of a rematch. And something tells me, win or lose, we’ll both come out on top.