Page 1 of Penalty for Boarding

CALVIN

The final buzzer sounds and the arena erupts—as does the pain in my ankle. All around me are cheers and high-fives, but I can’t help grimacing as I hobble off the ice, attempting to play it cool despite the dull throb reminding me I’m no longer twenty-one. The Sugar City Nighthawks just secured a narrow victory against our rivals, The Granite City Fury, and the adrenaline rush is almost enough to drown out the ache. Almost.

“Hey, old man! You need a crutch?” a familiar voice calls out, and I turn just in time to see my teammate, Declan, zipping up alongside me with that infuriatingly cheerful grin of his. He slings an arm around my shoulders. “You look like you’ve gone ten rounds with a bear. Or, you know, just finished a hockey game.”

I let out a slight laugh. “I think I’ve gotten too used to sittin’ on the bench,” I admit, trying to hide the wince that follows my every step. Because of a career filled with off and on injuries that seem to never fully heal, I’ve been relegated to the backup guy who sits in the neutral zone, doing little more than cheering my teammates on most games. I rarely get a full game on the ice theway I did today, and it’s showing. “Guess I've forgotten what it feels like to actually use my legs.”

Declan raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me the player who just single-handedly crushed the Fury’s star forward is secretly a fragile little flower?” He pouts dramatically, placing his free hand over his heart. “What would the fans think if they knew their beloved Calvin Barrett couldn’t even walk off the ice like a man?”

“Probably what I think to myself every morning when I get out of bed,” I mutter. “That I’m too damn old for this shit.”

“You’re right. You’re super ancient. You should probably quit.”

“At the end of this season, I probably should,” I respond. “I’m no good to the team if a single game makes me hobble around like this.”

He gives me a look that says he thinks I’m talking madness, then just laughs it off. “Yeah, right. You’ll never leave this game, Calvin. It’s got its hooks in you like a bad relationship. You might think you can walk away, but that wild, crazy-girl sex will always drag you back in.” He nudges me playfully, clearly not understanding how serious I am about this.

As we enter the locker room, the other players are whooping and hollering, reliving the game's highlights and basking in the glory of our hard-fought win. Declan helps me over to my locker and I let out a bit of a grunt as I turn to sit down.

“There you go, grandpa,” he teases, as I ease myself onto the bench. “You need an ice pack or you just want a walking frame?”

I scowl, but I also can’t help the twitch of amusement tugging at my lips. “Ice would be great.”

He gives me a wink and heads off to let the trainers know I’m in dire need while I gingerly remove my skates, hissing as the pressure on my ankle is released. The joint is swollen andtender, a familiar sight after so many years of pushing my body to its limits.

I stare at my ankle, wishing it didn’t remind me so much of the looming decision I’ve been avoiding for weeks. Retirement is a dirty word hovering in the back of my mind, and every ache sends a fresh wave of doubt over my abilities crashing through my bravado.

Declan returns, ice pack in hand and a smirk on his face. “Voilà! The magic cure for all your ‘old man’ problems.” He plops the ice pack on the bench beside me and I ease it over my swollen ankle. I let out a sigh of relief as the coolness soothes the heat of the swelling.

“Thanks, man.”

“Maybe you wanna do an ice bath as well to really treat yourself, you know? Give those tired old bones some proper love and care.”

“An ice bath?” I scoff, shaking my head. “That sounds like self-inflicted torture. I'd rather face a hundred pucks flying at my face than willingly submerge myself in icy water.”

Declan chuckles, leaning against the lockers with his casual confidence. “You know, they say pain is temporary, but the glory lasts forever. Just think of it as… character building!”

“Does this face scream lack of character to you?” I ask, pointing at my grizzled features and raising an eyebrow. “I’d say I’ve got enough character to fill an entire library.”

“OK. OK.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll lay off you over the ice bath. But I won’t hear of you skipping the team celebrations. We’re all meeting at some bar after the game to unwind—I’ll text you the details. A few cold ones, a bevy of beautiful women and some terrible karaoke will fix you right up.”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me again. “I'll think about it. No promises, though. I might just head back to the hotel, order room service, and keep this thing on ice.”

“Jeez. Youareold,” Declan teases, grabbing his gear. “But, seriously, if you change your mind, you’ll know where to find us. And hey, if the ice and rest don't work, there's always the power of a good whiskey to numb the pain!” He winks before heading off.

I chuckle, appreciating Declan's good-natured ribbing. As the locker room starts to clear out, I take my time getting dressed, not wanting to put too much pressure on my ankle. The guys filter out in small groups, the sounds of their laughter and camaraderie fading as they head off to continue the celebrations elsewhere.

Soon, I find myself alone in the locker room, the sudden quiet a stark contrast to the noise from earlier. I lean back against my locker, closing my eyes for a moment and letting the events of the game replay in my mind. I did great out there. And for a little while, I truly felt like myself. The thrill of the win, the rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction of knowing I gave it my all on the ice—it's moments like these that make all the pain and sacrifices worthwhile. But at thirty-seven with a body that aches like I’m nearing ninety, I know these moments can’t last.

By the time I'm ready to leave, the stadium is almost empty. I have to admit that I enjoy the solitude, limping along, lost in my thoughts as echoes of the game seem to linger in the air. It’s a moment of reflection, one that’s filled with nostalgia and the weight of my choices. I’m staring down the reality of what’s next. It’s not just a decision about hockey anymore, it’s about who I want to be when the lights fade and the cheers die down. Just as I’m about to exit the player's area, I hear the unmistakable tap of heels against the concrete floor.

“I hope your team doctor looked at that.” The voice is smooth, confident, and undeniably feminine. I turn, and the moment my eyes land on her, my world shifts. It's her—Olivia Angelo, team doctor and head of sports medicine for the Fury. I've seen her before, briefly. But up close, she's a revelation.

Her dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, revealing the elegant lines of her neck and jawline. She looks young for a head physician—probably early thirties—but there's no denying the confidence and authority she carries. Her eyes, a striking shade of blue, seem to pierce right through me, straight to my soul. She's dressed professionally, but there's no hiding the curves beneath her tailored blazer and skirt.

In that instant, everything changes. My future, which had seemed so uncertain just moments before, suddenly snaps into focus. I see it all laid out before me—a life with this woman by my side. Marriage, kids, growing old together. It's like a bolt of lightning has illuminated the path I'm meant to take, and it all leads to her.

I rock back slightly, overwhelmed by the intensity of my feelings. It's not just attraction, though there's plenty of that. It's a deep, primal need to claim her as my own, to make her the center of my universe. This woman is mine. Even if she doesn't know it yet.

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