Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(10)

“That’s a shame,” he says eventually. He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned. Like even this conversation is a burden he’s not interested in continuing. “The team will suffer without you on the ice.”

“Coach managed to keep me eligible for the season opener, actually.” I drag my teeth over my lower lip. “But he’s making me do this volunteer thing. He thinks it’s going to help me focus.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’ve always admired Coach Ryder.”

I drop my gaze to the floor, rubbing the toe of my sneaker over a scuff mark. “He says if I can clean up my act and get back to playing well… he might make me captain.” I lift my head at the last part; I can’t help it.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. Congratulations? Pride? An “atta boy,” like I’m a freakin’ golden retriever?

Instead, I get a frown. “Interesting.” He sighs again. “I can’t say I’m surprised this happened again, Cooper. It’s not the first time you’ve let your temper get the best of you. I’ve always wondered if hockey brings out the worst of your personality.”

“Says the man who played a tackle sport professionally.” My voice sharpens like an ice pick as frustration floods through me. “It’s not hockey. I’m not—”

“Please,” he interrupts, his voice just as pointed.

I should hang up; I know I should—but I can’t make myself do it. I’m not expecting an apology from him, but maybe he feels a little bad, and I’ll be able to see it in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eventually. “For the volunteering?”

“Teaching local kids to skate.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. How old are they?”

“Seven? Eight? I don’t even know.”

“You were that age once, learning how to handle yourself on the ice.”

I wait for him to go on, but of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t like to skirt too close to the topic of Uncle Blake, even casually. Uncle Blake might be my father’s younger brother and the one who introduced me to hockey, but because he’s been in and out of our lives for years, struggling with addiction, Dad keeps him at arm’s length. It’s shitty, but fighting with him about it leads nowhere. “I guess.”

“This seems like a good thing. Maybe it’ll help you learn some patience.”

“I’m sure that’s his plan.”

He surprises me by laughing. “You don’t need to sound so put out about it. He’s just being a good coach.”

“I guess.”

“You know how you got here, and you need to deal with it.”

I barely resist the urge to tell him that if he was talking to James, he’d at least try to be helpful. He got him to McKee after everything that went down at LSU, after all. “I know that.”

“Let me know how it goes. We’re still planning on coming up for the UMass game.”

“The one we’re hosting, I hope.”

“Of course.” I hear a door open and close. My mom, probably, back with breakfast. “I’ve got to run, but keep your nose clean, son.”

He hangs up before I can manage a goodbye.

I didn’t really expect anything else from that conversation, but it still makes my heart sink in my chest like I dropped it in quicksand. I shove my phone into my pocket, dragging my hand over my face. It’s not that I wanted him to get me out of the volunteering or expected him to celebrate me losing my temper, but having his support in something would be nice.

Maybe by the time we have the UMass game, he’ll see the ‘C’ on my jersey. That would be proof of my commitment to the sport that he can’t ignore. Proof that even if he wishes I chose to carry on the family legacy like James, instead of following in the footsteps of the brother he gave up on long ago, I’m building the future I want for myself.





6





PENNY





“And remember that your exam will be next Wednesday,” my chemistry professor says as she erases the whiteboard. “I’m hoping to see an improvement from the last exam for many of you.”

I shove my books into my tote bag and sling it over my shoulder, hiding the face I make behind my scarf. Words cannot express how little I care about this class. It barely makes sense, even though I go to all the extra tutoring offered by the TA, and the exams are brutal. I’d rather pull my own fingernails out than sit through another 100-question exam, knowing that the result will be the same no matter how hard I study. Dad got on me about microbiology earlier, but I’m doing even worse in chemistry.

Maybe if I fail everything this semester, it will be enough of a signal to him that I can’t do this. I’ve tried because it’s what he wants for me—even if he’s holding onto a half-formed dream I had when I was sixteen, trying to make sense of the demise of my figure skating career—but if I can’t make it through undergraduate science classes, how in the world will I be able to do this for work?

I walk out of the building, tugging my scarf around my neck tightly. Leaves crunch underneath my ankle boots as I walk back to the center of campus. There are so many hills on campus—a sick design flaw, if you ask me—that my knee is aching by the time I reach the student center. I reach down, rubbing it through my jeans, feeling the surgery-smooth scar. Like every figure skater, I had my fair share of injuries, but my last one, my knee, never quite healed as neatly as the doctors hoped. When it’s cold like this, the air seeping through my clothes, it makes my body even stiffer.