Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(20)

“It was fine. You know I enjoy being on the ice.” I’m not about to get into the whole Penny thing with my little sister, so I start up the stairs. “I’ll get out of your hair. Enjoy your movie night.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Coop. I’m in college just like you. Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.” I run my hand through my hair. Hair that less than an hour ago, Penny held onto tightly as she rode my face. I can’t stop thinking about her Halloween-themed manicure and stacks of thin rings. It was clear by the way she reacted, how I had to walk her through jerking me off, that she’s not very experienced, so why the hell did she decide to have a hookup in a closet in the first place? I know I’m good looking, but even my ego isn’t big enough to think I thrust her into some sort of heat, like a cat. “I’ll see you later.”

I’ve only been in my bedroom for two seconds, feeling shitty about leaving Izzy hanging, when Sebastian comes in.

“Hey,” he says. “Looks like Izzy is having a friend over, so I’m heading to the batting cages. Come along?”

I look at my bed. The plan had been to order in and continue my Star Wars rewatch, but while I can’t confide in Izzy, Sebastian is a good bet. “Sure. I just had the weirdest experience.”

“Weird how?” he asks as I grab my jacket and throw it back on.

“I hooked up with someone.”

“Finally,” he says with a grin.

“Yeah, well, she’s Ryder’s daughter. I didn’t realize until after.”

He stumbles on the last step of the stairs. “Dude.”

“I know, I know,” I say with a groan. “I didn’t recognize her.”

As we make the short drive over to the athletic facilities, I fill Sebastian in on what happened. He’s a good person to vent to because he just lets you talk without interrupting. The moment he parks the car, though, he turns and looks at me.

“You need to forget her.”

“I know.”

“It’s her business what she does with her body, but you don’t want her father to get involved. He’s already watching you like a fucking hawk.”

I scowl as I open the door. “Got it.”

Seb grabs his bag from the back and slings it over his shoulder. “What? You know I’m right. I’m glad you finally broke the dry spell—”

“—The fucking curse,” I interrupt.

“—Whatever. I just mean—”

“—Aren’t baseball players supposed to be the most superstitious, too?”

He rolls his eyes. “Just keep your eyes on the prize. Being captain is a big deal. It would be dumb to lose it over something like this.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Dad.” I push the door to the building open and lead the way down the hallway. This isn’t Markley, but I can still find my way around easily; I’ve been here with Seb often enough. He ruffles my hair in retaliation for the jab, which leads to me kicking him in the shin; we play-wrestle for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Was it good?” he asks when we finally keep walking.

“Really fucking good.” I groan at the thought of all that long, orange-red hair. Not to mention the freckles. Penny even has freckles on her legs, which turned me on an unfair amount. Pretty soon, I’m going to need to put a gag order on myself: no thinking about Penelope Ryder. “Remember that lady at Tiffany’s? When we helped James pick out Bex’s engagement ring?”

“She was hot.”

“They could be cousins or something. But Penny is even hotter,” I say as I help Seb get set up with a bucket of balls in his favorite cage, the one at the end with the machine that hardly ever glitches. I sit down on the bench, watching as he gets out his gear. I’ve never gotten used to the feel of a baseball bat in my hands, even though my general athleticism extends to most sports. I know how to throw a football in a tight spiral—thanks, Dad—and I can muscle out a line drive here and there. I’m even good at volleyball, thanks to years spent helping Izzy perfect her serve.

Seb raises his eyebrows as he puts on his batting gloves. “You do have a weakness for redheads.”

“She has the freckles and everything.”

“Whatever, Gilbert Blythe.”

I chuck a baseball at his head. He ducks, snorting with laughter; the ball hits the other side of the cage with a rattle. He steps into the box, bat set against his shoulder. “Just saying.”

I roll my eyes. The tragedy here isn’t that he just compared me to that little snot-nosed kid pining after Anne in Anne of Green Gables, it’s that he unwittingly reminded me of the mountain of reading I’m still avoiding. “Ready?”

He adjusts his helmet. “Yep.”

I press the button, and the first ball comes out. He swings, connecting with a satisfying crack. I watch as he hits a few in a row, adjusting his feet from time to time. It’s the equivalent of a shooting drill, something to run over and over until the motion is instinctual. I’m not a baseball expert, but I know as well as anyone that Sebastian has always been a beast with a bat in his hands. His dad was like that too, in his prime, and I know Seb has heard the comparisons on more than one occasion.