Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(64)

“No,” I say. “I’ve been improving with every game I play, and Coach Ryder is a big part of that. I’m where I need to be right now, even though I’m excited about what comes next.”

“Congratulations again,” she says. “Thanks for your time.”

I thank her and wait until the camera stops rolling before crossing the hallway to my father. “Dad,” I say, wiping at my forehead with the sleeve of my sweater. I can’t contain my smile. “Did you hear that?”

He ends his call, a frown on his face. “What?”

“The interview.”

“Is there something I should have noticed?”

I bounce on my toes, nearly lurching forward for a hug but stopping myself at the last moment. I’m drenched in sweat; he won’t want me to ruin his clothes. “What about the change in uniform? Pretty cool, right?”

He looks me up and down. I straighten, years of being told to watch my posture kicking in, and smooth down the front of my sweater, just in case he hasn’t gotten a good look at the new addition.

“You didn’t want to tell us in advance?” he says, still studying me like I’m a complex route in a playbook.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It’s good that your coach saw sufficient improvements in your play and behavior.”

“I’ve been working really hard this season.”

“Which is what I expect from you,” he says. “I raised you and James to become captains.”

“Yes, sir.”

Why did I think we’d get through this conversation without him mentioning James? No matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, even in a different sport, James will do it first. And Dad will like it better because he did it in football.

“That sloppy turnover at the start of the third period could have been a disaster,” he continues.

He’s right, of course; that was the biggest mistake I made during the game, and I’m not surprised he caught it. I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. It’s a fair critique, even if it’s not what I want to hear right now. When we go over the tape of this game, Coach will say the same thing. The remedy to turnovers is not making them in the first place. “Right, sir. But aren’t you—isn’t it great? And I’ve scored four goals already this season.”

The phone in his hand buzzes. He glances down at it, and his mouth tightens. “I need to take this, son. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait, Dad—”

He claps me on the shoulder again as he passes. “Don’t make sloppy plays.”

I watch as he hurries down the hallway, his phone pressed to his ear. I don’t catch what he says, but judging by the look on his face, it’s not very pleasant.

I feel stupid, all of a sudden; I’m going home for Thanksgiving in less than a week, it’s not like I won’t see him there. We can talk more then. But even though I know that, part of me wishes I could’ve talked to him for just a little longer right now. To actually hear the words that I’m craving come out of his mouth. He tells James—and Izzy, and Seb—how proud he is all the time, so why don’t the words come for me? Whenever I try to connect with him, something gets lost in translation. If he looks at James and sees himself, then I’m Uncle Blake, and he’s just waiting to see when I’m going to fuck everything up.

I’m about to open the door to the locker room when I see that McKee hat with the pom-pom on top.

It’s Penny, looking like she just saw a ghost.





38





PENNY





Being the coach’s daughter comes with its own set of privileges—such as access to pretty much anywhere in Markley Center. When the guard posted in front of the player area sees me, he just nods and says, “Go right ahead, Miss Ryder.” Of course, he thinks I’m going to talk to my dad, but my real mission involves a certain newly-minted captain.

As I approach the locker room, I’m hit with a wave of Déjà vu. Things were never at this level when I was with Preston—a high school travel team, no matter how talented, has nothing on Division I hockey—but I can feel the memory pressing at the edges of my mind. The frigid air conditioner, the rush of humid air whenever the door opened. The wooden benches in the locker room, the raucous laughter of the team as the girlfriends snuck in. Preston spinning me around in his arms, still in pads and skates, whispering in my ear about the party at Jordan’s. His parents are in Salt Lake. He’s inviting everyone. We can watch the sunset and smoke, please, it’ll be out of my system by the next game, and you’re not back on the competition circuit for weeks.

I brace myself against the wall as my breath quickens. I shake my head and remind myself: I’m not in Tempe, about to sneak to a party in Alta Mira. I’m in Moorbridge, at Markley Center. I just watched the Royals play, not the Nighthawks. Cooper was on the ice, not Preston. Cooper is who I’m about to kiss.

I tuck myself into an alcove, balling my hands into the sleeves of my jacket, and take a couple of deep breaths.

“Red? You okay?”

I look up and meet Cooper’s gaze. His deep blue eyes are full of concern. I bite the inside of my cheek, focusing on the bead of sweat running down the side of his face, and manage what I hope is a semi-normal smile. “I wanted to see you,” I say. “Real quick.”