Page 9 of Breakaway

“Yeah, well, Brandon’s not a leader. Coach will see that.”

Evan settles back into position. “He’s a senior.”

I look across the room, where Brandon and a couple of other seniors on the team stand around talking. Brandon’s a good hockey player, but he’s not great. There’s a reason he didn’t declare for the draft, and why his post-graduate plans include working at his father’s investment firm instead of continuing to pursue hockey. Making it a profession isn’t for everyone, but it’s all I want. All I’ve dreamt about since I was a little kid is playing for the NHL. Being part of a rare brotherhood, no matter what team I’m on. I want to feel the rush of the game for as long as my body will let me. He shouldn’t be captain. I should. I’m talented, the guys listen to me, and I work my ass off to get better each game.

I force myself to pay attention to Evan instead, in case he slips, but my mind is going in a million different directions. It’s ironic, because losing my cool on the ice led to this mess in the first place, but I wish I had the game to sharpen my focus and release some of the pressure I can’t seem to dislodge from my chest. The workout hasn’t helped; maybe I should go for a run. What I’d really like to do is find a hookup. Nothing gets me out of my head faster than a pretty girl wrapping her hand—or even better, her lips—around my dick.

“Yeah, well, I worked out something with Coach,” I say. “I’m doing some volunteer work for him, to help prove I’m ready to be captain.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.” I don’t bother explaining that it’s basically glorified babysitting.

When Evan wraps up, I check my phone. There’s a missed video call from my father, so I call him back, slipping out of the gym to the hallway.

When he picks up the call, his face is as red as mine must be. He swipes his forearm across his face, pushing back the dark, silver-threaded hair sticking to his forehead. Even through my phone screen, I can see the coloring of his eyes. A clear blue, the same shade as mine and my siblings’, minus Sebastian’s.

I’m not looking forward to seeing them cloud with disappointment, but whatever. I’m used to it. If he’s calling, it’s because he knows what happened yesterday.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Where are you?”

“At James’s. Bex needed help with something in her studio, and he’s already in London for the game against the Saints. Glad that when I played, we didn’t have games on other continents.”

“You drove all the way to Philly?”

“Hey, Coop!” I hear Bex call in the background.

“Your mother came too, but you just missed her. She ran out to get breakfast. You okay, son?”

I resist the urge to shake my head. Last spring, Dad didn’t even want James and Bex to be together. Now, apparently, he loves her enough to help her set up her photography studio? Of course. Even when James messes up, Dad can never stay mad for long. James lost his championship game for Bex, and now he and Mom are already calling her their daughter-in-law, even though they’re just engaged and aren’t planning the wedding yet.

“Fine.” I clear my throat, forcing back the wave of emotion rushing through me. “I, um, had an exhibition game yesterday.”

Dad sits down in what looks like an armchair, heaving a sigh. “Did you get suspended from the next game?”

I was right; he knows about it. I’m not sure how, but he always knows about my fuckups before I have a chance to tell him myself.

“He deserved it, sir. I was defending a teammate.”

He just raises an eyebrow, leaving me to either deal with the awkward silence or babble on about the details. I choose to endure the silence, waiting for him to break first. He doesn’t agree with the NCAA’s no-fighting rule, but that doesn’t mean he’s not pissed that I fucked up in the same way twice now. To Richard Callahan, mistakes are a one-time thing, and making the same one twice is stupidity.

“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.

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