Page 83 of Breakaway

It’s a good thing it’s January, because all I want to do is wear Cooper’s hockey sweater. Lately, whenever I’m wearing it at the Purple Kettle or one of the other communal spaces on campus, a girl who must have the hots for Cooper gives me a dirty look. The best times are when we’re together and he kisses me; I can’t deny I get satisfaction out of setting the record straight. He might’ve been one of the biggest players on campus, but now he’s mine.

“It’s my boyfriend’s.” My heart skips a beat at my own words. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of calling Cooper that. “He’s on the team.”

“I should have recognized the last name,” she says. “You’re Coach Ryder’s daughter.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Yep.”

“My husband loves hockey. He plays in a beer league in Pine Ridge.” She laughs a little, leaning over the desk. “He’s terrible, but I go to see him anyway. Good luck with everything, hon. Let me know if you need help.”

On the way out of the building, freezing air smacks me in the face, but I don’t care. I fold the piece of paper, carefully tuck it in my bag, and text Dad that I’m all squared away. Admitting to him I failed two of my classes—despite trying my best, which is the especially depressing part—was awful, but he ended up being supportive. Maybe he’s just relieved that I’m trying hard not to keep anything important from him, but he’s even been excited, if bemused, about the romance novel I’m kind-of-sort-of writing. Aside from him, Cooper and Mia are the only ones who know, and I intend to keep it that way until it’s finished.

I send Cooper a text as well. He’s in a nonfiction seminar all afternoon, but judging by his recap of the first meeting last week, it’s fall-asleep-on-the-desk boring, so I’m sure he’s checking his phone from time to time. I’m right; before I make it to the building for American Literature I, he sends back a row of exclamation marks.

Cooper

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m really excited

I mean, I have no idea what to do with an English degree

But right now I don’t care

I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to be a kick-ass author

I chose English as my major because I like to read and it sounded pretty impractical to me, which was perfect, since my dad wouldn’t budge on the whole college thing

But it’s really not. It helps you learn how to think, and how to communicate, and how to appreciate art

It helps build empathy

Even for the loser sitting next to you in class eating the most disgusting sandwich ever

Help me, Red

It might be entirely onions

You know, that was beautiful up until it wasn’t

I have to go to American Lit I

You’re taking it with Stanwick, right?

Yeah

Sweet, enjoy

I have my period so fingers crossed I don’t have a cramp attack

***

I curl into the smallest ball I can manage and let out a moan.

My period did me the favor of not being a bitch while I was in class—and it was a super interesting class, all about colonial period literature—but now, it feels like someone is stapling me with a nail gun from inside my uterus. Cooper will be here any moment, and I’m in an ugly old pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt that says “Holy Salchow” on it—a Christmas present from Mia—and fuzzy socks. A distant part of me thinks I should at least brush my hair before he gets here, but that would require moving, and nothing sounds worse.

“You okay in there?” Mia calls.

“I think I’m dying.”

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