Breakaway (Beyond the Play #2)

by Grace Reilly

The semester has been underway for a month now, but I still don’t have my shit together, especially for the three seminars I’m taking. Shakespeare. The Feminist Gothic. Fucking Milton. I haven’t done my readings in a week.

I know Dad will never admit it, probably because Mom won’t let him, but I’m sure he still wishes that I fell in love with football like him and my older brother, James. Instead, I traded cleats for skates and never looked back.

The only consolation? I’ve had great preparation for the NHL so far at McKee, so hopefully I’ll be able to go straight into the league, rather than start at a farm team, as soon as I graduate.

When the season officially starts this Friday, it’ll really feel like I’ve moved on. Since the spring, I’ve stewed over the failure of last season and everything that came along with it, but I’m finally close to wiping the slate clean.

The pressure of performing well so the NHL will come calling when I graduate. The pressure of helping the team make it to the Frozen Four this season, rather than sabotaging the whole effort.

The pressure of taking care of my little sister, Izzy, a freshman at McKee this year, like my parents are expecting from me now that James has graduated and gone on to the NFL.

Usually, the ice is where I want to be. I’m focused there. Calm. But during practice for the last few weeks, and now during this game, and last spring when I punched Nikolai Abney-Volkov in the mouth and got us both ejected from the game, I’...

If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, there’s another reason, too. Something I haven’t wanted to name, because it sounds stupid, even in my head. It’s one thing to like sex, and anothe...

But I haven’t gotten laid in months. Months. The last time I saw a pair of tits, it was spring. Now it’s almost fucking October, and I’m striking out with every girl I try to chat up. Usually, my status as a star hockey player on campus leads to my...

I don’t know what’s wrong with me; why it feels like I have cooties or some grade school shit like that. I look the same, act the same, talk the same—and the charm that used to lead to me fielding m...

Sex wouldn’t solve anything, but getting off inside a girl instead of my fist would be a start, howe...

Evan freezes. For a heart-stopping moment I think he’s hurt, but then I realize that he’s working back tears. My whole body locks up, my heart pounding so hard I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. Evan’s not just my teammate, he’s one of my best friends. And his mother died of cancer over the summer. My fist connects with the UConn player’s jaw with a satisfying jolt.

Dad says my first name, Cooper, but here, I’m Callahan. I’m the name stitched on the back of my purple-and-white McKee sweater. It’s my family’s name, but at least on the ice, it’s only mine. Dad and James can have it on the football field, but I’ve never been comfortable there.

“Late, sloppy, and short-tempered. You promised me different.” I swallow. I deserve to hear what he’s saying, but it still stings. “I know, sir.”

Truthfully, I didn’t even think about whether the fight would lead to a suspension until this very moment. Another mistake. Another slip in the opposite direction; down the mountain rather than up to the summit.

The photographer captured the exact moment his team realized they won the Frozen Four—the excitement, the joy, the sheer fucking relief to have made it to the top of that mountain. I want that to be me, just in royal McKee purple instead of crimson, waving the cup up high. And that’s before I get to the NHL and I’m raising the Stanley Cup, of course.

“I want you to be captain,” he says. Of all the things I was expecting him to say right now, that wasn’t at the top of the list. I wasn’t sure it would even be on the list anymore.

“Of course, I can’t do that if you’re going to get yourself thrown out thanks to fighting penalties,” he says. “Or if you’re going to play like crap. You have the potential to be the leader of this team, Callahan. I want you to be. You have the hunger.”

“If we go anywhere this season, it’ll be thanks to you.” I swallow down the emotion threatening to show on my face. It’s one thing to know you’re talented and another to hear it put so plainly. Captain. I’ve been trying to make my case, of course, but I didn’t really think it would happen this year.

“If it’s going to be anyone, it’ll be you. But you need to earn it. Do you understand? No more fighting. Keep your head down and focus on your game.” I nod. “Got it.”

It’s not a direct comparison, considering how different football and hockey are, but two seasons as captain—hopefully of a Frozen Four finalist team—will help build my case for the NHL and the nice rookie deal I’m hoping to scoop up.

It takes me a moment, but then I picture it in my mind. Moorbridge Skating Center. It’s downtown, near the arcade. James and I went there last year with his girlfriend, Bex—now his fiancée—to teach her how to skate.

“Son, listen.” He leans back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze is sympathetic, but that does nothing to undercut the intensity in it. “Not to use the obvious metaphor, but the ice? It’s thin. Either you do this and get your head on straight, or the next time you lose your temper, however justified, you’ll leave me no choice but to bench you.”

I work the toy even deeper, my toes curling against the sheets as my knees fall open. I let out a little gasp as it hits the right angle. It might not be a warm cock, but it’s at least as thick, making it easier to coax along my fantasy.

Three times in a row now. I’ve worked hard for years to keep Preston—and any future Prestons—out of my life, but lately, he’s found a way into my fantasies. My happy place.

There are two things he’s never been able to touch, my fantasies and the stories I scribble into my notebooks, but after this? It’s safe to say that the former just broke.

Lately? I get as far as my fantasy guy thrusting inside me, and no matter what I imagine, whether it be the position, the setting, or the specific type of boning we’re doing, my orgasm dissolves like a rock hitting the center of a lake, never to be recovered.

The spicy romance novels haven’t helped. Neither have the hockey highlights. Not even revisiting the sexiest parts of my half-written novel has led anywhere. Something reminds me of that February night, of him, and a hint of panic poisons it all.

As I press my hand to my chest, trying to ease my racing heart, I swallow down that spoonful of poison, willing it to neutralize. I’ve worked with Dr. Faber for years on how to pull myself back from the edge before I spiral. It’s okay to be frustrated....

“Fucking Christ. You threw Igor at me? I’m going to murder you!” This stops my would-be anxiety attack in its tracks. I make myself into a tiny ball, torn between screaming again in frustration and laughing. If I laugh, though, Mia might slice me open with that razor. She names all my sex toys, and I forgot the big blue dildo’s name until now. Igor.

I haven’t seen Preston in years, and even if it means never setting foot in Arizona again, I never will. But this isn’t even about him. This is about me. I might be good with my fantasies and stories most of the time, but they can only get a girl so far.

While everyone around me has been having the college experiences of their dreams, I’ve been stuck in neutral, unable to make my desires my reality. When getting off used to be easy, I could pretend I didn’t care, but now?

Now I think I’m going to scream if I don’t orgasm. Fuck Preston Biller. Fuck the love I thought we shared. I draw my legs up, hugging them to my chest through the blanket. ...

She’s not wrong; technically speaking, there are potential hookups everywhere. We go to McKee University, which has thousands of undergraduate students alone, and it’s not like guys haven’t tried to hook up with me. Usually, it’s some gross flirting that involves asking if my carpet matches the drapes, since I’m a ginger, but still. College guys don’t need a lot of encouragement with hookups; throw a wink their way and they’ll chase you all evening.

It’s a list of everything I wish I could do with someone else in bed; everything I want—desperately—but haven’t had. Preston took away my biggest first and ruined it, so I wanted to reclaim whatever I could, to make it mine to control.

How could I trust a stranger? He might have been nice then, but who knows what he’d really be like, alone and in control of me. Now, I’m well into the first semester of sophomore year, and I still have done nothing with The List.

I look down at it now, running my finger over the page, full of items like oral sex, orgasm denial, and bondage. The last item on the list, vaginal sex, has always remained the same. If I do this, that’ll be the biggest hurdle. The biggest show of trust.

“But I know you do, Pen. You deserve to have sex. Or a relationship. Or both. But it won’t happen if you keep hiding in your room with Igor. Use The List.”

I glance back down at The List. The first item, Oral Sex (Receiving), stands out in my neat handwriting. I started it to give myself some sense of control. But what’s the use of control if I never do anything with it? What’s the use of desire if I don’t honor my own? One item at a time. One experience at a time. I can do this.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore.” Mia gives me her biggest, rarest smile as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “You’re so badass. Think of it as research for your book.”

I might’ve grown up on the ice, being a former figure skater with a hockey coach for a father, but I still prefer the warmth to the cold. When I’m skating, at least my blood is pumping. Standing at the edge of the quad, looking at the maples with leaves just beginning to turn, means that the cold is running straight through my jacket.

“Thanks, bug.” His nickname for me, which hasn’t changed since I was four, makes my smile widen. Maybe some people wouldn’t want to go to college at the same place their dad works, but I’m grateful to be able to see him like this whenever I want. It’s been the two of us ever since Mom passed, so I try not to take his presence for granted.

You don’t come to my dad with wishes—just with plans, with concrete steps. Telling him I want to change my major, and oh, maybe write smutty romance novels for a living, would lead nowhere.

The guys stay away because they know I’m their coach’s daughter, but I’ve heard enough about them to be able to picture each one in my mind. Like most of the male athletes on campus, they think their athletic prowess means every girl should count herself lucky to have even half a second of their attention.

Hopefully it’s not Callahan. I’m surprised the ice doesn’t crack from the weight of his ego every time he steps on it. “Someone from the team? Who?” He scratches at the back of his neck, shaking his head slightly. “Callahan.”

It also means he’s not supposed to fight. They don’t do that in college the way they do in the NHL, and he should know better. It’s laughable to think of such a rough guy trying to teach little kids how to ice skate.

“He needs to curb his frustrations,” Dad says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s letting himself get distracted. I thought last season was in the past, but now . . . Maybe if he spends some time with these kids, remembering why he fell in love with the game in the first place, he’ll refocus.”

“You know him, right? He’s an arrogant player, Dad.” He just raises an eyebrow. “He’s helping you, Pen. He’ll be at the rink tomorrow, so make him feel welcome.”

My heart twinges slightly. Just a teeny bit. Say what you want about hockey players—and believe me, I have plenty to say—but their whole lives revolve around the game. Cooper might have a lot of fun off the ice, if the stories are to be believed, but being benched would be an immense blow.

When I skated competitively for the last time, I felt my heart break, and even years later, it hasn’t completely healed.