Breakaway (Beyond the Play #2)

by Grace Reilly

We’re used to it; even though we’re not actually twins, our parents act like we are. We’ve been attached at the hip ever since Seb’s parents—his dad was my dad’s best friend growing up—passed in a car accident. Seb came into our family when we were both eleven. James and I defended him in a fight his first week at his new school, and the rest was history.

“Nice tattoo,” the girl says, gesturing to the piece on my upper arm. “Is that Andúril?” “Lord of the Rings fan?”

“I swear, Izzy cursed me last spring. My hookup game hasn’t been the same since Bex’s gallery show.” Or my hockey game. Maybe my mistakes on the ice are throwing me off-balance when it comes to my sex life. Or maybe my nonexistent sex life has led to the sloppy play. Whatever it is, I need to figure it out, especially since I have the chance to become team captain.

There are ways to make a message clear in hockey that don’t involve fists, but I just couldn’t remember any of them. Maybe I didn’t want to. Letting my temper boil over into violence felt like a great idea at the time.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

Uncle Blake might be my father’s younger brother and the one who introduced me to hockey, but because he’s been in and out of our lives for years, struggling with addiction, Dad keeps him at arm’s length.

“You know how you got here, and you need to deal with it.” I barely resist the urge to tell him that if he was talking to James, he’d at least try to be helpful. He got him to McKee after everything that went down at LSU, after all. “I know that.”

Maybe by the time we have the UMass game, he’ll see the “C” on my jersey. That would be proof of my commitment to the sport that he can’t ignore. Proof that even if he wishes I chose to carry on the family legacy like James, instead of following in the footsteps of the brother he gave up on long ago, I’m building the future I want for myself.

There are so many hills on campus—a sick design flaw, if you ask me—that my knee is aching by the time I reach the student center. I reach down, rubbing it through my jeans, feeling the surgery-smooth scar. Like every figure skater, I had my fair share of injuries, but my last one, my knee, never quite healed as neatly as the doctors hoped. When it’s cold like this, the air seeping through my clothes, it makes my body even stiffer.

I swear, you can’t say the guy’s name without at least three girls looking up, in case just speaking it aloud is some sort of spell to summon him. I get it, he’s handsome, but a lot of hockey players are. A lot of them are jerks, too, but that doesn’t stop the interest from girls who’d like to see if someone like Cooper can handle them as well as he can a hockey stick. “Cooper Callahan.”

She just smiles. “The universe is giving you a gift. It’s telling you to seize the dick, if you will.” I choke on my next sip of chai. “No way.”

“This is perfect! He doesn’t do relationships, and you need someone guaranteed to give you a good time. His reputation in that regard is delicious.”

Anything to avoid thinking too hard about Cooper Callahan’s good-time reputation. And seizing his, er, dick. “It’s true,” the girl who looked at us before says. “Sorry to butt in, but my friend slept with him last year and he made her come three times. She says it was life changing.”

I already fell for one self-important hockey player, and it ruined my life. There’s no way in hell I’m doing that twice. “Dad basically forbade me from getting involved with another hockey player. I can’t go trawling his roster for potential options.”

“He said not to date another hotshot hockey player,” Mia says, rolling her eyes. “Which, I agree, jocks are the worst. But this would be a hookup, which is totally different.”

Cooper Callahan is casual all the way. I doubt he’s ever used the word “girlfriend” in his life, so there’s no risk of messy feelings. And I’d rather wither away than give Dad even a whiff of what I’m planning to do with The List, so it’s not like he’d find out.

it’s exactly like every other skating rink, which means it feels like home. I might not want to be there—and trust me, the entire drive over I was mentally dragging my feet—but at least it’s comfortable. I’ll bet the benches are rickety and the Zamboni breaks down on occasion.

“There you are.” I look up at the sound of the voice—and find myself staring at a girl my age. Scratch that. A beautiful girl my age.

I must be pretty fucking hard up, because I can feel my face redden and blood going to another, more embarrassing place as well. She’s a redhead, her long, light orange hair tossed over one shoulder.

Freckles cover every inch of her face like a universe of tiny stars on her skin. Her eyes are blue like mine, but paler, like ice on a winter morning. She’s swimming in an oversized gray knit sweater, but ...

She has a pair of well cared-for white Riedells dangling from her hands. As we stare at each other, she licks her lo...

This is bad. Terrible. I’m about to be around kids. I can’t be thinking about how much I want to peel off her sweate...

She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s skinny, barely any curves to speak of, but that realization just makes me want to get my hands on her, see how big they look on her soft, fair skin. Do the freckles continue all over her body? God, I hope so.

She gives me a look, almost like she’s offended, which is weird, because I’ve never seen this girl in my life. I wouldn’t forget a girl with hair like fire and eyes like the sky in early spring.

Fucking hell. It’s no wonder I haven’t been getting laid recently. M’lady? If Sebastian heard that, he’d piss himself from laughing so hard.

Why didn’t Coach mention I’d be working with someone so fucking gorgeous? That sort of shit needs to come with a warning label. I put out all the cones, and not a moment too soon, because then about ten kids come charging onto the ice. Maybe this won’t be completely terrible. At least I get to check out Little Miss Red for the entire hour.

“Hi,” she says to the kids, hugging them one by one as they skate over to her on wobbly legs. I was around their age when I first got on the ice; after only knowing football fields, thanks to Dad, it was intoxicating. Uncle Blake helped give me a crash course in the basics, but pretty soon I was flying from end to end on my own.

For a second, it feels like maybe there’s something sparking in the air between us—a camaraderie born out of being the two adults in this situation, which is ironic considering we’re just a couple of college kids. But then she straightens, shaking her head slightly.

“We want to protect our head. We also don’t want to use our hands to break our fall because we could hurt our wrists. When you keep your knees bent, you can fall onto your side more easily.”

“Even hockey players fall sometimes, right?” “We do.” I skate to the middle of the rink. “You’re going to fall, and that’s okay. She’s right, I fall a lot still.”

I thought this would drag on, but I get into the groove quickly. I save one boy from crashing into the boards and give extra feedback to a girl who keeps buckling her knees. They’re like newborn colts trying to figure out how to stand on their own, but to their credit, most of them get right back up after they fall.

“Ryan what? What’s the back of your sweater going to say?” “McNamara.” I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s a good name. It’s going to look nice on you one day. But you need to learn to skate first, buddy.”

“Nice job. Let’s do it again.” When the lesson ends, Ryan hugs me, which definitely doesn’t suck. He asks if I’m coming to the next lesson, and because I doubt Coach will buy that I’m cured of what my dad apparently thinks are violent tendencies after one session—and fine, because I enjoyed myself—I nod and tell him I’ll see him next week.

When we’re alone on the ice, Red skates over to me, her cheeks flushed from the cool air and exertion. Her hair is messy, swept up around her like a ginger halo. She scrunches up her cute little nose. Something about her feels familiar, but I don’t know where I’d have seen her. Maybe she’s on McKee’s figure skating team? We have one, but I don’t know much about it.

Our paths could have crossed on campus half a dozen times, although if that’s the case, I have no idea why I wouldn’t have introduced myself. I scrub my hand over my face, letting a sco...

She grins, and fuck, it’s cute. I work to hold back a groan. During the lesson, I managed to ignore the zing that would race from my scalp to my toes whenever I felt her near me, but now my body is doing its hardest to remind me I haven’t gotten laid in way, way too long for a guy my age.

She looks up; she’s not the shortest girl in the world, but I still have several inches and nearly a hundred pounds on her. She must have a figure skating background; her poise on the ice has a presence of its own, and quality skates like that don’t come cheap.

We lock eyes, and she seems to make some sort of decision. And then she actually kisses me—on the cheek, I mean. Her lips are feather light against my beard. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper against my ear. She’s trembling, but I’ve got it worse. I’m frozen in place while my mind and body scramble to keep up with her. “Hook up with me.”

Cooper is staring. I force myself to keep meeting his gaze. I have enough self-respect for that. Just not enough to keep from propositioning one of my dad’s players because something about him makes my insides twist, apparently. As soon as he said he was hard-up, I felt a twinge of sympathy. Having an itch that you can’t scratch seriously sucks. I know that all too well.

Yet the moment I saw Cooper, the wheels began to turn. Throughout the lesson, I couldn’t stop looking at him. Every cut he made across the ice, every word of encouragement or bit of advice he gave one of the students, every time I realized he was looking at me—it drew out the ache I usually keep tamped down with success.

I knew what he looked like before today, of course, but up close and in person, he’s even more handsome, with deep blue eyes and thick, almost wild, dark hair. His beard is a touch too long, but I still have a weird urge to feel it under my palm.

He’s an athlete, so of course he’s built, but his broad shoulders matched with his trim waist—especially when he was in motion on the ice earlier—have t...

There’s a scar underneath his ear, a ragged half-moon, and even though I don’t know him, I want to ask him how he got it. When one kid made a joke as he said goodbye, he threw back his head and laughed, and it was lik...

Cooper Callahan is everything I’m not—confident, cocky, and unafraid of intimacy. Mia’s right. If there’s anyone to jumpstart The List with, it’s him. The fact he’s one of my father’s players—and a hockey player at all, ugh—is less than ideal, but...