Chapter 4: Breakaway: Chapter 4

I PICK up my drinks from the counter and thank the barista, Will, who nods at me before moving on to the next patron. I don’t know all of Mia’s coworkers, but he’s one of the few she talks about without distaste. Usually, the boyish vibe bothers her—she prefers a partner whose hand won’t shake when it goes up her shirt—but I think he reminds her of her many siblings and cousins.

I take a fortifying sip of my drink, a pumpkin chai, as I walk out of the student center and into the chilly air. 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.

“Penelope.”

I turn with a smile as my dad approaches. He pulls me into a hug, careful not to spill the drinks, then takes his black coffee. “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. The fact we even have a weekly coffee date is a miracle, considering the mess I made of things at sixteen and how distant we were before that. Our relationship isn’t the same as it was when I was younger, even years after Mom’s death and everything that happened with Preston, but he’s trying, so I’m trying.

I just wish this was happening at Arizona State instead of McKee.

“How are you?” he asks as we walk along the edge of the quad. The cold has never bothered him; he’s in a lightweight jacket with McKee’s logo over the chest, although his nose, broken when he played hockey and crooked as a result, is bright red. “Did you do well on that microbiology exam?”

“Um, okay?” I fiddle with the lid of my cup. What I’d like to say is that I don’t give a crap about becoming a physical therapist like he thinks I should, but I don’t, because that will just lead to a conversation that I’m not ready to have. 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. “I mean, I thought I did well. Mia helped me study.”

“And how’s Mia?”

I think of the Igor situation and hold back a wince. I need to make it up to her. “She’s good.”

“Good.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Hey, bug. I’m sending one of the guys to help you out at the rink.”

A couple of afternoons a week, I work at the skating rink in town, helping with the lessons. Since I can’t skate competitively anymore, it’s a way to keep myself on the ice—and not McKee’s, because I’d rather give up my favorite pair of Riedells than run into Dad’s players. I make a face at him as I sip my chai. 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.”

Crap.

“Cooper Callahan? Seriously?”

Cooper is the most talented player on McKee’s men’s hockey team, and if Mia’s sources are correct, at yesterday’s exhibition game against UConn, he got into a fight. From the highlights I haven’t been able to avoid, I’ve seen that he practically flies down the ice when he skates, throwing himself in front of the puck to defend the net, gritting it out every single game. He’s almost ready for the NHL, but according to my dad, he didn’t enter the draft when he was eligible, which means he’s at McKee for the duration of his college career.

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.”

When my father decides something, it’s nearly impossible to change his mind, so I just sigh. “Fine. But if it doesn’t work out, it’s not on me.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s on him. He knows it’s this or getting benched the next time he can’t control himself.”

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.

“That’s harsh.”

Dad rubs at his nose. “He needs to stay focused on his future. Just like you, bug. Tell me how the microbiology exam really went.”