Chapter 5: Breakaway: Chapter 5

THE NEXT MORNING, I drag myself out of bed before daybreak and get ready for my workout. When James moved out, Izzy moved in, and because we can be nice big brothers when we want to be, Sebastian and I gave her the room with an ensuite. That means I’m still sharing a bathroom with Seb, who graciously ignores when I leave towels on the floor, so in return, I try not to grumble too much about his extra-long showers. 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.

I don’t bother knocking on the bathroom door. It’s barely 5 in the morning and Izzy is on her own schedule with her volleyball teammates; she has an away game today. Seb sometimes joins me at the gym, but he’s on a lighter workout schedule because it’s his off-season, so I’ll be heading out alone. I yawn as I try to will away my headache. Why did I choose to get into Izzy’s wine stash last night? Wine always makes my fucking head pound. I could have sulked with a six-pack instead.

The moment I push open the door, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, a shriek fills my ears.

“What are you doing?” someone demands.

I hit the light switch, squinting as the overhead light illuminates the small room. There’s a girl in my bathroom. A very naked girl in my bathroom. She shrieks again, grabbing the nearest towel off a hook. I clap my hand over my eyes, backing away.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“Sebastian said no one else would be up!”

I groan. “You hooked up with him?”

“I’m wearing the towel,” she says, sounding much more collected. “You don’t have to cover your eyes anymore.”

I slowly drop my hand. Now that I can look at her without being an accidental pervert, I see that she’s smoking hot, even halfway through washing away the remnants of last night’s makeup. There are pink streaks running through her dark hair, and tattoos cover half of her right arm. I wouldn’t have taken her for Sebby’s type, but he’s been on a hot streak since the summer. So annoying. Sure, he went out last night, probably to Red’s or a dorm party, and I was stuck at home stewing over my new role as pee wee skating instructor. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be up.”

Seb appears at my shoulder, a sleepy expression on his face and, to my satisfaction, some dried drool next to his mouth. “Is everything okay?”

I scowl. “Dude. You’re supposed to tell me when you have a girl over.”

He has the decency to blush. “You were already asleep when we came in. I texted.”

Crap. My phone is still on my nightstand, charging because I forgot to plug it in last night. After Coach let me go, I went straight home and played Dark Souls until I passed out. “Still. Knock on my door or something next time.”

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

“Lord of the Rings fan?”

“I was obsessed with it as a kid.”

Sebastian pokes me in the back and says, “Coop, Vanessa is a huge Zeppelin fan. She has a classic rock show at McKee’s radio station.”

I lean against the frame of the door more firmly, crossing my arms over my chest so she’s drawn to my pecs. The tattoo over my heart isn’t Lord of the Rings related; it’s the Celtic knot, same as my brothers, but if she likes tattoos, maybe we can keep this conversation going. She’s not my type, but at this point, I’ll take anything. “Clearly you have good taste.”

She laughs shortly, running her hand through her hair. “Um, yeah. Well, I should go.”

“Why don’t you stay for breakfast?” Seb says. “I know it’s early, but I can run out for coffee while you and Cooper exchange tattoo stories.”

She looks me over, but unfortunately, without an ounce of heat in her expression. “Sorry, but I don’t get involved with brothers. Or athletes, usually. You were a fun exception, Sebastian.” She brushes past me and gives Seb a kiss on the cheek. “See you around, Callahan boys.”

She disappears into Seb’s room. He shrugs, giving me an apologetic look.

“Sorry. I tried my best.”

Annoyance rumbles through me. “I don’t need you to find hookups for me.”

“That wasn’t it,” he says. “I thought you might actually get along.”

“After you fucked her? Gee, thanks.” I go to the sink and splash water on my face. “I wasn’t in the mood for your sloppy seconds, anyway.”

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “She’s a nice girl.”

I huff out a breath. “Sorry. I’ve just been so—fuck, I don’t know.”

Seb’s voice is as dry as the desert. “In need of a lay?”

“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. Even if I play along with Coach’s demands, if I’m playing like shit, he’s not going to put me in charge of the team.

He just raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that.”

“You’re the least superstitious baseball player I’ve ever met,” I grumble. “I’ll talk to you later; I need to go work out.”

He looks like he wants to keep talking, but I clap him on the shoulder before pushing him into the hallway. “Tell Izzy I said good luck on her game today.”

I WIPE a towel over my sweaty face as I lean back against the gym wall. Throughout my workout, I’ve been struggling not to hurl all over the floor. Depressingly, I look better than Evan, who has gone through the motions of his routine with all the energy of a zombie. When he saw me earlier, he tried to apologize, but it’s not his fault I punched that guy. Coach is right, I should have just put pressure on him next game, tried to get him to make a mistake on the ice, instead of going after him directly. 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.

I pause my music and cross the gym. He’s just settling in at the bench press, but he needs a spotter. “Hey, Evan.”

He pulls out one of his ear buds. “Hey.”

“Need a spotter?”

His voice is thick as he responds. “Yeah, thanks.”

I get into position, watching as he adjusts the weight before settling on his back and planting his feet firmly on the floor. He’s a little on the small side for a defenseman, so he’s been trying to bulk up. We’ve been a defensive pair since our first season together. He deserves for hockey to be a happy distraction for him right now, rather than a burden.

I clear my throat after he gets a couple of reps in. “Look, man. You don’t have to worry about what happened yesterday. I deserved it.”

His brown eyes are swimming in tears. Fuck. His mother had been sick for as long as I’ve known him, but I know that just makes it worse in some ways. “At least you didn’t get suspended.”

I take the bar from him as he rests for a few beats, wiping the sweat from his face. “That dude’s an ass. He needed someone to shut him up.”

He sits up, looking around before ducking in closer. “Jean said that Coach wants to make you captain, but last night might’ve fucked it up.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m figuring out a way to make it happen.”

“You know Brandon wants it too.”

“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.

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’. 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.

I should hang up; I know I should—but I can’t make myself do it. I’m not expecting an apology from him, but maybe he feels a little bad, and I’ll be able to see it in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eventually. “For the volunteering?”

“Teaching local kids to skate.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. How old are they?”

“Seven? Eight? I don’t even know.”

“You were that age once, learning how to handle yourself on the ice.”

I wait for him to go on, but of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t like to skirt too close to the topic of Uncle Blake, even casually. 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. It’s shitty, but fighting with him about it leads nowhere. “I guess.”

“This seems like a good thing. Maybe it’ll help you learn some patience.”

“I’m sure that’s his plan.”

He surprises me by laughing. “You don’t need to sound so put out about it. He’s just being a good coach.”

“I guess.”

“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.”

“Let me know how it goes. We’re still planning on coming up for the UMass game.”

“The one we’re hosting, I hope.”

“Of course.” I hear a door open and close. My mom, probably, back with breakfast. “I’ve got to run, but keep your nose clean, son.”

He hangs up before I can manage a goodbye.

I didn’t really expect anything else from that conversation, but it still makes my heart sink in my chest like I dropped it in quicksand. I shove my phone into my pocket, dragging my hand over my face. It’s not that I wanted him to get me out of the volunteering or expected him to celebrate me losing my temper, but having his support in something would be nice.

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.