Breakaway: A Coach’s Daughter College Sports Romance (Beyond the Play)
Breakaway: Chapter 45

“ALL RIGHT, Ms. Ryder. You’re all set.”

I smile at Nicole, one of the women who works at the registrar’s office at McKee. She’s about the age my mother would have been now, her bleach-blonde hair pulled back into a bun. Her blouse is a seriously bright shade of pink, and her long nails match. I’m not sure how she types with them, but she was way faster than I am on my laptop. “Thanks so much.”

“Congratulations. It’s a big deal, declaring your major. And you should have enough time to make up everything you need even without getting those credits from last semester, but if not, we can always discuss options for continuation. It’s always easier to work on the one you declared from the start instead of switching.”

I nod, holding the sheet of paper—official approval of a major in English—close to my chest.

“Hockey fan?” She gestures to the sweater I’m wearing, giving me a smile.

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.”

She pokes her head into my room. “You’re not dying.”

“I don’t know, I think I might be bleeding out.” Another cramp hits me; it feels like someone has my lower back caught in a vise. “If this is the end, make sure Tangerine remembers me as the one who gave her more snacks.”

“Is she okay?” I hear Cooper ask.

“No,” says Mia. “But at least it’s physical pain. My periods turn me into a raging bitch.”

Cooper comes into the room, a plastic bag dangling from one hand. His gear bag is slung over his shoulder; he texted to say he was coming from practice. By now, I’m used to seeing his beard just a touch longer because it’s winter, but it makes desire jolt through me. I press my legs together; even with the cramps, my body is aching with need. He glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed.

“Was she making a joke?” he asks. “I sort of assumed that bitchiness was her default state.”

“I heard that!” Mia shouts from her room.

“Like you’re not proud of that!” Cooper calls back.

I snort out a laugh, burying my head in my pillow. “Be grateful my anti-anxiety meds keep things steady.”

“I’m grateful for anything that helps you.” He sits down next to me on the bed, his hand settling on my shoulder, and rummages around in the plastic bag. “I brought some reinforcements.”

He pulls out a heating pad, the tampons and pads I asked him to pick up on the way over, and best of all, gummy bears. I rip open the package and breathe in the sugary scent. “Is the package new because I complained that your gear bag was too smelly to store my precious gummy bears in?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not too bad.”

“It smells like an armpit. A gigantic one.” I wrinkle my nose as I chew.

“Well, it’s not too bad now. I got a gym bag deodorizer, and it’s working.” He leans down and unzips the little side pocket he keeps snacks in—AKA gummy bears for me and protein bars for him—and pulls out a plastic bag. “Also, I’ve been putting them in here. A double layer of stink protection.”

I’m about to think of a snarky comeback, even if it is adorable that he’s trying to make the bag less gross just for me, when a cramp makes me grit my teeth, doubling over. Cooper is there right away, pulling me into his arms. He sets the gummy bear package on my nightstand and smooths my hair away from my forehead. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“It’s just… fuck. It hurts.”

“Yeah. It’s okay, I’ve got you. Want the heating pad?”

I shake my head. “Could you maybe…” I trail off, flushing. He’s done enough already. There’s a difference between gingerly fingering myself because it helps with the cramps and asking him to ride the red tide.

He works his hand underneath my shirt and rubs my belly. I groan, turning my face into his neck. He smells clean, with hints of cinnamon—his masculine, almost spicy cologne. I bite down gently, and he huffs out a little laugh. He keeps on massaging my skin as he kisses the top of my head. “Could I do what, Red?”

“I’m too gross.”

“You’re never too gross.”

I squint at him. “You know, I poop and everything.”

He laughs. “You know, I heard something about girls doing that. So weird.”

“Okay, if I’m not gross, what I want to ask you is.”

He traces around the birth mark next to my belly button. “You want me to give you an orgasm.”

I bury my face against his chest. “You don’t have to.”

“Fuck, have to? I want to. It helps, doesn’t it? With the cramps?”

“Usually, yes.”

He pats my belly. “Give me a second. I’ll replace a towel, so we don’t have to wash the sheets.”

As he sits up, I give him another squinty look. I’m not even sure how this happened, but I have Cooper’s devotion, and I think if I asked him to do just about anything, he’d at least consider it. But this doesn’t fall under the umbrella of normal boyfriend duties, as far as I know, and I don’t want him to get grossed out and then decide he’s not attracted to me anymore.

All of which tumbles out of my mouth in a big jumble. He just raises an eyebrow when I finish rambling. “Sweetheart, there’s literally nothing that could make me stop being attracted to you.” He flashes me a grin and adds, “You know I like when things get messy.”