Page 9 of The Rule Breaker (Colton U Playbook #1)

I run a hand through my wet hair and turn off the shower, the bathroom quickly fogging up with steam.

Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around my waist and step onto the cold tile.

Reaching for the massage gun on the counter, I start working it into the tight muscles in my neck, trying to ease the knots from practice.

I glance at my phone on the bed. With a sigh, I walk over, grab it, and scroll to Cassie’s text with her address.

A breath escapes me. This is exactly what I need—a quick distraction. Someone to help me get Isabella out of my head.

Me:

Sounds great. 8 okay?

I hit send, before I can talk myself out of it.

Her reply is a thumbs up.

I drop the phone back on the bed, but before I can even get dressed, it buzzes again. Glancing at it, I expect another message from Cassie.

Instead, it’s an incoming call from my Dad.

I stare at it for a second, debating. The last time we talked was… hell, I don’t even know. A few weeks ago? Maybe longer. It’s not like we have a schedule. He calls when he remembers, and I answer when I feel like it.

My thumb hovers over the screen before I sigh and swipe to accept.

“Hi, dad.”

“Ryan.” His voice is crisp, clipped. The same as always. “How’s school?”

I shift on the edge of my bed, bracing my elbow on my knee. “It’s fine.”

“Your grades?”

“They’re alright.”

A short pause passes, and I picture him nodding silently, checking his watch. “Good.” He pauses again for a second. “I caught your last game.”

I rub a hand over my face. “Yeah?” I say, already bracing for whatever’s coming.

“You let three shots in.”

My jaw tightens, and I exhale through my nose. “I know.”

“It wasn’t your best performance.”

“I know that too,” I mutter, the irritation bubbling up, but I swallow it down.

He sighs, drumming his fingers against his desk. His version of a disappointed sigh. I’ve been hearing that sound for as long as I can remember.

“You were out of position on that second goal.”

I frown, mentally replaying the game. “I was screened.”

“You should’ve read the play faster.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “I’ll do better next time,” I force out, my tone tight.

“Connor never?—”

He stops short. But I already know where that sentence was headed.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, breathing in slow to keep my cool. “I’m not Connor.”

Silence.

It stretches on so long I wonder if he hung up. But then his voice breaks through. “No,” he says, almost like he’s stating a fact. “I suppose you’re not.”

The words land like a punch, even though I saw it coming. It’s not even cruel, not outright. It’s just matter-of-fact, like a truth neither of us can change.

Like he doesn’t even mean it as an insult.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

I shift, rubbing a hand over my jaw, my fingers scraping over stubble I haven’t bothered to shave off in a few days. “How’s Mom?”

“She’s fine,” he says, voice tight, clipped, giving me the bare minimum, like he can’t be bothered to share anything more. No elaboration, no detail.

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “Is she home?”

“I think so.”

I think so.

I swallow down the bitter laugh that wants to escape. They live in the same house. Married for twenty-five years. And he doesn’t even know if she’s home.

I lean back against my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I really shouldn’t be surprised. Their relationship’s been like this for as long as I can remember.

When I was a kid, it was nonstop fighting—yelling in the kitchen, doors slamming.

Then one day, it just… stopped. No more yelling. No more arguing.

They didn’t get better. They just got quieter.

I’m still not sure which one is worse.

There’s some rustling on the other end of the line, and then a muffled voice. A few seconds later, Mom’s on the line. “Hi, Sweetie.”

I shift again, adjusting the phone against my ear. “Hey, Mom.”

“How are you?”

I hesitate for a second too long, my fingers drumming lightly on the side of my bed. “I’m good.”

“You eating enough?”

I can’t help but smile at how much she worries. “Yeah, Mom. I’m good.”

“Not just ramen and protein shakes?”

I huff out a laugh, rolling my eyes. “I eat actual food, I promise.”

I can hear her hum in the background, unconvinced. “You’re too much like your father sometimes.”

The smile slips. My jaw tightens, and I look out my window.

“How’s hockey?” she asks, shifting the conversation.

“It’s good,” I reply.

“I saw that highlight of you last week. That breakaway goal was incredible.”

A slow exhale escapes me, the tension in my chest loosening just a little.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. No one really comes to my games—hell, I can count on one hand the number of people who’ve shown up to support me in the stands.

I wonder sometimes if anyone even notices.

My dad watches, sure, but he’s never one to say anything positive.

It’s always what went wrong. I swear, I could score a hat trick, and he’d still find a way to tell me I should’ve had another assist.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“We miss you, darling,” she says, letting out a soft breath. “You have to come and visit sometime.”

We. The word lingers in my head, and I swallow, my throat tightening. “Yeah… Will do.”

“I should let you go,” she says. “Call me soon, okay? I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends, and I lower the phone to my lap, staring at the black screen for a moment.

I flop back onto my mattress, staring up at the ceiling, letting out a long breath.

Hearing about all the shit my brother’s doing is like getting punched in the gut every damn time.

He’s ten steps ahead of me. By my age, he was already drafted.

And here I am, just trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing.

I wanted to go to college. Thought maybe it’d be my way of doing my own thing. A chance to have my own identity before I get thrown into the league and have people compare me to him at every damn turn.

But what’s the point in trying so hard when it feels like I’m always playing catch-up?

I close my eyes for a second, trying to shut out the noise in my head.

But it’s still there—it’s always there.

I run a hand through my hair, gripping the strands as I let out a frustrated breath.

Same shit every time he calls. Nothing new.

Nothing I don’t expect. But, for some reason, I still wish things were different.

Some part of me still wants to be enough on my own, without always being the guy who’s compared to his brother.

Before I can spiral any further, a knock on the door snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Let’s go,” Nathan’s voice cuts through. “Austin helped me pack the car.”

I close my eyes for a second, wishing for a few more minutes of peace. But I know it’s pointless. The longer I stay in here, the more I’ll just stew on everything that’s been eating at me. With a sigh, I sit up, pushing my brother and all the bullshit that comes with him to the back of my mind.

I grab my clothes and tug them on quickly, glancing in the mirror before I reach for the door handle and pull it open.

Time to go see Isabella.

And act like I’m not picturing her naked… while her brother’s right next to me.

Yeah, this should be interesting.