Page 1 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

One

CHLOE

The air always shifts when something Big is about to happen. The wind dresses up for the occasion and whispers, “Don’t miss it.”

I’ve lived for those moments from the time I first recognized them. I was six and had just saved a goal by kicking the soccer ball off the goal line at the last second. Sweating in the September sun and panting, I scanned the crowd. My dad’s face lit up like the scoreboard that would become my compass. That was the first time the tingle of change ran up the back of my neck. I was important. Alive.

I’ve searched for that feeling everywhere since. Mostly on the soccer field.

“You coming, Chloe?” Piper shakes her red ponytail over her shoulder. “We’ve got thirty minutes until the bell.”

“I’ll be in soon.”

“You’re doing extra sprints after the chain run?” She looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“Just a few. Promise.”

Piper rolls her eyes and joins the rest of the team as they head to the locker room to shower and get ready before class, but I wipe my forehead with my shirt and stand on the end line next to the goal. Three deep breaths of warm, grass-scented air calm my body enough that I’m ready to go.

Wind grasps at my ears as I sprint my hardest to the eighteen-yard box, then turn on my toes and head back the other way.

Some people meditate to calm down. I’ve always found stillness of mind with my body in motion, with blades of grass bending beneath my cleats as my muscles work and my lungs hoard air as if it might disappear.

My toes greet the end line, and I turn again. Pump my arms. Push my legs faster, even though they’re numb with effort.

Each sprint takes me further from the version of me I want to leave behind and one step closer to the girl I want to be: a state champion who’s permanently banished heartbreak from the stadium.

Fifteen minutes later, I ease open the door to first-period economics, trying not to make a sound. The tingle of something Big dances across the back of my neck again. With any luck, that’s the universe’s way of telling me I’m about to snag a seat in the back corner of the room without Mrs. Pennington noticing. Fingers crossed she’s so focused on her PowerPoint presentation that she won’t see me.

My low, messy bun drips puddles onto the back of my T-shirt. Those extra sprints meant I didn’t have time to dry it. I’d done well enough to wash the layer of grime off my body and still make it to class on time. Well, almost on time.

Only two minutes late.

Coach Dixon hadn’t been kidding when he said he was taking our training “up a notch” this year. Apparently, two months of summer morning sessions and a week of two-a-days weren’t enough to get us in shape for the fall soccer season. Though I do understand his intensity. We’re expected to make it to the postseason, and there are even rumblings we have a chance at taking our division’s state championship.

I melt into the open chair next to my friend Charlotte, my eyes trained on Mrs. Pennington’s gray-blond hair. So far, no sign that I’ve been spotted.

Charlotte gives me the once-over and sips from her forest-green Coffee Jungle thermos, full eyebrows raised. Her stick-straight blond hair cascades over her shoulders, creating perfect symmetry. The humidity apparently has no effect on her. How annoying. I swipe a hand across the back of my neck and wipe my palms on my black athletic shorts, shrugging.

“Chain run,” I whisper, flicking my eyes toward Mrs. Pennington.

“How many girls puked?” Charlotte asks, matching my whisper.

I hold up four fingers. Charlotte points at me in question. I shake my head.

“Precisely why I avoid athletics.”

Picturing Charlotte, queen of Burberry and manicures, running on purpose makes me snort. This, of all things, catches Mrs. Pennington’s attention.

“Do you find economics funny, Miss Baker?” Thirty pairs of eyes lock onto me. That tingle from a minute ago intensifies. Yikes, Universe. Not exactly the kind of attention I was looking for this morning.

“No, Mrs. Pennington.” I try to fold my five-foot-nine frame smaller to avoid her sharp gaze.

“I suggest you show up on time for the rest of the semester. Student athletes do not get special treatment in my classroom.” So she did see me.

“Of course. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

It’s only the first day of the school year, and I already have a teacher watching me. Great. I can’t get benched for something as stupid as tardies.