Page 3 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

That tingling from earlier is back. Did I twinge my neck at practice this morning?

“Baker? Did you hear me?”

I blink twice and forget how to speak English. Or Spanish. Or whatever language I’m supposed to speak in this class. Rhoads points at the chair next to mine, as if sign language might work better.

“Yeah, sure. That would be super.” Super? What the heck is wrong with me? Stupid Charlotte and her stupid theories. He just needs a seat. No need to get worked up.

“Cool, thanks.” Rhoads flashes his toothy, crooked smile that turns all the straight girls’ eyes into hearts, then drops his worn canvas bag on the floor.

I dig around in my own backpack, finally pulling out a pen I don’t really need. I study the bulletin board across the room. It’s full of pictures of Señora Cruz in various Latin American countries and die-cut sombreros. Right, this is Spanish class.

“So, chain run this morning, huh? Brutal.” Rhoads hooks his headphones around his neck, plops a notebook and pen on his desk, and turns to me.

Soccer is a safe subject. I can talk about soccer with anyone. Even very attractive boys with swoopy hair and reputations. I banish the Charlotte and Anita that live on either of my shoulders. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Saw you run by. We had agility drills. According to Coach Alesi, we’re all as nimble as hippos on roller skates. He threatened ballet classes, but we talked him down. For now.”

“How merciful of him,” I say.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Rhoads laughs. “But by the end, half the team was begging for pliés and rond de jambes.”

I raise a brow.

He shrugs. “My little sister’s a dancer.”

“Well, you can put a tutu on a hippo, but that doesn’t mean it can relevé.”

Rhoads returns my questioning expression.

“Hey, I know things, too.” Or I half-listen when my mom streams Dancing with the Stars while she cooks dinner. But I suddenly want him to think I know things. Even though I shouldn’t. I make a mental plan to ban my friends from talking about boys around me.

Rhoads smiles. “Maybe you just have to play it the right music.”

“Right. You’d be the one to know, I guess.”

His brows scrunch together. “You calling me a hippo, Baker?”

“What? No.” I gesture to his headphones. “If anyone would know what music to play to make a hippo dance, it would be the guy whose headphones are practically glued to his head. What are you always listening to, anyway?”

“A little of this, a little of that.” He leans back in his chair, causing it to squeak.

The class fills with chatting students; our tiny teacher, Señora Cruz, blends right in. I wave at Janae, my team’s starting goalkeeper, as she selects a seat in the back of the room, like always, a gaggle of theater kids right behind her.

“Perfectly vague and evasive.” I mumble the next part. “Maybe Anita was right about you.”

The corners of his lips turn up in a sly smile. “Right about me, how?”

Uh oh. He heard me.

“Might as well just tell me.” Rhoads leans in closer. A mix of cedar and citrus, wafts over me. His hair is short enough to be completely dry, while mine will be damp until tomorrow if I keep it in the bun. A spark lights his dark brown irises as he encroaches on my space. “I’ll be in this seat all semester. No escaping me.”

Will he really sit there all semester? That might make it harder for me to actually learn Spanish. Maybe I should switch seats now, while I still can. Cut off this snake’s head before it can bite and poison me.

I’m about to do just that when Señora Cruz walks up to the whiteboard and starts rambling in Spanish, sealing my fate.

Rhoads whispers to me, “This conversation isn’t over, Baker.” He turns toward the front of the room, but I catch him throwing me a side-glance and a half-smile that, despite my best efforts, make my stomach flip.

I say a prayer to the soccer goddesses that my willpower be stronger than his charm. Because if he really is going to sit by me all semester, I’m going to need all the help I can get.