Page 36 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

“Sure, that sounds great.” My fingers tingle as I put my books in my bag and zip it shut. I try not to think about seeing Rhoads in his element. Getting snacks from his kitchen. Or, heaven help me, lounging in his bedroom.

“Great. Can’t wait. You, me, and Adam Smith. Triple threat dream-team.” He slings his headphones around his neck and smiles.

“Good luck tonight, by the way. Hampton, right?” I ask.

Rhoads nods. “Will you be there?” We walk out the door together and into the busy hallway. Lockers slam and students chatter, but my ears hear only the hope in his voice.

“Sorry. I’ve got to work.”

“Well, that sucks. Away games are always rough, especially Hampton. Their fans are brutal.”

“Totally. I think some of the other girls are coming, so you’ll have some support. I wish I could be there. But I’ll see you Saturday. What time?”

“Come by around noon? I’ll text you my address.”

We swap numbers. I tell the versions of Charlotte and Anita that live in my brain to pipe down. “Works for me. What’s in your ears today?”

He beams, his dimple appearing, as he walks backward away from me. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

* * *

The smell of pancakes wakes me on Saturday morning. Chocolate chip, to be exact. And bacon. My mom never cooks breakfast, especially on weekends. That only means one thing. I throw the covers off and bound barefoot downstairs.

“Dad! You’re back!”

“Morning, kiddo,” my dad says. He turns, his body draped in his well-worn Baker Like You Mean It apron. “Hungry?”

“Always.” I hug him. Flour dust transfers from his apron to my t-shirt. I brush it off, smiling.

My dad, David Baker, is a technical consultant, whatever that means. I just know he advises companies about their equipment, makes decent money, and travels a lot. His traveling has never really bothered me. He’s always been around for the really important things, the Big Moments, like my middle school graduation and school concerts.

And he’s been at almost every one of my soccer games since I started playing at age three. He managed to convince his boss to let him schedule his travel around my games, though it has been more difficult since I started high school and have two games some weeks. Until last season, he’d seen all but one half of one game.

That was the time he’d been rushed to the hospital during halftime to get an appendectomy. My mom had driven him, but he’d insisted that I stay and finish the game, because showing up and having your team be able to count on you was one of the most important things in life.

He even asked one of the parents to LiveVideoChat record the rest of the game on his phone so he could watch it later. I was five at the time and spent most of the game picking dandelions. My dad is nothing if not unconditionally supportive. Now when he travels, our team manager sends him a link to the recorded game like he’s some kind of VIP.

“How was Portland?” I ask. I pull back and make a face, noticing his wardrobe under the apron. “What are you wearing?” Flannel. My collared shirt, pressed pants wearing dad is dressed in flannel. And denim jeans.

“You don’t like it? This is the style in the Pacific Northwest. Plaid is all the rage.” He rubs the graying stubble on his chin. “The town’s a little more—what’s the word you kids use to describe it?” He snaps his fingers, trying to recall. “Lumberjack beards. Weird music. Hipsy? Yes, it’s a bit more hipsy than I like, but they brew some good beer.” He glances longingly at his glass, which is full of water. “And why did no one ever tell me how comfortable these shirts are?”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “It’s hip-ster, Dad. Not hip-sy.”

“Right-o! Hipster. Can you write that down for me?” I give him a questioning look and he continues. “I’m making a list of all the new slang words I’m learning. Have to be prepared for my clients of a younger generation. Not that I’m old or anything. Forty-two is the new thirty-two, but you always want to stay ahead of the curve. Remember that.” My dad is always doling out little tidbits of advice like this, clichés and platitudes mostly, but the way he says them makes them sound new and important. I always remember them.

“Ahead of the curve. Noted.”

“Who says forty-two is the new thirty-two?” Mom asks, coming into the kitchen from her office, clipboard in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.

“Oh, all of those skincare commercials,” Dad says, as if this is common knowledge. “You know the ones. I’m just saying, it’s a promising sentiment.”

Mom raises her eyebrows skeptically, but she laughs too, softening her normally rigid facial features. Dad’s presence always relaxes her. Mom spends so much time squinting at papers and talking to clients that it’s a bit weird to see her without a phone pressed to her ear. Kind of like seeing a bird with only one wing. It’s unnatural. “Do you have a shift for Maggie today, Chloe?”

I shake my head and break a piece of bacon in half, taking a bite. Chewy and crunchy at the same time. It melts in my mouth in all its salty glory. Perfection. I could bag up the rest of it and take it to Rhoads’s house, but that would be cheating. My dad’s bacon is the best in town, but it’s not for public consumption. I’ll stop at The Local Waffle and see Greg and Lou. “Not today. I’m studying with a friend at noon though.”

“You can just say Anita and Charlotte,” Dad laughs, flipping the pancakes on the griddle. Chocolate oozes out the bottom. “We do know them by name.”

“Actually, this is a new friend. You haven’t met him.” I chew, waiting for my parents to catch up. One beat, two, three. And then⁠—