Page 37 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

“Wait. Did you say ‘him’?” Dad asks, turning around with a pancake balanced precariously on the spatula.

“Dad, the pancake.” I point.

“Right.” He flips it back onto the griddle and returns to me. “Who is this ‘him’?”

“Is it that Carmack boy?” Mom asks, peeking over her clipboard. “I always liked him. Are you back together? I will never understand why you two broke up in the first place. You were so cute together, and he is such a nice boy.”

I almost choke on my coffee. Sure, my mom would say that about Graham. Thinking back on our relationship, I would never have used those words to describe us. I pour a bit of cream into my cup and study the swirls as they change the coffee’s color. “No,” I say softly. “It’s not Graham. And we are definitely not back together.”

Maybe Mom would understand why we broke up if I had told her the whole story when it first happened. Or any time after. But I hadn’t been able to stomach telling yet another person, let alone my mom, who thought Graham walked on water, that Mr. Wonderful himself had turned out to be not so wonderful after all.

“What a shame,” Mom says. “Debbie talks about you all the time still.” Graham’s mom. What could the woman possibly have to say about me?

I clear my throat to dislodge the secret shame. “That’s nice,” I say, hoping this will end the conversation. But I should know better. This is my mom, after all.

“She thinks Graham hasn’t gotten over you. You broke that poor boy’s heart⁠—”

“Rhoads Simpson is the guy. He’s in my economics and Spanish classes and is on the boys’ soccer team.”

“Defender?” my dad asks, his brow raised. I knew mentioning soccer would divert his attention and lose my mom’s almost immediately. Sports, especially soccer, is a trump card in our house.

“Striker.” At my dad’s grimace, I smirk, knowing what he’s thinking. “But he appreciates the defense.”

Dad’s blue eyes light up. He beams, all thoughts of his daughter hanging out with an unknown boy forgotten.

“This seems to be my cue to leave.” Mom sighs. “Are you available for the Banfords’ Halloween picnic?”

“No, Mom. I’ve got soccer, remember?”

“Okay. I’ll just have to call Frankie, I guess.” She marks something on her clipboard with a pen and mutters to herself. “You can’t get out of it? You know how unreliable Frankie is.”

“Mom, no. Regionals.”

She nods. “Right, of course.” Mom sidles back to her office, frowning at her list. She doesn’t have quite the zest for my athletics that Dad does. She goes to some games and cheers in between phone calls to clients, but she’s not one to paint her face and scream chants with the crowd.

“So, this boy.” Dad grabs the butter bell and spreads an unhealthy layer of butter on the pancakes. “Is he a friend or is he a boyfriend?”

“Dad.”

“What? I’m allowed to ask.” He holds out a plate of food. When I reach for it, he moves it out of my grasp. “So?”

“Seriously?” I sigh. “A friend, dad. Just a friend. Can I eat now?”

He sets the plate in front of me and dishes food onto his own. “A striker, huh?”

“Yep.” I take a gooey bite. Warm and chocolatey.

“Is he good?”

Dad means at soccer, presumably. But I think a little harder, especially after the conversation about Graham. I give my dad a half-smile and shrug. “He’s alright. Wouldn’t get past me, though.”

“That’s my girl.” We clink our forks in cheers, dripping syrup onto the counter.

I guess I’m about to find out whether or not that’s true.

Sixteen

CHLOE