Page 4 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

Two

CHLOE

Tonight, the breeze chants my name. It’s the perfect night for soccer. The perfect stage for a Big Moment. Our home opener against our biggest rivals.

My pump-up pre-game playlist blasts in my ears as I change into my uniform after school. I always listen to the same songs in the same order, pairing them with my pre-game rituals. Say whatever you want, but for some people, sports are a spiritual experience. A familiar calm settles over me as I lace up my cleats. The pressure to defend the best forward in the state, Abigail Matthews, hasn’t disappeared yet. It can’t, really.

But instead of spiking my pulse, it sinks into my skin, merging with my own confidence, the flint to my nerves of steel, and sparking a fire to win. I bob my head in time to the beat, picturing my dad with his painted face and an obnoxious blue knit hat, waving a foam finger and yelling, “Go, Baker, go!” at the top of his lungs.

I pull on my Cardinal Ridge cobalt warm-up jersey and follow my teammates outside. My cleats clack on the concrete, though I can’t hear them. Stadium lights flood the field. The air smells like wet grass, crisp and cold, and earthy.

During warm-ups, I look for my dad in the stands. It’s easy to find him; his blue and yellow flag screams school spirit from halfway up the bleachers. Mom’s working again—no surprise there. Her event planning business keeps her busy most nights now that she’s hired a bigger team and expanded her offering.

That’s great for her, really. Sometimes I just wish she’d keep a night free to watch me play.

Teagan calls the team to line up for shooting drills. In my mind, I thank Coach Dixon for naming her our stoic, if sometimes icy, co-captain. She’s Bad Cop to always upbeat Kendry’s Good-Cop. They complement each other nicely. Tonight, it’s Teagan’s energy I need to help me focus. She won’t settle for anything less than perfection.

We run through our warm-up drills until the referee blows her whistle to signal warm-up time is over. Teagan, Kendry, and Janae, jog over for the coin toss, while the rest of the team huddles on the bench to listen to Coach Dixon’s pep talk.

When I take my position on the field, I breathe deeply and exhale everything else out of my mind.

For the next ninety minutes, only the field exists.

Cardinal Ridge and Harrison’s rivalry began long before I was born, and it will no doubt continue after I’m worm food. As far as talent goes this season, we’re evenly matched. The game is going to come down to who can turn Big Moment Potential into a win.

Voices volley across the freshly mowed field as both teams point out gaps in the formations or call for the ball.

Sweat streaks down my forehead and back. I sprint to clear a through ball, wishing for the cool winds of October instead of the oppressive August heat.

The right forward, Abigail Matthews, lets out a frustrated groan when I reach the ball first. Number ten will not win any of those passes. Not tonight. Even though the girl is four inches taller than me and lightning fast.

Adjust your position, my dad always says. It doesn’t matter who the other person is. All that matters is that I shift my game to fit.

Like an antibody learning how to fight a virus. I’ve played Harrison before, and I’ve marked this particular virus. I know the girl’s tells: how she always fakes to the inside and cuts back outside so she can strike with her dominant right foot.

At halftime, the score is tied 0-0. Coach Dixon gives a pep talk about staying tight on our marks and taking advantage of every opportunity.

The night air cools my skin as the sun mercifully makes its descent toward the horizon. I squirt fresh water into my mouth, swish it, and spit it out in the grass behind the bench.

When I take the field again, my eyes lock on Rhoads in the front row of the bleachers. He’s sitting with the rest of the boys’ soccer team, turned to the side and laughing at something his friend Dillon is saying.

My stomach flips when his eyes meet mine.

This conversation isn’t over, Baker.

I turn away and squash all thoughts of swoopy-haired playboys.

No distractions.

The referee places the ball on the center line. I shake out my arms and jump three times, bringing my knees to my chest and relishing the burn of working muscles. Regardless of what’s happening outside the pitch, I need to stay focused.

During a Harrison breakaway, I slide-tackle the ball away from number ten. She groans again, but I smirk. Grass clumps beneath my shin guard and stains my yellow sock. Pain pulses in my knee. The sacrifice and inevitable bruises are worth it.

I clear the ball, and Teagan takes off down the field, playing a give-and-go with two of the mid-fielders. I pull myself off the solid ground and urge my team forward. Janae shouts at us to push up, waving her gloved hands in my peripheral vision.

Goosebumps prickle my flesh, the magic of the moment declaring itself. This could be it, our one big chance. Ji-woo spins around two defenders, dragging the ball with her. Inside the eighteen-yard box, she pulls back to shoot.

I inhale and hold it, afraid if I breathe too hard it’ll Butterfly Effect us out of this opportunity.