Page 53 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

I choke. “I am in so much trouble.” I dig in my purse for my phone, and upon seeing the number of missed calls and text messages from my mom, another twenty pounds piles on the barbell in my chest. Enabling the feature that silences my phone after eleven seemed responsible at the time, so I wouldn’t wake up to dumb texts in the middle of the night when I had training in the morning. But it’s about to be the nail in my coffin. “I’m dead.”

Rhoads ushers me out the door and into the front seat of his truck. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just explain that it was my fault we lost track of time. She’ll understand.”

“That is where you’re wrong. Let’s go.”

* * *

Ten minutes later we sit in Rhoads’s truck in my driveway. I stare straight ahead, not blinking, not talking. A loop of scenarios plays in my mind, each one worse than the last.

“So, I know you’re panicking a little, but this whole staring silently thing is kind of freaking me out a bit. Especially the not blinking part.”

I turn to meet his eyes. “Sorry.” I blink a bunch of times. “My mom and I typically get along. But breaking curfew is, like, the major no-no. Like the worst. Not to mention that I was with a boy. A boy she doesn’t even know.” I groan with the growing realization that there is no way for this to go well. “Oh, man. I’m toast.”

“Would it make it better if I met her? I mean, then she’d know me and I could just explain and⁠—”

“Tell her what, exactly? That we ran into each other at a house party where there was underage drinking? And then I agreed for you—a boy she doesn’t know—to drive me home, but instead we hung out alone at your house?” The lecture has already begun in my mind. “This is not the way I imagined you meeting my mom.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “So…how have you imagined me meeting her?”

“Not funny.”

Rhoads grips the wheel, his features tightening to reflect an amount of concern appropriate for the situation. “Okay. It does sound really bad. But we didn’t really do anything wrong. Neither of us were drinking.”

“Sure. But I was supposed to be with Charlotte and Anita. Not…you.” I stayed out past curfew with a boy. That has never happened before. Not even with Graham, whom my parents knew and liked. I have no idea what to expect, and the anticipation grates on my bones. “Time to face the music, I guess.” I detach my seatbelt and move my hand to the door handle, willing myself to open it.

Rhoads pauses, assessing me in the glow of the garage lights. He brushes my hair out of my eyes, his warm, gentle hand lingering on the side of my face. “You’ll be fine.”

My mom steps onto the front porch, arms folded, face pinched in the light.

Mouth so dry I could guzzle three Gatorades and still be thirsty, I swallow only air and nerves. No more stalling. It takes every ounce of strength I have to pull away. My mom seeing me inches away from the boy I broke curfew with will definitely not help my case. “It’s been nice knowing you, Simpson. Remember me when I’m gone.”

Then, I open the car door and walk away, sneaking one last peek at his disappearing taillights before the front door locks me inside the lion’s den.

Twenty-Four

RHOADS

Well, that could have gone better.

Everything was going really great up until the point when Chloe realized she was late for curfew. I run my hands through my hair and blow out a breath as I stare into the dark night.

She’s going to be in trouble and have tension between her and her mom, and it’s all my fault. I should have known that she had a curfew, or I should have at least asked before I took her to my house. She said she had a little time after we left the party. So, I just got caught up in the moment.

I almost kissed her in my workshop. The way her auburn braids shone in the light and the openness and understanding in her eyes held me spellbound. I think she would have kissed me back.

My jaw clenches at the missed opportunity. I turn up the car’s heat and roll my window down as I drive to the place I do my best soul-searching. I need the freshness of the outside air to clear my thoughts, but it’s too cold to just lie in the back of my truck like I want to.

It seems like every time I get closer to Chloe, something pulls me back again. One step forward and two steps back seems to be the cadence of our relationship.

Acquaintances or training partners, or friends. Whatever it may be.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I park in the lot before reading it, holding my breath in anticipation.

It’s not from Chloe, though.

My shoulders sagging, I throw on my spare cleats and sweats.

“Yo, Simpson! You gonna tell us why you called a late-night scrimmage?” Jake slides from the driver’s seat of his car, the remnants of his pirate costume makeup ringing his eyes.