Page 17 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

We talked.

Immediately, my phone vibrates.

Charlotte

About?

Music. And…soccer…and breakfast

Charlotte

Oh my gosh, did he ask you out??!!

…

Anita

!!!

Charlotte

!!!!!

Not exactly. But he did offer to teach me how to take a solid penalty kick in exchange for breakfast recommendations.

Charlotte

!!! …Also, we’re mad at you for making us find out from Shenna James of all people

Anita

I’m not mad, for the record. But I am quite intrigued about this new development.

I stick my phone back in my bag and smile. My friends’ opinions aside, I’m going to up my offensive game and prove to Coach Dixon I belong on the field in every situation. And what’s a few stacks of pancakes between acquaintances, anyway?

Six

CHLOE

By lunchtime Friday, Coach Perry and her never-ending list of leg exercises have squashed the excitement of the first few days. I’m only taking Individual Fitness this semester so I can skip the weight room in the afternoons and not endure Coach Dixon’s wrath for being a “slacker upperclassman.” But second-period squats added to already toasted legs have me second-guessing that decision.

Morning practice will end next week, though, and then I’ll be glad to end early every other afternoon. I need that time for studying and for picking up shifts at Coffee Jungle. My car insurance sure isn’t going to pay itself.

I limp to the table, slide in next to Anita, and rest my face on the gray plastic surface, which somehow already smells like three-day-old French fries. “Everything hurts.”

Anita pats my shoulder. “I thought they didn’t have gym classes during lunch blocks.”

“They don’t,” I say to the table. “I came from AP English. It’s been an hour since I left the weight room, and I think my legs have gained a pound each minute.”

“Here, have a Pop-Tart.” A crinkly silver wrapper enters my field of vision.

“Bless you, Anita Rodriguez.” I lift my head, say a silent prayer of thanks that it isn’t arm day, and rip open the foil. “Strawberry?” Disappointment tinges my voice.

“You’re training. Brown sugar and s’mores are reserved strictly for the off-season. You know that.” Anita shakes her finger in mock scolding, her dark brown eyes laughing. She takes a bite of her own brown sugar treat.

“But you’re eating it in front of me. How is that fair?” I break the first Pop-Tart in half and take a bite from the center. Sugary goodness fills my mouth. “This is delicious, though. Thanks.”

“Eat some real food, too.”