Page 55 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

Did I mess this up on purpose, because I think I don’t deserve to have Chloe in my life?

Sometimes bad or terrible or annoying or unfortunate things happen, and that’s just part of life. I didn’t get Chloe in trouble on purpose, and I didn’t force her to come with me. Her missing curfew isn’t my fault, because I didn’t even know about it to begin with.

Still, my confidence is waning.

“Break’s over,” Jake calls. “First goal wins. Because if we’re out here much longer, we’re all grounded.”

Piper freezes me with her stare. “I. Am. Not. wearing a tattoo of his name. Got it? Show me why you’re the best striker in school.”

Two minutes into the game, Piper wins the ball and passes to me. We both streak down the field. It’s risky leaving our goal open, but she trusts me.

I spin around Kyle and pass to Piper, who cackles as she heads toward Jake.

“I am going to relish seeing your locker.”

“You mean empty except for my books?” Jake counters as he approaches.

“Piper!” I call.

Jake hesitates for half a second, checking to see if she’s going to pass.

She stutters as if she’s going to give me the ball, then cracks a shot. It sails into the goal.

“Kyle, what the heck? Where were you?” Jake complains.

Kyle jogs over. “Oh, sorry. I must have fallen behind.” He cracks up. “And I, too, am also very interested to see your locker makeover.”

Piper slaps me a high-five. “Thanks. I knew we could do it. Big risk, big reward, right?”

Jake apparently said that to her the night they hit it off.

“Yeah,” I answer as we collect our equipment. “Thanks, guys, for this.”

“Anytime.” Kyle switches off the floodlights.

The ghost of their light freezes the scene in my mind. We’ve only got one life to go after what we want. On and off the pitch.

If I’ve learned anything from Jenson’s situation, it’s that.

Outside my truck, I take another deep breath of Midwest October air and ask the cloudy sky for help. It’s one in the morning. There’s not much I can do now except send an apology text.

I pull out onto the deserted back road and head home, drowning out my thoughts with a new piano song and sinking back into the playful bliss of studying and playing one-on-one. Of leaving the party together and cruising in my truck and talking about memories.

By the time I fall into bed, Chloe still hasn’t responded.

Twenty-Five

CHLOE

Maybe the night will end on a not-so-terrible note. Maybe my mom will understand. I haven’t really done anything wrong. Except miss curfew. Which, okay, is bad. But it could be so much worse. It’s not like I shoplifted or drove drunk or killed anyone.

I take a deep breath in the foyer. The air reeks of vanilla that’s gone sour.

“Mom?” It comes out as a broken whisper. “Mom, where—” I begin again, a little more audibly.

“Kitchen,” she says in a firm and calm voice. I round the corner and find her sitting at the table. “Sit.”

I do—the cushioned seat hardly any comfort—and fold my hands in my lap. My mom always tells me avoiding eye contact is a sign of weakness. But the look in her sharp green eyes blazes. I only manage a few seconds of their flames before breaking away to count the pea-sized orange polka dots on the kitchen wallpaper. I get to twenty-seven when my mom finally speaks.