Page 6 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

Coach Dixon holds his hand up. “Save it. Unless you want to put your starting position in jeopardy.”

Steam spirals out of my ears. It’s Coach’s call, of course. If he wants to leave the back line vulnerable to a through ball on the counter-attack by pushing our defenders forward, I can’t change his mind. But I don’t have to be happy about it.

In the last minute of the game, Harrison steals down the field. I lean forward on the sideline, huddled with the other unfortunate souls who have to watch the seconds tick by, unable to affect the game. When number ten receives a pass, I stand, toeing the line. “Close her down! She’s going right!” I shout as loudly as I can.

But Bea, the sophomore defender who replaced me, can’t hear me. She doesn’t know the player like I do. Bea falls for the fake, lunging the wrong way as number ten cuts back to her favorite right foot just outside the box. The defense is in chaos, everyone trying to find their mark or shut down the shot.

My whole body clenches. It knows what’s about to happen.

Abigail Matthews is too quick. She strikes the ball before Bea or anyone else can get there, sending it soaring toward the back post. Janae jumps, but she’s a half-second too late. She didn’t see the ball coming. Bea, out of position, had blocked her view.

The ball rises over Janae’s outstretched fingertips, not even grazing her gloves. It knocks against the post, rippling the net as it falls back to the ground.

A perfect shot.

Goal.

Cardinal Ridge hurries to restart the game and lodge an attack. But it’s too late. The sound of the final buzzer pours gasoline on my already smoldering heart.

We lose 1-0.

After slapping hands with the other team halfheartedly, I return to the bench to grab my bag. Bea sits on the end, sobbing. I give her a hug. “Hey. Abigail’s a senior. And I heard she’s already got offers from three D-1 schools. So, seriously, don’t beat yourself up. You got to have short-term memory. Forget it and move on.” I pat her on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Chloe.” Bea sniffles and stands, hefting her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got to meet my parents. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bea saunters toward the stands. I know exactly how she feels.

My head dips lower, my eyes locked on the cracked cement underneath our bench. It’s not Bea’s fault or even Coach Dixon’s that we lost. Not really. If I had just scored the penalty kick as I was supposed to, none of it would matter. I can’t take my own advice. I can’t forget it and move on.

Not yet.

I peel off my gross socks and shin guards and exchange my cleats for flip-flops. The metal bench doesn’t offer much comfort. Shoving my stuff into my bag, I stand, already painfully aware of how much my legs are going to hurt tomorrow. I fill my nose with the grassy field’s fragrance. It’s one of my favorite smells, even after a loss.

“Great game,” Rhoads says, meeting me on the sideline as I pass by the bleachers.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Okay.”

He falls into step with me. “You’re mad.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? We lost. And it was my fault.”

“Last I checked, there were eleven players on the field for your team at any given time.”

“Oh, you can do math! How great for you.” I pick up my pace, not interested in hearing how great I played when it’s obviously a lie.

Rhoads matches me step for step. “First of all, ouch. I’m a little concerned you didn’t think I could count to eleven. Although, if that were the case, maybe I could convince you to be my econ study partner.” He nudges my shoulder.

My gaze snaps to his, and my guilt-fueled rage torches the charming smile right off his face.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Losing sucks.”

A bit of my icy exterior melts. It’s not his fault we lost, so why am I taking it out on him? “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I just really hate to lose. And I hate letting my team down.”

“We all have off nights. Or off minutes. Or less-than-perfect shots. It’s not life or death.”

“I know that. Sometimes it just…”

“Feels like it?”