Page 65 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

I take another step to set up then strike the ball toward her just as the defender’s solid shoulder digs into mine, trying to knock me off-balance.

The contact came too late to matter. Piper receives the ball with her chest, then pops it back to the top of the box where Isla—one of our center-mids—is waiting.

The pass isn’t perfect and a Douglas Heights player steps in to clear it. I hustle back to aid the defense and find my mark, making sure she doesn’t get between me and my goal.

Janae scoops the ball up in her neon yellow gloves and punts it out of danger. Bailey and Ji-woo expertly thread their passes through our opponents’ scrambling defense on another counterattack

I breathe a deep sigh of relief when they cross the halfway line and head toward the Douglas Heights goal.

A fat, frigid raindrop plops on top of my head. Then another.

And then it’s full-on drizzling, not a super storm, but enough to make things slippery.

I wipe my face and squint, watching the developing play but keeping tabs on my mark at the same time.

Bailey and Ji-woo get all the way down to the opposite end line and knock the ball off a defender.

There’s only a minute left in the half. Coach Dixon gestures for me to push up more.

Huh. That’s new.

Soggy grass and softened mud squish under my feet as I fill the space just above the far corner of the eighteen-yard box. Piper sets up for the corner kick. When she strikes it, water sprays, but her aim is on point.

The ball’s arc peaks right above me. I don’t have a good angle to the goal, but I back up, let it drop, and head it back toward the penalty spot. Isla’s there. And this time, she gets to it before the defender.

With a satisfying thud she deflects the ball. It skips across the wet grass like a flat rock on the surface of a still pond.

Right into the corner of the goal.

“Yes!” I scream into the rain.

The whole team rushes Isla into a sopping wet group hug as the referee blows his whistle to signal halftime.

Huddled under the pop-up tent on the bench, I wrap myself in a towel and listen to Coach Dixon praise our tenacity and composure during the weather change and his suggestions for the second half.

The rain slows then fades completely just before we head back out onto the field.

I squeeze the last of the water from my hair and toss the wet towel in the basket behind the bench.

“Chloe?” Coach Dixon calls me over. Uh-oh. Am I getting benched? He told me to push up!

“Yeah, Coach?”

He raises his stern gaze over his laminated sheet of notes and plays—my mother would be so proud—and nods at me. “I don’t know what’s changed or what kind of training you’re doing on your own. But it’s working. Keep it up.”

If the floodlights lost power right now, my smile could light the whole stadium. “Thanks, Coach. Will do.” I polish that compliment and display it proudly on a shelf in my brain.

My nose—probably as red as the cherry atop my favorite milkshake—runs from the cold. Mud cakes my socks and cleats. It’s probably even in my hair at this point. My knees and ankles ache from the effort of keeping my balance on the slippery ground.

But inside, I’m warmer than if I were snuggled in a fleece blanket in front of a roaring fire.

When the game ends and the score stands 1-0, there’s only one person I want to celebrate with.

The only problem is, I don’t know if he’ll even speak to me again.

Thirty

CHLOE