Playing with the Heartbreaker (Cardinal Ridge Sweet YA Romance #2)

Chapter 1

One

CHLOE

The air always shifts when something Big is about to happen. The wind dresses up for the occasion and whispers, “Don’t miss it.”

I’ve lived for those moments from the time I first recognized them.

I was six and had just saved a goal by kicking the soccer ball off the goal line at the last second.

Sweating in the September sun and panting, I scanned the crowd.

My dad’s face lit up like the scoreboard that would become my compass.

That was the first time the tingle of change ran up the back of my neck. I was important. Alive.

I’ve searched for that feeling everywhere since. Mostly on the soccer field.

“You coming, Chloe?” Piper shakes her red ponytail over her shoulder. “We’ve got thirty minutes until the bell.”

“I’ll be in soon.”

“You’re doing extra sprints after the chain run?” She looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“Just a few. Promise.”

Piper rolls her eyes and joins the rest of the team as they head to the locker room to shower and get ready before class, but I wipe my forehead with my shirt and stand on the end line next to the goal. Three deep breaths of warm, grass-scented air calm my body enough that I’m ready to go.

Wind grasps at my ears as I sprint my hardest to the eighteen-yard box, then turn on my toes and head back the other way.

Some people meditate to calm down. I’ve always found stillness of mind with my body in motion, with blades of grass bending beneath my cleats as my muscles work and my lungs hoard air as if it might disappear.

My toes greet the end line, and I turn again. Pump my arms. Push my legs faster, even though they’re numb with effort.

Each sprint takes me further from the version of me I want to leave behind and one step closer to the girl I want to be: a state champion who’s permanently banished heartbreak from the stadium.

Fifteen minutes later, I ease open the door to first-period economics, trying not to make a sound.

The tingle of something Big dances across the back of my neck again.

With any luck, that’s the universe’s way of telling me I’m about to snag a seat in the back corner of the room without Mrs. Pennington noticing.

Fingers crossed she’s so focused on her PowerPoint presentation that she won’t see me.

My low, messy bun drips puddles onto the back of my T-shirt. Those extra sprints meant I didn’t have time to dry it. I’d done well enough to wash the layer of grime off my body and still make it to class on time. Well, almost on time.

Only two minutes late.

Coach Dixon hadn’t been kidding when he said he was taking our training “up a notch” this year.

Apparently, two months of summer morning sessions and a week of two-a-days weren’t enough to get us in shape for the fall soccer season.

Though I do understand his intensity. We’re expected to make it to the postseason, and there are even rumblings we have a chance at taking our division’s state championship.

I melt into the open chair next to my friend Charlotte, my eyes trained on Mrs. Pennington’s gray-blond hair. So far, no sign that I’ve been spotted.

Charlotte gives me the once-over and sips from her forest-green Coffee Jungle thermos, full eyebrows raised.

Her stick-straight blond hair cascades over her shoulders, creating perfect symmetry.

The humidity apparently has no effect on her.

How annoying. I swipe a hand across the back of my neck and wipe my palms on my black athletic shorts, shrugging.

“Chain run,” I whisper, flicking my eyes toward Mrs. Pennington.

“How many girls puked?” Charlotte asks, matching my whisper.

I hold up four fingers. Charlotte points at me in question. I shake my head.

“Precisely why I avoid athletics.”

Picturing Charlotte, queen of Burberry and manicures, running on purpose makes me snort. This, of all things, catches Mrs. Pennington’s attention.

“Do you find economics funny, Miss Baker?” Thirty pairs of eyes lock onto me. That tingle from a minute ago intensifies. Yikes, Universe. Not exactly the kind of attention I was looking for this morning.

“No, Mrs. Pennington.” I try to fold my five-foot-nine frame smaller to avoid her sharp gaze.

“I suggest you show up on time for the rest of the semester. Student athletes do not get special treatment in my classroom.” So she did see me.

“Of course. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

It’s only the first day of the school year, and I already have a teacher watching me. Great. I can’t get benched for something as stupid as tardies.

I worked too hard all summer to lose my progress. I’ve almost convinced myself my ex-boyfriend, Graham, did me a favor. After everything happened, I focused on fitness and foot skills. When my name showed up on the varsity starting roster, jumping from JV, it was worth it.

I sit in silence for the rest of the period, ignoring Charlotte’s side-eye and smirk.

Of course, little miss teacher’s pet hadn’t been called out, despite being just as involved in the interruption as I was.

Still, I can’t be mad at Charlotte. My friend’s tendency to get a pass on rule-breaking occasionally works in my favor.

When the bell finally rings seventy-six long minutes later and we’re filing out, I say, “It’s going to be a terror of a season. Coach Dixon is gunning for the state title harder than ever.”

“That’s what you’ve been waiting the whole period to say?” Charlotte clearly does not understand the gravity of this situation. I wish Piper was here, if only to commiserate with me.

“What else would I want to talk about?”

“Is it torrid in here, or am I menopausal already?” Anita, the third of our trio, meets us outside the classroom.

She’d been sitting in front of Charlotte, so I couldn’t even say hi to her in class.

She didn’t even turn around. Anita takes school very seriously.

Even more than Charlotte and definitely more than me.

She’s aiming for the Ivy League after graduation.

Anita’s curly dark brown hair circles her face in a frizzy halo.

I groan. “Thank goodness, it’s not just me.”

“Air conditioning is on the fritz,” Charlotte says. “They were here all day yesterday trying to figure it out. The Student Council meeting was ridiculous. You should have heard me trying to shout over the industrial fans they had blowing through the conference room.”

“So much for an alluring appearance on the first day back.” Anita squints at her reflection in her compact. “I got up two hours early, and now it looks like I electrocuted myself.”

“At least you made an effort. Unlike some people.” Charlotte flips her hair over her shoulder.

“I feel attacked,” I say, laughing. “There’s no hope for me. I’ll be lucky if I can keep my hair semi-clean for the duration of the season.” I smooth the waves drying in my bun. “Maybe I’ll try in November after we win state.”

Anita and Charlotte exchange a knowing look as we walk three-wide down the crowded hallway. The rush of students muffles our footsteps on the blue and white checked vinyl floor.

“What am I missing?” I ask.

Charlotte leads the way down the hall toward the foreign language wing. She waves at a few kids pulling books out of their bright blue lockers.

“Rhoads Simpson,” Charlotte says.

The best striker on the boys’ team. “What about him?” My sneakers squeak on the polished floor.

It even smells clean. Like lemons and bleach.

Small perks of the beginning of school. It won’t last long, though.

Not with hundreds of kids trudging on it daily and a fickle air conditioner.

It’s going to smell like a locker room by lunchtime.

“Oh, is he on your Potential Boyfriend List this semester?”

Charlotte laughs. “You’re hilarious. Broody bad boy is not my type. And also…”

“Didn’t you feel his attention on you?” Anita finishes Charlotte’s thought.

A phantom prickle—the Big Moment’s calling card—teases the back of my mind, echoing the one that greeted me when I arrived in econ.

“No,” I say. Heat that has nothing to do with the broken HVAC creeps into my face.

“My hair would spontaneously combust if someone looked at me the way he was looking at you in class. He was captivated,” Anita says.

“By me?” I roll my eyes. “Nope.”

“You’re really going to ignore the chemistry between you?” Charlotte scoffs.

“Weren’t you just saying he’s a broody bad boy?” I shiver. “That phrase makes me want to vomit almost as much as the chain run.”

Anita tilts her head. “His appearance does suggest that’s the case. The leather jacket, the swoopy dark hair, the headphones isolating him from the rest of the world. He’s got Complicated written all over him. Not to mention his indisputable reputation for being anti-commitment.”

“Thanks for agreeing with me, Anita. I think. He’s trouble. And I can’t afford trouble this year.”

Charlotte sighs. “I’m not saying you have to be exclusive or anything. Just have some fun. You’ve certainly got his attention.”

* * *

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

That tingling from earlier is back. Did I twinge my neck at practice this morning?

“Baker? Did you hear me?”

I blink twice and forget how to speak English. Or Spanish. Or whatever language I’m supposed to speak in this class. Rhoads points at the chair next to mine, as if sign language might work better.

“Yeah, sure. That would be super.” Super? What the heck is wrong with me? Stupid Charlotte and her stupid theories. He just needs a seat. No need to get worked up.

“Cool, thanks.” Rhoads flashes his toothy, crooked smile that turns all the straight girls’ eyes into hearts, then drops his worn canvas bag on the floor.

I dig around in my own backpack, finally pulling out a pen I don’t really need. I study the bulletin board across the room. It’s full of pictures of Senora Cruz in various Latin American countries and die-cut sombreros. Right, this is Spanish class.

“So, chain run this morning, huh? Brutal.” Rhoads hooks his headphones around his neck, plops a notebook and pen on his desk, and turns to me.

Soccer is a safe subject. I can talk about soccer with anyone. Even very attractive boys with swoopy hair and reputations. I banish the Charlotte and Anita that live on either of my shoulders. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Saw you run by. We had agility drills. According to Coach Alesi, we’re all as nimble as hippos on roller skates. He threatened ballet classes, but we talked him down. For now.”

“How merciful of him,” I say.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Rhoads laughs. “But by the end, half the team was begging for pliés and rond de jambes.”

I raise a brow.

He shrugs. “My little sister’s a dancer.”

“Well, you can put a tutu on a hippo, but that doesn’t mean it can relevé.”

Rhoads returns my questioning expression.

“Hey, I know things, too.” Or I half-listen when my mom streams Dancing with the Stars while she cooks dinner. But I suddenly want him to think I know things. Even though I shouldn’t. I make a mental plan to ban my friends from talking about boys around me.

Rhoads smiles. “Maybe you just have to play it the right music.”

“Right. You’d be the one to know, I guess.”

His brows scrunch together. “You calling me a hippo, Baker?”

“What? No.” I gesture to his headphones. “If anyone would know what music to play to make a hippo dance, it would be the guy whose headphones are practically glued to his head. What are you always listening to, anyway?”

“A little of this, a little of that.” He leans back in his chair, causing it to squeak.

The class fills with chatting students; our tiny teacher, Senora Cruz, blends right in. I wave at Janae, my team’s starting goalkeeper, as she selects a seat in the back of the room, like always, a gaggle of theater kids right behind her.

“Perfectly vague and evasive.” I mumble the next part. “Maybe Anita was right about you.”

The corners of his lips turn up in a sly smile. “Right about me, how?”

Uh oh. He heard me.

“Might as well just tell me.” Rhoads leans in closer.

A mix of cedar and citrus, wafts over me.

His hair is short enough to be completely dry, while mine will be damp until tomorrow if I keep it in the bun.

A spark lights his dark brown irises as he encroaches on my space.

“I’ll be in this seat all semester. No escaping me. ”

Will he really sit there all semester? That might make it harder for me to actually learn Spanish. Maybe I should switch seats now, while I still can. Cut off this snake’s head before it can bite and poison me.

I’m about to do just that when Senora Cruz walks up to the whiteboard and starts rambling in Spanish, sealing my fate.

Rhoads whispers to me, “This conversation isn’t over, Baker.” He turns toward the front of the room, but I catch him throwing me a side-glance and a half-smile that, despite my best efforts, make my stomach flip.

I say a prayer to the soccer goddesses that my willpower be stronger than his charm. Because if he really is going to sit by me all semester, I’m going to need all the help I can get.