Chapter 11
Eleven
CHLOE
Iarrive outside the locker rooms to meet Rhoads on Monday full of anticipation. We talked in economics and Spanish a little, but my nerves are now dialed up to twelve. Usually, we hang out in a big group of even bigger personalities. It’s easy to chat when there’s so many people.
But we’ve never spent more than five minutes alone together. Other than our brief encounters in the music wing and at Stuff ‘n’ Things. And that awkward as hell minute at the bonfire. Will it be weird?
I don’t have long to analyze, because he’s walking toward me.
He’s looking at his phone with his eyebrows scrunched.
His headphones perch on his ears, where they always are, and my own head warms at the memory of wearing them in the music wing.
I wonder what he’s listening to this time.
Philip Wesley again, or something else? Classical still?
“Hey,” he says as he stops right in front of me.
“Hi.”
Is it just me, or does he also look nervous?
“Ready for lesson one?” His signature smirk appears, and suddenly I feel like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Okay so maybe Charlotte was right and he just had a weird night at the bonfire, and it had nothing to do with me or any rumors he might have heard about us.
I paste on my most determined expression. “Do your worst, Simpson.”
He laughs and waves for me to follow him into the empty athletics classroom where we usually watch game footage. It smells like the lemon disinfecting wipes the coaches make us use to clean the weight room equipment.
“Oh no. You didn’t get the recording of me missing that penalty, did you?” A hot stone simmers in my stomach. The only thing more embarrassing than having him see that firsthand would be watching it again right next to him.
“Nope.” Rhoads sets his stuff down against the wall and pushes the desks out of the way so there’s an open area. He makes eye contact with me and wiggles his eyebrows. “Worse.”
I rack my brain for what could possibly be worse. A highlight reel of every mistake I’ve ever made on the field? Baby pictures of me in the bathtub? “Okay, I’ll bite. What are we doing?”
Rhoads remove his headphones. “Are you always this impatient?”
“Yes.”
He laughs and shakes his head, then pulls a small video game system out of his backpack. He presses some buttons on the remote and the wall-mounted TV lights up.
“But seriously. What are we doing?”
“Learning how to play.”
“Play?”
“Yeah. A game. Ever heard of it?”
I jut out my chin. “Of course.”
He places a controller in my palm, his other hand grasping mine from underneath. My skin tingles at his touch. Stupid skin. Stop that. “Okay, I’m super confused. Please, tell me how this is supposed to help me score goals?” I fold my arms. My hand grows cold as our connection breaks.
“You’re an amazing soccer player, Baker. You’re technical, you’re focused. But you think too much. I can see you analyzing the play from my seat in the bleachers. And, if I can see it, so can your opponents.”
“So, I have to play video games?” I’m still not getting it.
“You need to learn to relax. Let go a little. Have some fun.”
Funny. Charlotte basically said the same thing to me. Just have fun for once. Go to a party, hold hands, kiss. Not everything has to be serious.
I scoff, but I don’t necessarily disagree with him. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. “You think I’m too much in my head.”
“Yes. So, today, we get you out of your head and into your body. I mean, a part you don’t usually use.”
My face flames as I try to ignore the way his mouth moves over the curves of the word “body” and try to block out the jokes I know Anita and Charlotte would be making if they’d just heard him.
It’s a really good thing he turned to fiddle with the TV and can’t see me, because I’m positive my face looks like a ripe tomato.
“Your hands, I mean.” He turns back around and holds his controller aloft.
Right. Of course. I clear my throat. “So, what are we playing?”
“Mario Kart. Ever played?” He sits down in one of the two chairs he’s pulled into the center of the room and gestures for me to take the place beside him.
“Once, like a million years ago.” Kyle had gotten the game for Christmas and Anita, Charlotte, and I had taken turns racing him. “I was terrible.”
Rhoads beams. “Fantastic.”
“Are you good?”
He shrugs, and I assume that means yes.
Perfect. I’m about to get my behind kicked. In the name of soccer, I remind myself. It can’t make me play any worse.
I sit in the chair next to him and put the controller down. I make a big show of taking out my ponytail and redoing it tighter and arrange my face into a determined expression. He’s probably—okay, definitely—better than I am, but I’m not going to go down without a fight. “Bring it on, Simpson.”
“That’s the spirit! Now, select your racer.”
We play three tracks before I really get a handle on the controls. Of course, I lose all three. But honestly? I don’t even care. I’m having fun with no other agenda.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this…
free. Gag. It sounds so gross. But it’s true.
Knowing no one is judging or waiting for me to make a mistake or even being able to see if I do make one, I take more risks.
Attempting a move I never would if someone were watching.
Because the only thing at stake is Rhoads’s opinion of me, and as weird as it is, I know he won’t think less of me when I lose.
I trust him not to make me feel bad about it.
“Okay, I need a break,” I say, after my sixth epic loss.
He puts his controller down then turns to look at me. “So? How do you feel?”
I look at the ceiling. “As much as it pains me to admit it, you were right.”
He mock gasps and cups his ear with his hand. “Can you say that again?”
I give him a playful shove and look him in the eyes. “You were right.” I blow the rebellious hairs out of my face.
“You look different.”
I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, then looks away, smiling. “I don’t know.”
He starts to stand up, but my hand develops a mind of its own and tugs his wrist. “Wait.” He sits back down, turning toward me again. Our faces are inches apart. I could count his unfairly long eyelashes if I wanted.
I clear my throat. “What do you mean?” My voice comes out lower and softer than usual.
“You look happy.”
“Do I not normally look happy?” My face muscles release the smile, spooked by being noticed.
“Don’t do that. Don’t lose it.” He rests both his pointer fingers on the corners of my mouth and gently coaxes them upward into a grin.
Tingles spread through my cheeks and lips. I hold my breath and count five heartbeats.
What were we talking about?
He freezes, his wide brown eyes locked on mine, pupils large and dark.
The bell rings. I blink, and Rhoads is already standing, offering his hand to help me up.
He’s so far away now I wonder if I imagined how close we just were. Or did he jump away that fast?
We’re here help each other train. And eat pancakes. No more.
But as I clasp my hand in his and he helps me up, heat travels through every inch of my body.
After the promise I made to myself, am I making a huge mistake spending time with him?