Chapter 17
Seventeen
CHLOE
Igrab my string bag and follow him back through the hall, my heart still pounding. Of course he didn’t mean he’d fall in love with me. That’s absurd.
We cut through the kitchen. Dani and her friends are flipping through a magazine and eating cookies. We go out the back door and onto the porch. Rhoads’s cleats are already out, and he laces up while I take off my extra layer.
The cool breeze blows across my legs and arms as I pull up my long socks and lace up my own cleats.
By the time I’m done, Rhoads has set up a miniature goal and a few cones. He flashes a winning smile. “Alright, Baker. Show me what you’ve got.”
I instinctively place myself between Rhoads and the goal.
Rhoads passes me the ball, circles behind me, and nudges me in the back. “Nope. You’re attacking first.”
“But I’m—”
“Already good at defending. I want to see your foot skills. Start back at that cone and work your way toward goal.”
I do as I’m told, raking the ball with my cleat as I jog to the neon orange cone about fifteen yards away. When I turn back around, Rhoads is in a defensive stance. But his feet are too close together. I leave the ball where it is and jog back over to him. “Your feet are out of position.”
He looks down at them, as if noticing for the first time that he does, in fact, own feet.
“Can I adjust them?”
He laughs. “Of course. Yeah. Please.”
I tap his right foot with mine. “Move this one out just a bit more. It’ll help you sink lower in your hips and give you better balance for changing position.”
He does, then sinks lower, as I suggested. Not quite a squat, which would be too much, but enough that the definition in his quads has me blushing. “How’s that?”
I clear my throat. “Great. Yep. Okay, I’m going back over there now.
” In position, I tap the ball between my feet to get a feel for it.
My shoulders relax as I breathe in the familiar grassy smell.
My well-worn cleats, molded to my feet, grip the soft yet firm ground, hugging it hello after too long apart.
Even though this is a makeshift field, it has the same energy as every other pitch.
Anticipation. Competition. The thrill of pushing my body to do complex moves. “I assume the goal is my target?”
Rhoads nods. “Good luck.” He smirks, and that’s what gets me fired up to beat him.
There’s the cocky striker I knew was hiding inside.
I dribble toward him slowly at first, getting the lay of the land.
His body is angled, trying to guide me to the left because he assumes it’s my weaker foot.
In my head, I laugh. I’m right-handed, but I trained my left leg to be even stronger than my dominant right, simply for the fact that most players favor their right.
I needed something to help me stand out. A pocket ace.
I do a stutter-step and fake right but cut back toward my left.
Rhoads pivots and steps forward. I hit the ball too hard during my move, and he fills the space I’m heading for. He gets there first, his right foot knocking the ball out of the way.
But I’m mid-step with no chance to change direction, and my forward momentum carries me directly into his chest.
His arms wrap around me to stop me from falling. “You okay?” he says into my ear. That woodsy citrus scent should be as illegal as steroids for how it’s altering my body chemistry. His breathing pace matches mine, a little heightened from the physical exertion. Of course, that’s all it is.
It has nothing to do with the fact that his hands are still on my arms even though my feet are both firmly planted on the ground, and I’m in no danger of injuring myself.
“Yep. All good. Except for the fact that you got the ball.” I could step back now that I’m balanced. But I don’t.
“Hmm, well I must have had a good tip from a hot instructor.” His face reddens, which I’ve never seen happen before when he’s flirted. “I mean, a hot tip from a good instructor.”
I laugh and roll right over that with my natural sarcasm. “Yeah, well, my instructor must need some work.”
“Go again?” he asks.
“Yeah. But first, you have to tell me what I did wrong there.”
He passes me the ball, and I trap it at my feet. “Let’s arrange ourselves how we were right at the end there, before I stole the ball.”
We do.
“I feigned trying to force you right, but I knew you wanted to go left, so I left it open for you—”
“Wait, how did you know I was going left?”
“I told you. I can see your mind analyzing. Your eyes get this focused look. And you twitch whichever hand matches the side you’re heading for.”
“I do?” Literally no one else has ever said that to me. Not my dad, not any of my coaches. Not even Teagan.
Rhoads nods. “Yeah, so pay attention to that. This next time, don’t try to plan it out. Just go with your gut. Whatever it tells you to do in the moment. Don’t try to anticipate what I’m doing.”
“Go with my gut. I can do that.”
“Good. Now, come at me again, but don’t think. Just do.” He gets into position, and so do I.
I take a deep breath. And then I streak down the grass, not giving myself time to think. Rhoads approaches cautiously. I take one touch with my left, cut back to my right and use the inside of my right foot to kick the ball toward the net.
It rolls into the right corner.
“Yes!” I jump up in the air.
“Nicely done.” Rhoads high-fives me, his face cracked into a wide grin. “How did that feel?”
“Amazing. I didn’t even know what I was going to do until I did it. It was like I put my feet on autopilot.”
“And that’s why I was one step behind.”
“Are you sure that’s not because I’m the better player?” I laugh as I retrieve the ball from the net.
He shakes his head, still smiling, but a little more shyly. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re the better player.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Best three out of five?”