Page 32 of Breakaway Goal

If I think about Maddie with another guy for even a second longer, I don’t think my teeth are going to be able to take it, given the way the subject makes them grind together.

“Hey,” I say to Maddie while I tilt my head toward one of the bags. “Fish out the salt and vinegar chips.”

Her lips pucker in disgust. “Why?”

“Let’s see if we’ve suddenly developed a taste for them.”

She sticks out her tongue. “Yuck. Are you serious?”

“Hey, I remember you didn’t like mayonnaise until your junior year of high school. Sometimes tastes change.”

“I want my skepticism noted for the record.” She pulls open the bag and retrieves a big chip, holding it up and inspecting it with disdain on her face.

“You first,” she chirps, holding the chip out to me.

I dip my head to snatch a bite from her fingertips. The briny, prickly flavor soaks into my mouth, drawing a grimace. I look at Maddie and see her chewing, with a matching expression on her face.

“Sometimes tastes don’t change,” she says after forcing a swallow, her nose scrunched.

“Guess not,” I reply with a laugh. “But sometimes eating something really nasty can make for an even better memory than eating something good.”

She pushes the open bag of chips against my chest. “They’re all yours, then.”

The succulent smellof simmering garlic and onions hangs in the air as Maddie and I get to work making the sauce.

Maddie has her phone on the counter with her Spotify app open, playing a playlist I made her the summer before I wentoff to Brumehill, featuring some of our favorite songs that we’d listened to and recommended each other over the years.

Lived In Barsby Cat Power is playing, and we bob our heads to the rhythm as we go about our culinary tasks.

“This can opener is so rusty,” Maddie groans as she tries to open a can of crushed tomatoes. She slants her arm for leverage and torques at the handle—but she loses her grip, and the can tilts at the worst angle to send a wave of tomato water splashing over the open edge of the lid.

“Crap!” Maddie exclaims, dropping the can and looking down at the splotch of red covering her shirt and jeans.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I click my tongue playfully. I finish opening the can. “Some people just don’t have what it takes to master the art of opening crushed tomatoes.”

Maddie flattens her lips and narrows her eyes at me. “I hate you.”

“Don’t take your lack of crushed tomato handling skills out on me,” I tease in a sing-song voice, walking over to dump the contents into the saucepan.

While I’m by the stove, I tear off a couple sheets of paper towels and hand them to Maddie. After wiping herself off, she walks to her bag of clothes in the living room that she brought along for the time she’s spending here.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I don’t have a clean shirt left!” she groans, picking up a pair of shorts. “I’ve put off doing laundry for too long. I’m gonna go up and steal one of Lane’s hoodies or something.”

I turn my attention to seasoning the sauce until I hear Maddie’s feet padding back down the stairs—and when I turn around and look at her, my jaw fucking drops.

My heart bounds against my chest. It’s like a bolt of lightning shoots up and down my spine, sending waves of electricity snaking through me, right down to my fingertips. My skin feelscoated in static as time stretches out and I can’t tear my gaze from her as she stands at the bottom of the stairs.

Maddie Larsen is wearing my shirt.

It’s a white long-sleeve shirt from the high school hockey team Lane and I played on. I know it’s mine because Lane has the black version of the shirt.

It’s big on her. A strange feeling of pride beats through me. The sleeves are so long that only the very ends of her fingertips show as her arms hang by her sides. The hem falls so low that you can’t even tell she’s wearing shorts underneath. A burst of possessiveness detonates in my chest.

“You’re … wearing my shirt.” The words fall from my mouth.

She glances down. Her cheeks color, a self-conscious smile tilting on her lips. “Yeah. Lane’s door was locked. So, I thought it’d be okay if I borrowed something from your room.”

My eyes crawl up and down her bare legs. The image of grabbing the hem of that shirt and lifting it up, finding out that she’snotwearing anything underneath, flashes in my mind. My balls tighten, and I have to clench my jaw to stifle a groan.

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