Page 12 of Breakaway Goal

We would share band and song recs and listen to albums together when Lane was off doing something else. The Christmas when I was in ninth grade and he was in eleventh, we both bought each other vinyl record players as gifts.

But it’s not the record player that’s been sitting there since we moved in that catches my eye: it’s an album propped against it that I’m positive wasn’t there before.

I walk over. It’s Room on Fire by The Strokes, a band I love. When I pick it up, I notice a folded-up piece of paper tucked between it and the side of the record player.

I unfold it. A warmth spreads in my chest as I instantly recognize Rhys’s handwriting.

Your first day as an art student calls for a little gift, don’t you think?

A smile pulls on my lips. Still holding Rhys’s note, I place the album on the record player and turn it on. I lie on my bed as the music flows through the speakers. The note stays clutched in my hand while I rest it on my chest.

The negative emotions that were just weaving through me start to fade, like waves smoothing away a drawing etched in the sand.

How did Rhys even get in here? Did he know my schedule and come by when Jasmine was here to let him in? Who knows.

All I know is that he somehow always finds a way to be there for me when I need him, even when he isn’t here.

6

RHYS

Itighten my grip around the cold handle of the wrench and give it one last hard torque.

“Done,” I say to myself with a nod, standing up and rubbing my sore, dirty hands.

Paul lets out a grunt as he twists his own wrench, then stands up from the car engine he’s been leaning over for the last couple hours and groans as he arches to stretch his back.

“You’re a damn lifesaver, Rhys,” he says.

“No sweat,” I answer, reaching for a rag to wipe some oil from my hands.

Paul’s the lifesaver, though. He owns a small garage just on the outskirts of Cedar Shade. For the last couple years, I’ve been working for him part-time, putting in as many hours as I can outside of hockey season.

I have a scholarship for hockey, but it just covers housing and tuition. It’s the job at Paul’s shop that gets me some spending money, enough that I can at least go out to eat now and then with the guys without having to stress and count my pennies.

This’ll probably be the last job I do for him for a while. I can’t keep up a part-time job during hockey season, and Coach Torresis already going to be kicking our asses with a full practice, training, and tape-review schedule starting this week. But Paul suddenly got swamped with way more repairs at once than he’s used to, so he called me asking if I could come by and lend a hand so he doesn’t get buried by the work.

Whenever I can help Paul, I will.

I wish I had more time during the season to pick up a couple shifts here and there. Even though I’ve saved up a decent amount of money from working longer hours since last season ended, things still get pretty tight by the beginning of Spring semester.

Paul saunters over to the motorcycle I just fixed up and tests it out.

He makes a gruff sound of approval as the motor purrs nicely and all the controls respond well.

“Damn good job as always, kid,” he says. He adds a pat on the back to his compliment, and the dark mark of grease and oil his hand leaves on the fabric is a good reminder of why I only wear my oldest, rattiest shirts to the garage.

After Paul assures me he has it covered from here, I get washed up a little—as much as possible in the old, dingy, tiny bathroom he has at his garage—and head back home.

One of the great things about Cedar Shade is that you can walk anywhere, and tonight is a beautiful evening for it. The sun’s just dipped below the tops of the trees surrounding the town, and the sky has that fuzzy, pale-yellow glow of a late summer evening.

As I stroll back home with my hands slung in my pockets, enjoying the refreshing breeze, I mentally calculate how much I made today. When I have the total in my head, I pull out my phone and send a little less than that amount as a Venmo payment to my mom.

I spoke with her on the phone the other day, and she mentioned having a toothache. When I asked her if she’d made a dentist appointment, she changed the subject, which means she can’t afford to right now.

I send a tooth emoji as the message with my payment, so she knows what to do with it.

As soon as I slide my phone back into my pocket, it vibrates. When I check it, it’s a text from Maddie.

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