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The Delete and Archive options hover over my latest selfie. I’d posted it on Instagram this morning—a sacred part of my daily routine. Ten hours later, it has around three thousand Likes. My highest yet! Everyone is praising the beaded embroidery dress I bought at T.J.Maxx. No one has mentioned my tongue—the thing Jeremy hates about this photo.
“You’re not a camel, Rachelle. Sticking it out is classless. What if you lose a career opportunity or a seat at your top school because of embarrassing pictures? Take that shit down.”
My boyfriend is right. I should be careful with my image, even though I’m not applying to Princeton like him. He’s committed to getting a full ride playing soccer for them next year. But the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising might also have a problem with my tongue. I’ll never forgive myself if I’m rejected from my dream fashion school over a silly pose. The other selfies with this outfit aren’t as … effervescent? Is that the word I’m looking for? Jeremy’s the one with a dictionary for a brain.
It is his birthday. Deleting the photo he hates is the least I can do.
If only he could see me do it. I’ve been sitting in Celestino’s Pizzeria alone for the past hour. My calls keep going straight to voice mail. Soccer tryouts start next week, but as usual, Jeremy’s already practicing by himself. He’s following a rigorous training schedule modeled after his favorite player, Cristiano Ronaldo. Thankfully, Celestino’s owner plays golf with Jeremy’s dad, so our reservation in the private dining area has a never-ending extension.
I sigh. Sometimes I wish he didn’t love soccer so much. Then I remember how selfish I sound. It’s not like he never makes time for me. It’s just that our dates are often very chill, and there isn’t a lot of variety in his choices. We’re regulars at Celestino’s and other fine dining restaurants in Montecito, our sunny hometown. I’ve also spent a few weekends on his dad’s yacht at the Santa Barbara harbor. Jeremy hates swimming, so we mostly eat, sunbathe, and take lots of pictures.
Well, I take lots of pictures. I used to post them on my personal account (@!/rachelle_amador/!), but now I upload them with my hashtag, #clearancestylevibes, which is the social media brainchild I launched ten months ago. It’s where I post selfies with trendy outfits I’ve either bought or have tried on from the clearance racks at designer boutiques. I also make TikTok videos that help me show off how the pieces move and look in specific lighting. Waking up to comments praising my aesthetic and photo-editing skills … chef’s kiss.
The server pours me a third glass of water. He smiles awkwardly at the teal-and-silver HAPPY BIRTHDAY balloons I’ve placed around the table. Then he’s off to the elderly couple across the room. They’re watching a cheerleading competition on their phones. Both women ask for more Cabernet. They clap as their favorite team finishes their performance. Then they stare deeply into each other’s eyes. One even boops the other’s nose! I wonder how long they’ve been together, how many adventures they’ve been on with the power of love guiding them.
That will be us one day, Jeremy.
A shadow swoops past me. The chair’s legs screech as a boy pulls it back.
“Hey,” says Jeremy.
“¡Mi amor!” I lunge at him like a feral cheetah. My arms wrap around his waist, and I bury my face into his cologne-drenched cotton polo. I don’t recognize the scent; it’s not one of the eleven fragrances I’ve bought him. “Happy birthday! It’s so good to see you and—”
“Can we sit down? People are staring.”
“Oh! Of course!” I release him and point to the balloons. “It’s your favorite colors!”
Jeremy sits down without glancing at them. He’s rubbing his forehead, his eyes firmly pressed shut. “Please sit. The faster I get this out of the way, the faster I can leave.”
My shoulders drop. “We’re … not having dinner?”
He scowls. In the seven months he’s been my boyfriend, not once has he looked at me like I’m bothering him. I didn’t even know I could bother him.
“I’m only doing this in person because I’m a firm believer in face-to-face conversations. Don’t make this any more uncomfortable than it already is.”
“Make what more uncomfortable? It’s your eighteenth birthday. Why are you so upset?”
“If you sit down, I can—”
“I’m fine. Now tell me why you’re an hour late with a scowl on that gorgeous face.”
Okay, so the “gorgeous” part wasn’t supposed to slip out. But even when he’s angry, Jeremy Matthews is too handsome for my own good. The closest I’ve come to accurately describing him to my grandparents in Puerto Rico is if Tom Holland had a scar on his left brow and way more toned thighs. How could I ever be immune to his charms?
“You know why I was late. Practice is very important to me,” he says.
“Yes, I understand, but—”
“Especially since I want to go pro. I have a few clubs from overseas coming to see me play this season, too. I need to stay focused on my future.”
“I know, yes—”
“And that’s what I wanted to talk about tonight. We’ve been together for seven whole months, Rachelle, and not once have you given me the same respect I give you.”
My butt lands on the chair. First he treats me like I’m bothersome, and now he’s acting like I’ve been the worst girlfriend ever? Jeremy doesn’t do drugs, but I’m tempted to ask if he’s high right now.
The selfie …
“Is this about my picture? Because I was going to delete it right before you showed up.” I pull up Instagram on my phone and smash the Delete button. “There you go! All gone!”
“It’s not just about that stupid selfie. I don’t think we’re a good match, after all.”
My two older brothers have taken boxing classes. If I asked them to describe what it’s like getting clocked in the face, I think it would be a similar sensation to what I’m experiencing in this exact moment—head shooting back from the whiplash; teary, disoriented gaze; throbbing bones; and choked attempts at breathing.
“We’re not … what?” I whisper. “Are you dumping me?”
“You used to like soccer, too, remember? That’s how we met.”
“I … yes, we were … at the beach…”
Jeremy nods. “You were playing with your brothers, and you scored a goal despite being outnumbered. I thought you were outstanding. Still had some room for improvement, but I was impressed. Then I introduced myself. There was this … pull … toward you. I couldn’t ignore it.”
That day, he had looked at me like he was under a spell—eyes wide and shining, a smile that could light up the darkest maze at Halloween Horror Nights. I was in the middle of a kick when I saw him. Tripping in front of hot guys is the absolute worst, but Jeremy helped me up and asked if I wanted to join him for dinner.
“But you wouldn’t practice with me,” Jeremy continues. “Not seriously, anyway. It was just a fun activity for you—not a future. You have so much potential and you keep wasting it.”
He says it like I’ve set a FIFA contract on fire. Like it pains him to realize I’m not whoever he thought I was on some random beach day with my family. I had a blast fooling around with a soccer ball in the sand because that’s the closest thing to a water sport my brothers would ever agree to. And it’s the only sport where I’m better than them! Of course I’m playing it in public!
“Are you dumping me?” I repeat even louder.
Jeremy sighs like he’s spent the past week running uphill. It’s a long, tired sound.
“All you really care about is makeup and clothes. Your dream to study Fashion Marketing is a distraction. I need to be with someone whose main motivations aren’t lipsticks and high heels. Someone who isn’t posting on social media all the damn time. And that person isn’t you.”
Pleas for him to stay, to change his mind, lodge in my tight throat.
I’m too weak to grab him as he walks away, muttering words that get lost in the bustle of Celestino’s new patrons making a beeline toward their group table.
The birthday boy leaves me to bawl my eyes out alone.
“Rachelle Amador, open up right now or I’m eating your bistec encebollado.”
Mami bangs on my bedroom door for the hundredth time.
“I told you I’m not hungry!” I shove a spoonful of Talenti’s Mediterranean Mint Gelato into my mouth. This is my third pint of the day. Roberto—my oldest brother—stocked the fridge as soon as I came clean about Jeremy. While Mami and Edgardo—my second- oldest brother—wished ill upon the entire Matthews family tree, Roberto slipped out of the house to buy me a weekend’s worth of breakup junk food. There’s no need for me to exit this room until Monday.
When I’ll be forced to face Jeremy in the halls of Monte Lindo High. I’ll see him sitting with the friends we shared simply because I was his girlfriend, and who’ll probably ice me out. I should’ve made friends of my own. Jeremy never told me not to spend time with people who shared my interests, but he also never encouraged me to do fun stuff without him. He always had plans for us ready to go, and he only canceled if last-minute soccer practices came up. It’s like he wanted my world to revolve around him.
I let out a sob. Losing a boyfriend sucks, but it’s so much worse when there’s no one to wallow with. Family just isn’t the same—they’ll try to convince me this isn’t a big deal. And I’d very much like to have someone treat this crapstorm like a big deal, thanks.
“You need to nourish yourself with real food. Nada de esas pendejadas.” Mami heaves a loud sigh. “Jeremy did you a favor! Someone better will come along in the future.”
There’s that cursed word—future.
As much as Jeremy hurt me, he’s still my first serious boyfriend. There’s no way I’m healing from this heartbreak in the blink of an eye, and telling me to do so will only sink me into a deeper hole of complete suckage. But I guess a woman who raised three kids by herself, refuses to go on dates, and became the most sought-after plastic surgeon in town less than a year after opening up her clinic wouldn’t understand that.
“Please leave me alone, Mami!” I can’t even get through the sentence without wailing.
She keeps threatening to eat my bistec encebollado for a few more minutes, then stomps down the hall, probably headed to the kitchen to put my lunch in Tupperware.
I take another spoonful of gelato as I open Instagram. This is the first time since I launched the #clearancestylevibes hashtag that I’ve missed my posting schedule. I already have everything uploaded in drafts, but I can’t bring myself to publish anything.
I need to be with someone whose main motivations aren’t lipsticks and high heels.
How dare he belittle my passion? It’s not like he’s curing cancer by kicking a ball!
I scroll down my feed in search of mindless content that can help me forget Jeremy exists. There’s the usual mix of celebrities, fashion stylists, designer brands, and classmates. My thumb gains even more speed whenever someone from Monte Lindo High pops up on-screen.
The feed falls into a steady stream of advertisements, then another classmate slides into view—Teresa Smith. She’s a senior like me, a striker on the girls’ soccer team, and our school’s resident female athlete superstar. Her sandy-blond hair whips behind her as she poses in last year’s finals match against Toreros High. She happily holds up the trophy for the camera.
I’m about to scroll past when I notice the first commenter’s name: @jer:)matthews18.
That’s Jeremy’s Instagram handle. He’s left Teresa two words: Dream girl.
The comment was posted on his eighteenth birthday.
I click on Teresa’s profile and search every selfie she’s ever posted. Her photo with Mimi, her cousin, has almost ten thousand Likes. Mimi plays ice hockey for the U.S. Under-18 Women’s National Team. She’s pretty popular and a pretty blonde, so it doesn’t shock me. What does seem weird is Jeremy leaving red hearts and variations of his “dream girl” comment on almost every picture. They were all posted on the same day he dumped me surrounded by the balloons I bought him. Balloons I deflated with a kitchen knife as a coping mechanism.
Teresa hasn’t pressed the heart next to his compliments yet, but his friends hit Like on his very blatant flirtations. Were he and Teresa talking behind my back all along? Did they plan for him to get rid of me so they could be soccer lovers together?
I throw my phone on the bed with a growl. How fucking dare they? Blaming me for being shallow and uninteresting when he’s cheating on me and his soccer bros are okay with it? Ugh, why are boys??? That’s it—that’s the whole question. Why. Are. Boys. God, I hope they lose their first match. No, no … I hope they lose every match for the entire season! Or even better, I hope they don’t make it past tryouts next week!!!!
Wait a second … Their teams for the school year haven’t been formed yet …
A bolt of energy hits me harder than a ball to the face. Every position on the girls’ team is up for grabs. Not even a star striker like Teresa automatically gets to keep her spot.
Jeremy’s wasted no time in replacing me. He’s riding high. Thriving in my lane isn’t going to bring him down, but being better than his dream girl at the sport he loves … becoming the new star striker …
I wipe my tears as I fetch my phone again.
I have a tryout schedule to find.
As hopeful girls file onto Monte Lindo High’s soccer field, my dog of an ex-boyfriend is already sitting in the stands. He hasn’t yet seen me walking across the grass. He’s been ignoring me in the hallways and during our few classes together, unaware of my plan to burn his world down.
I approach Teresa at a brisk pace. She’s tying her hair in a poor excuse for a bun by the water cooler. Her back faces the stands, but Jeremy’s loving eyes are glued to her.
Not for long.
“Good afternoon.” I speak to Teresa like a British monarch arriving fashionably late to my own royal ball. “Could you please move aside? I’m parched.”
Okay, I totally googled that word last night.
Teresa spins around, her fingers still lost in that messy bun.
“Hey…” she says, her brow furrowed.
“Hello, Teresa.”
The last time we spoke was in ninth grade. I’d dropped my glittery butterfly stickers as I ran out of our History class. She’d handed them to me, which was nice, but she kept staring at them like she had no idea why anyone would need glittery butterfly stickers.
Teresa looks me up and down, carefully studying my matching pink sneakers and shorts. “Are you … here for … tryouts?” She backs away, as if she needs more space to fully take me in.
“Indeed. May I nourish myself before we begin?”
“Um … sure.” She stands aside, scratching the back of her head. “Wow.”
“Is something wrong, Teresa?”
“No, I just … didn’t expect someone like you to be here.”
“May I ask what you mean by someone like me?”
I start filling up my thermos, but I don’t break eye contact. I think Roberto once told me about how staring straight into your opponent’s eyes weakens their defenses or something.
Teresa finishes tying her bun. It’s so lopsided the Leaning Tower of Pisa would be jealous.
“People who’ve never shown interest in our sport,” she says. “But we all contain multitudes, right? Which position are you gunning for?”
She’s supercalm—not like the snobby boyfriend stealer I hoped she’d be.
It could be an act. Our coaches are here. And people with camera phones. The last thing a prospective recruit to the top colleges in this country wants is her shot at glory to go up in smoke.
You’re not fooling me …
I take a slow sip of water while holding eye contact. After I gulp down, I sigh. “Yours.”
Teresa’s eyes go wide.
I leave her behind with a spring in my step.
Jeremy’s jaw is on the floor. He’s leaning forward like an old man who’s struggling to hear what those people in the television are mumbling about. He’s too far away to listen in on our conversation, but seeing me in the last place he imagined must be melting his brain. The loser is even rubbing his eyes as if this is a hallucination. As if there’s no way I could ever be here.
I blow him a kiss, then walk to where the first drill is about to start. This is my field. I want him and his dream girl to remember it for the rest of their embarrassing lives.
This is definitely not my field.
I’ve been huffing and puffing through these godforsaken drills for the past half hour. Why would anyone be good at—and even enjoy—repeatedly jumping over marker cones? What is the point of forcing us to pretend we’re bunnies escaping a ravenous predator (yes, I googled ravenous, too)? And don’t even get me started on the whole kicking-a-tennis-ball-back-at-the-coach-while-tapping-a-ladder-in-and-out! I may as well have signed my soul away to hell.
“You okay?” one of the midfielders asks. Chelsea Something … I can’t remember.
“Yeah … I’m … great!”
I’m doubled over, fanning myself at full speed. Hopefully my smile and upbeat tone will fool everyone. Jeremy and Teresa won’t get the satisfaction of seeing me fail.
A whistle blows.
At long last, it’s time for striker drills! We’ll be training near the touchlines on the right side of the pitch. I line up behind the dozens of girls trying out for spots on the team—one is known as the striker, which belonged to Teresa last season. Strikers are mostly responsible for scoring goals. I’ll admit Teresa is pretty good at her job, but it’s not like she’s unbeatable. There can only be one striker on the team, right? She’s gone after I outperform her, no? Ugh, I wish I’d actually paid attention to Jeremy’s constant speeches about soccer positions! Either way, from what I’ve seen in YouTube videos of past matches, she’s a fast dribbler, but I’m way faster.
Well, I’m faster in the sand without jumping around for a half hour beforehand.
Don’t start losing steam now! You have a spot to secure!
Teresa goes first. She kicks the ball toward the metal bench that’s been placed on the grass. When the ball bounces back to her, she leads it down the length of our assembled line, stops it with a flawless turn, then returns to the bench to start all over again. Her focus is sharper than the Japanese steel kitchen knives Mami bought recently. On her final run, Teresa goes a bit farther away with the ball, and kicks it with all her might toward the empty goal.
She scores.
“Good job!”
“That’s right!”
“Go, Teresa!”
The other girls are clapping as if Megan Rapinoe herself is on the field.
Jeremy is clapping, too, but he’s dead silent. And he’s looking at me like I’m the hardest math problem he’s ever had to solve. God knows what’s running through his cheating mind, but after I have a go at this drill, I hope it’s filled with my amazing performance.
“Thanks, guys,” says Teresa.
I fold my arms and keep my gaze straight ahead. I’m not in the mood to watch her give these obnoxious groupies some high fives and fist bumps. Four girls later, it’s finally my time to shine. I’m rested enough to kick the ball toward the bench without struggling for air, but I’m definitely lacking in strength. The ball touches the bench instead of fully slamming into it.
I pretend there’s a picture of Jeremy and Teresa making out. The bench rattles with each grunt-fueled kick. It’s like the shirtless Spartan army from that supermacho movie Edgardo loves so much has possessed my right leg. When it’s time for the goal-scoring portion of my drill, I race past the line of girls, throwing Teresa a little side-eye. I sweep my foot forward.
It misses the ball.
Then flies high toward the sun, making me lose balance on my standing leg.
I’m launched onto the grass.
“Oof!”
My back and butt have never throbbed this much. I stay down as searing heat travels all over my lower body. The warmth on my cheeks is even hotter—I’ve just fallen on my ass in front of my ex-boyfriend and the girl he dumped me for!
“Whoa. Are you hurt?”
Teresa Smith stands over me, her hand outstretched.
There’s no way I’m touching her. Is she trying to embarrass me further? Rubbing it in by pretending she’s helping me up? She and Jeremy will surely roast me behind my back! This little act is simply another way to build up her spotless image, too. I refuse to be part of her schemes.
And I definitely refuse to be ridiculed.
“Get away from me!” I rise all by myself. It takes me a while to regain my balance, but at least I’m not depending on the fake girl in front of me.
“What is your problem? Please explain it to me like I’m five years old.” Teresa blocks my path. Her smile is long gone. Now she’s full-blown glaring at me like I’ve scorched her precious trophies into ashes. “No offense, but you’re acting like a total jerk for no reason.”
She might as well have kicked me in the gut. “For … no … reason?” I whisper.
A whistle goes off behind me.
“Ladies, that’s enough. We’re moving on to partner drills,” Coach says.
“You’re kidding, right? You have to be,” I tell Teresa. “How long had you been talking to Jeremy before he left me for you? Did you both plan for him to dump me last week?”
“Ladies!”
Teresa raises a hand to Coach. Her eyebrows are knitted together in confusion. “This is because of Jeremy Matthews?”
“Does the guy clapping for you in the stands have another name?”
Teresa’s sigh is long. She lowers her hand, taking a firm step forward. “Your ex has been messaging me for the past three weeks, but we’re not dating. I’m not even interested in him. I haven’t blocked him because I planned on showing you his messages, but … I just didn’t know how to approach you. Whenever I saw the two of you together, I could tell you were in deep, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. But I guess it’s too late for that now. You can check my DMs if you want. Everything is still there.” She motions to Jeremy, but doesn’t break eye contact with me. “Boys like him only care about themselves, and they make us believe we’re the problem.”
The whole team is gathered around us, hooked on her every heartbreaking word. It’s a miracle no one is filming this. All they can do is nod along.
I almost nod, too. Jeremy treated me like trash back at the restaurant, but he’s probably dropped hints of his asshole-ness throughout our relationship. I’d been too obsessed with him to notice. But to hear that he’s been messaging Teresa during his time with me … that she’s endured it only so she could have proof against him … that she’s not into him at all and still he persists …
I shouldn’t be ashamed of falling earlier.
The way I’ve behaved today is the real embarrassment.
Teresa is right—guys like Jeremy want us to think everything is either our fault or in our heads. They’re never the source of our frustrations, and they’re always allowed to feel frustrated when they’re not the center of our universe. The faster my mind races with Teresa’s confession, the heavier my limbs feel. I slowly squat until my butt finds its way to the grass again.
“Give her some space, okay? Let’s back up,” Teresa says.
The girls retreat a few paces. They’re all staring at me like I’m a wounded bird.
“Can I get you some water?” one girl asks.
“Or an energy drink?” Another girl.
“How’s that leg, by the way? The one you tripped on?” And another.
Soon they’re all talking at the same time. They go from offering me tissues for my sweaty face to encouraging me to take deep, calming breaths.
I’ve never been part of a team, but this sure feels like it.
Tears spring to my eyes. I spent so much time wrapped around Jeremy’s finger that I didn’t make friends outside of his inner circle. That’s exactly how he liked it, too—the less support for anything that didn’t revolve around him, the better. But as kind as these amazing athletes are, I don’t belong among them. It was a mistake to think I ever could.
“I came here to take your spot.” I speak directly to Teresa. “Just to piss you and Jeremy off. And to prove him wrong about me. I’ve always been fairly good at soccer, but it’s never been something I see myself doing for the rest of my life. I’m sorry for treating you the way I did, and for coming onto your field and acting like I have any claim to it.”
Teresa shakes her head. “It’s not my field. This is for everyone who works hard to be here. If you want to go, you’re free to do so, but as high as your foot went after your fall … it’s giving me major goalie vibes. I think we can ask Coach to test your skills in the net. What do you say, girls?”
“Yes!” they say in cheerful unison.
“Let’s see what you got.” Teresa winks at me.
I laugh. Maybe I’ll suck even worse.
Or maybe I’ll be good at it, but I won’t know unless I try.
Is soccer my future? Probably not. Bonding with these girls, though … that definitely seems more promising. Besides, there’s room in my walk-in closet for both high heels and sneakers.
And more important, this is a chance to build a life without the ex who never deserved me. Sure, I started on this path to spite him, but he doesn’t get to dictate anything else again. For the first time in seven months, I’m not doing something for a boy. This is for me.
“The net it is.” I reach out a hand to Teresa. “Help me up?”
She smiles. “Of course.”
As she pulls me back to my feet, I hear Coach telling everyone to take their places. The girls offer me high fives first, then dart off toward their respective spots.
Teresa is about to turn away when I grab her by the arm.
“Feel free to delete those messages and block him,” I say. “I don’t need to see anything.”
“Oh, thank God … I hate his sorry ass.” Teresa looks right at him. Her scowl is intense enough to peel off his skin. “Next time he tries talking to me, I’m spitting in his ugly face.”
Not too long ago, the thought of anyone calling Jeremy Matthews ugly would’ve been ridiculous, but now that I see past his looks, I can’t find a single beautiful thing about him.
“Hey, Teresa? Can we take a quick picture?”
After she says yes, we sprint to my gym bag, fetch my phone, and do the exact pose I requested. After I apply my favorite filter, I post it on Instagram with a hashtag I’ve never used before: #GOALS. I also throw in my usual #clearancestylevibes and mention how I’ll start searching for affordable sports-related items to include in my shoots.
Jeremy walks down the stands. He makes a beeline for the exit.
I smile down at my picture with Teresa, our heads leaning against each other and our tongues proudly hanging out.