Broken Beautiful Hearts
Kami Garcia
For every girl who is struggling and doubting herself—Speak your truth. You're stronger than you think.
The shell must break before the bird can fly.
—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
CHAPTER 1
When the Stars Align
I BELIEVE EVERYTHING happens for a reason and usually the reason sucks. I also believe the laces from my eighth-grade soccer cleats are good luck, Adele is the most talented singer to ever walk the earth, and popcorn without butter is just corn.
But more than any of those things, I believe that if you’re lucky—at least once in your life—you might have a perfect day. A day when all the stars in your personal universe align and your dreams seem possible.
The crazy part?
I think today might be mine.
Except Dad isn’t here.
The thought bears down on me, but I push back against it.
Today might be the only perfect day I’ll ever get. Dad wouldn’t want me to waste it.
I pick up the letter on my desk and reread it for the tenth time since it arrived yesterday.
Dear Miss Rios,
After careful consideration, the women’s soccer staff at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill believes that you have the qualities we are looking for in a student-athlete. As the head women’s soccer coach at this university, I want to formally offer you early acceptance and an opportunity to play soccer for the team that has won 21 out of 35 NCAA national championships.
Please understand that this acceptance is contingent upon you:
? maintaining the recommendation of your high school coach
? remaining in good academic standing
? continuing to demonstrate strong leadership and soccer skills
? playing in your current position, center forward, next fall.
I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember, but now that it’s actually happening, it doesn’t feel real.
“Peyton?” Mom calls from downstairs.
“Coming.” I fold the letter and tuck it in my bag.
I gather my dark, wavy hair into a ponytail, pull it through an elastic, and take a quick look in the mirror. My wardrobe consists of a steady rotation of skinny jeans and cargos that show off my long legs, layered tanks and fitted henleys, and ankle boots. Today is no exception.
I do my standard two-minute make-up application—concealer under my eyes and berry-tinted lip balm that doubles as blush.
Now I just have to find my black boots.
“You’re going to be late,” Mom yells.
“Coming!” I bend down and check under the bed—a pair of balled-up soccer socks; my elementary school yearbooks; a bottle of nail polish; old issues of Soccer 360; a Luna Bar that’s hard enough to use as a hammer; and … my boots. I drag them out by the laces and put them on.
Dad’s dog tags slide back and forth on the silver chain hanging around my neck. I never take them off. When I insisted on wearing them to the Spring Fling with my strapless dress, Mom figured out how to pin the tags inside the dress so they wouldn’t be as noticeable. I would’ve worn them either way.
On the way out, I grab the black leather jacket draped over the chair next to my door, under a poster of my soccer idol, Alex Morgan. The jacket belonged to my dad. I slip it on. The sleeves hang past my fingertips and the leather is cracked, but I love it anyway.
I jog down the steps and walk into the kitchen.
Mom holds up a brown muffin. “Do you want one to take with you?”
“Not if it has oats, nuts, dried fruit, or seeds in it.”
She breaks the muffin in half, which takes some effort because it’s as dense as a hunk of fruitcake. Dad used to do all the cooking. He was Cuban and every morning started with café con leché—strong Cuban coffee with steamed milk—and thick toast with butter. After he died I took over the cooking, but I couldn’t bring myself to keep eating the same breakfast Dad used to make me. Now Mom is determined to learn to cook, too. Muffins are her latest experiment.
I rummage through the pantry. “Do we have any doughnuts?”
“Doughnuts are pure sugar. They don’t qualify as breakfast.” She pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me.
I add milk and sugar. “Then why do doughnut shops open at five o’clock in the morning?”
“It’s one of life’s great mysteries.” Mom takes a bite of the muffin and scrunches up her nose when she thinks I’m not looking. “Have you told Tess yet?”
“Nope.”
“I’m surprised you held out this long.”
“I want to see the look on her face when I tell her.”
“What about Reed?” she asks.
I haven’t heard from my boyfriend yet this morning. “He worked late. He’s probably still asleep. And it will be more fun to tell people in person.”
I down the rest of my coffee and put the cup in the sink. “I’m taking off.”
“Drive carefully,” Mom says as I walk out the door.
I toss my bag in the back seat of my red Honda HR-V and slide behind the wheel. The road is carpeted with colorful fall leaves from the oaks and maples on my street. My neighborhood is only twenty minutes from downtown Washington, DC, and ten minutes from the outdated mid-rise apartment buildings in Tess’ complex. But you’d never know it.