Playing Hurt

Chelsea

ball reversal





We walk up and down Main Street so many times, my arches are throbbing like they do after one of my long hikes with Clint. At some point during those slow and easy treks, he always takes out some old compass and stares at the dial—and then the horizon—and sighs loud enough to make me suspect he finds our pace too slow and easy. Make me wonder if I need a note from my orthopedic surgeon to convince him that push yourself is a relative term.

But Clint’s not sighing this afternoon. He seems to revel in the fact that our stroll is punctuated by funnel cakes and fried Twinkies and kabobs and root beer. Trying on silly ball caps. Watching the kayak races. Picking lumberjacks to cheer for in the log-jumping competition.

The pink watercolor shades of sunset shock me. We’ve spent hours here, but it feels like a moment. Clint’s beginning to seem a little antsy, as if the encroaching night is a floor we’ve begun painting without paying any attention to where the doors are. Like we’re about to be trapped by—what? A darker shade? Isn’t that all night is?

Only it’s not. Night has a whole different connotation—I know that. Baudette knows that, too. The families clustered around picnic tables are giving way to hand-holding pairs. Couples that look a little like fireflies, the way they flitter about, flirting in the sweet summer air. And I’m here with Clint. Anyone who didn’t know better might suspect we’re dating, too. My face warms as I wonder what it would be like if I were free to take his hand. If I could wrap an arm around his waist.

Gabe Gabe Gabe Gabe Gabe …

We’re coming to the end of the booths again; it’s time for us to leave, I know it is. But I elbow Clint, delighted to find a way to stretch out our day just a little longer. “Come on,” I say, pointing to a booth where hairdressers are braiding hair, weaving ribbons into the plaits. I take a seat, close my eyes, and allow my brain to play with daydreams the way the local stylist plays with my locks, twisting them tightly around the base of my head. I imagine that I’m a Baudette girl, going to college in Minnesota. That I have all summer to spend with my boyfriend, my Clint, whose skin is the utter fire of thrill—the closest thing I’ve ever felt to launching my body into the air, shooting the ball out of sheer desperation, and triumphantly snagging the final, game-winning three-pointer.

When the hairdresser’s done, she sticks a handheld mirror in front of me. “Whaddaya think?” she says, her voice bouncing with a light accent.

I think it looks just like a little-girl hairdo. I might as well have happy faces and rainbows painted on my cheeks.

“Thank—thank you,” I stutter, my entire face growing red as I push myself out of the chair. My hair is pulled so far from my face, I have no hope of hiding my horrendous blush.

“It’s silly, isn’t it?” I say, reaching to take it down.

But Clint just wraps his warm, strong hand around my wrist, stops me from pulling out the pins. “You look really pretty,” he says, without even a dash of sarcasm. Pretty. The word gives me goose bumps.

His stare grows intense. I start to wish, as I stare back, that I could see his unspoken fantasies reflected in the shiny pupils of his eyes. More than anything, I wish I could see that the person he’s been fantasizing about is me.

His head—good God—his head leans closer to mine. My entire body beats as though I’m being dribbled against a gym floor.

Clint’s grip grows painfully strong against my wrist. But instead of pulling me toward him, like I want him to, he pushes me away.

“I—I’m sorry—I—” I try, but Clint just shakes his head.

“Let me go see if Pop’s going to need any help at the beer garden. Gets kind of hectic at night,” he says, turning away from me.

I’m left standing there alone. Feeling like a complete and total moron.

Kenzie catches my eye from the opposite side of the street and starts stomping straight for me. Okay, now I wish I could stay alone. Please go away, I think. Please go away. But she heads right for me anyway.

“You are so barking up the wrong tree,” she says, glaring at me from underneath her ball cap.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re working awfully hard at pretending to be exercising—or—whatever this little thing’s supposed to be.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I know a lot.” She shrugs. “Like the fact that Clint will never fall in love with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

My eyelids fly backward, as if the idea completely shocks me. “That’s not—I’m not—I have a—” But somehow, this time, I can’t even say the word. Boyfriend. I can’t make it come out of my mouth, any more than an iPod could play some old vinyl record. I’m so busy trying to think of a way to tell her she’s wrong, it doesn’t even occur to me to tell her to buzz off, mind her own business.

“He’s damaged goods,” she tells me. “Broken. Incapable of love.” She turns away before I can pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth.

Boyfriend. Still, the word refuses to show its face in the sweet summer-night air.

The night is black enough to make me feel blindfolded as we drive back to the resort. Clint’s truck jiggles and jostles down the paths so forcefully, I have to grab the dash to steady myself.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice chipping away at the awkward silence that’s followed us from the festival. “She’ll get there. I know this truck looks rough—”

“No—I love your truck,” I say. Or more truthfully, I love being inside it. Because sitting next to Clint, I’m lightheaded with anticipation. Adrenaline burns my lungs, in a way that it hasn’t since I last ran out onto the court.

God, I’ve missed this feeling. And I want more.

Clint snorts a laugh. “Yeah, it’s real classy.”

“Seriously,” I insist, nerves making me babble. “I can practically see all the camping trips you’ve taken in this truck. The fishing trips. Nights you spent stretched out in the bed, hands behind your head, stargazing …”

My voice trickles off as I glance through the windshield toward the sparkling white stars. I zero in on one of the specs in the sky: the Chelsea Keyes Star. Its twinkle turns to a slit-eyed glare as it accuses me of horrible things. True things.

But instead of feeling embarrassed, I imagine putting that stupid star in a slingshot and shooting it straight into another galaxy.

When we get to cabin number four, Clint throws open his squeaky driver side door. “I’ll get it,” he says when I grip my own door handle. “Wait.” He races to the passenger’s side, where a matching squeak sings out, almost as if to answer the first.

In slow motion, I steady myself by reaching for the metal handle on the door with one hand and putting my other hand on Clint’s shoulder. I start to take a step out of the truck; as I lower myself to the ground, I come far closer to Clint than I’d intended. I actually slide down the front of his body—when my face reaches his, our lips meet.

At first it surprises me, the wet touch of his lips. Shocks me so much I almost start to pull away. But something inside me—some instinct—fights the shock, presses my face closer to his. As I’m balancing there, one foot dangling above the ground, one hand on Clint’s shoulder and the other still on the door handle, Clint’s mouth opens against mine. He wraps his arms around me. As our mouths close, he parts my lips open again with his tongue.

Our kiss is a Midwest summer storm, swift and frightening. It’s dark clouds and the sweet smell of impending rain all at the same time. It’s knowing I should run inside, take cover, but not being able to pull myself away from the danger, the thrill.

He’s holding me—but he’s lowering me, too. By the time our mouths part again, he’s already put me down on the ground.

He snatches his arms away. By the time I open my eyes, he’s hurrying around to the driver’s side.

“Clint—” I try, but he’s inside the truck and it’s starting to roll away.

“Clint—” I repeat. The door’s still open on the passenger’s side, and all I can think to do is slam it shut for him before he speeds away.