Playing Hurt

Clint

neutral zone trap





Can’t kayak, maybe, but you can canoe,” I say, really slathering on the chipper voice. That’s it, Clint. Just pretend nothing happened last night. “No exercise like rowing.”

But the truth is, I just keep replaying the whole scene—cabin number four, the open door of the GMC, Chelsea’s body pressed against my own. The way my heart sprung open when I felt her lips on mine. And as I remember, the devil hovering over my shoulder tells me to drive Chelsea down to the edge of the lake, where summer love always blooms along with the water lilies and occasional lady slippers.

“Good for core strength,” I tell her, trying to turn my ear away from the devil on my shoulder. He knows that just looking at Chelsea is making my entire body vibrate. “Rowing, I mean.”

The Rainy River flows gently, barely moving at all, less than a foot from where we stand. Luckier folks are at Clementson Rapids, whitewater rafting down a more exciting branch of the Rainy. Of course, when I’d suggested it to Chelsea, she’d immediately started shaking her head.

Now, I’m stuck spending the day on a float trip—which isn’t exactly all that exciting. And it also isn’t going to take my attention away from how insanely pretty Chelsea is.

“Or paddling, at least,” she teases.

“Paddling?” I repeat.

“Yeah. Core strength? Hello—” she says, pointing at the two short wooden paddles I’ve placed inside the canoe.

“Right,” I say. “Rowing—paddling. Core strength.”

I help her into the boat, only to find that her skin is more enticing than the Rainy on a hot day. Just touching her makes me want to immerse myself, put my head completely under the surface of her. I want to drift, to let her carry me away, down her current.

Once she’s seated, I settle into the canoe, too. As soon as I sit down, I notice the way her shorts have ridden up her thighs.

Concentrate on something else—the feel of the paddle in your hands, I tell myself. The way the wood’s worn smooth from so much use.

Too bad, I think, that letting the same thought run through your mind over and over doesn’t turn your soul as smooth. Too bad it does the exact opposite. For more than a week now, I’ve been thinking of long yellow hair and the peachy-sweet smell of Chelsea’s skin. And all it’s done is made me feel rough and splintered inside.

“All about the rhythm, see?” I tell her as I use my paddle to push through the water on one side of the boat while she works the other. “Just think of Brandon and his bass.”

“If I try to row like Brandon plays, I’ll wind up breaking both our hips,” Chelsea jokes.

The smile on my face makes me feel a little calmer deep down.

“Look,” I say, deciding to tackle the damn elephant already. “Last night, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Totally my fault. I just—fell onto you. Accident.”

“Right,” I say.

We both know this is a horrendous lie. A ridiculous lie. But at least the whole subject has been picked up and put aside. So I lay my paddle down in the bottom of the boat and say, “You take over. Paddle once on one side, once on the other. I’m just going to enjoy the scenery.” I turn my back on her, looking out across the green fringe of pines, the white ripple of light down the river.

“What is this?” Chelsea asks. “Your own personal gondola ride?”

“You’re the one who needs exercise, not me. Hey, what’s that?” I ask, holding a hand to my ear. “It’s the ghost of your former self,” I tease. “Wants you to get your flabby butt in gear.”

She lifts the paddle up in the air, tossing a spray of water on me. A giggle burbles out of her chest. I turn, dip my hand into the river, and send a spray right back at her. She squeals, her voice bouncing down the riverbank like the squawk of a bird. Like something wild and free that has never known sadness. Hunger, maybe. Physical pain occasionally. But never sadness.

She raises her hands to protect herself from my splash. The world turns slow motion as her paddle starts slipping deeper into the Rainy. “Chelse,” I say. “Chelse, watch—”

But she doesn’t listen. She’s still holding her hands up, waiting for the next spray of water. I reach for her paddle, but by the time my hand arrives, all I wind up grabbing is my own fist.

The paddle dips down beneath the water and is gone. All that remains is the circle of a ripple—the kind of thing that appears after a fish has eaten the bug on the water’s surface.

We both gasp, but when we look at each other, our laughter spills over. Thank God—laughter.

“It doesn’t have to be all serious, does it?” Chelsea asks.