Playing Hurt

Chelsea

full-court press





It’s really good to see him smile. The kind of good that zings through me. I’m the one who put that smile on his face. Clint’s shoulders relax; his chest is no longer like the armor knights wore in the Dark Ages. And in that moment, he doesn’t seem so far away, so unobtainable.

“Good thing we’re not too far from the shore,” Clint says. “Water’s pretty shallow here.” Still, he pulls his compass from his pocket and places it in the bottom of the canoe before easing himself out, rocking the boat slightly. The river barely reaches his waist. Holding his arms out above the water’s surface, he wades across the Rainy and grabs the paddle, easy as fishing a pebble from a bowl of tap water.

But before he can reach the boat again, I’ve already eased myself out, too. The surface of the river circles my body like lips around a straw.

“What’re you doing?” he says, his easy smile now flickering, threatening to go out completely. He tosses the paddle into the canoe, grabs my wrist. “You know how slippery this river rock can be?” he scolds, shaking his head.

My body starts acting on instinct, as though this is a play I’ve practiced hundreds of times in preparation for game day. Only I’ve never reached for a man when he shakes his head. I’ve never pressed forward, searched for a hole in his defense, charged for the goal, sought to win a heart that was held just beyond my reach.

Gabe’s heart was given to me. It was a necklace I took from the box and held to the light, staring at for a moment before deciding it really was something I’d like to wear.

I’ve got my hand on Clint’s wrist—I don’t even know when it happened, when we switched positions. But I’m touching him. Lightning is flowing straight up my arm, across my shoulder. My breath grows ragged.

Clint’s muscles tighten as he pulls away a little, but I can see in his eyes that he’s afraid if he wrenches himself free, he might knock me off balance. He might hurt me. I’ve got him—and all I can think of is how his lips felt against my own outside the cabin. It’s all I want to think about.

“Chelsea—” he says, his voice coming out in a whine.

But I’m not teasing. I’m completely serious. Both of my arms circle his waist. My brain is screaming, Gabe! Gabe! What’s wrong with you?

But I don’t care. Not now. Not with Clint standing in front of me. The world behind him blurs, becomes unrecognizable. We aren’t in the middle of a river, we aren’t in Minnesota. We’re nowhere. There is no right, no home, no boyfriend. I draw him closer to me.

“Chelsea.” He whispers it this time, but not to complain. Not to tell me to stop. He just whispers my name as if he wants to hear it, to feel it on his tongue.

We’re exactly the same height. We match up—our eyes, or noses, our lips. When I lean forward, our mouths meet, gently. But my insides pop, like a string of Black Cats have been lit and are going off one after another. The explosions start going off in my chest, but soon start popping lower and lower.

I open my mouth, and Clint’s tongue works its way behind my teeth.

Firecrackers pop behind the fly of my shorts.

But I’m not afraid. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not thinking of a thing except how he feels, his mouth closing, then prying my lips back open again, his tongue touching the tip of my own.

I put both hands on Clint’s back, pulling him toward me. But Clint’s muscles tighten again. Instead of leaning into me, he grabs my wrists and pries my hands from his body.

“Clint—I just—I want to be with you,” I find myself babbling, the words spilling out of my mouth without any command from my brain. “Not because my dad’s paying you. Not for boot camp. I just want to—”

“I can’t,” Clint says, avoiding my eyes, looking into the water that swirls around us.

“He’s not your boyfriend,” I plead. “He’s mine, okay? Let me worry about that. He’s my problem, not yours.”

Clint just stares at me all horrified. I’ve done something wrong. What, though? I have no idea where I’ve messed up, so I just keep pressing forward.

“I’m the one with the boyfriend,” I say again. “And—I don’t know what you think cheating is. Maybe—maybe we’re already cheating. Maybe it’s already happened. But I just—I can’t help myself. So what if this thing’s got an expiration date stamped on it? Really. That doesn’t mean we couldn’t have the absolutely most amazing experience—the kind of thing you always look back on and are grateful for—”

Clint keeps shaking me off, every time I try to touch him. Running a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“Get in the boat,” he says.

“Clint, please, I—”

“Get in the boat,” he shouts.

He helps me in, his fingers tight and unyielding. Climbs in, grabs the paddle, and begins to steer us toward shore.

“Clint, don’t go back. Let’s just have our day,” I try. But the muscles in his jaw clench.

“I can’t, Chelsea. Okay? I’m not doing this.”

When we get to the shore, I try to touch him again, but he flicks me away hard, like I’m a swarm of insects gnawing on his arm. “He’s my boyfriend,” I say, as though he didn’t hear me the first hundred times. “And don’t worry about my dad—”

“Stop it, Chelse. You don’t know anything,” he says. “I can’t, okay? Not because of your boyfriend, and not because your dad’s paying me. Just please let it go, okay?”