Playing Hurt

Chelsea

contact sport





It’s a charade—and maybe Dad knows as much. Maybe he’s as sure of what’s happening between Clint and me as Brandon is. Maybe he thinks even less of me now than he did before we went on vacation. Is that humanly possible?

I shift from one foot to the other, my nerves crackling inside of me. I wish they’d all just leave, already. Or maybe they’re waiting for me to leave. Wait—how far, exactly, do Clint and I have to take this charade of night fishing? Do we actually have to take a boat out into the middle of the lake? Isn’t the goal just to be alone? My mind starts turning over the possibilities of what Clint and I could actually do, wrapped in the seclusion the water …

Clint grins at me, his smile tearing at the tension in the room the same way two forks pull apart a dense angel food cake. “Hey, Chelse. Think I can trouble you for something to drink before we head out? I had two fishing runs this afternoon, and that sun blazed two-hundred degrees on that boat today.”

“Sure,” I say, jumping into action. “Sweet tea okay?”

“Long as it has plenty of ice,” Clint answers.

As we both head into the kitchen, Mom calls out a final “Good night” and three pairs of feet clomp out the door.

I pour him a glass of Mom’s sun tea, the ice cubes growing fuzzy corners as I think about the rough glare that Dad just tossed at me.

“He wants to talk to you, Chelse,” Clint says. “He doesn’t know how.”

“It’s not my fault,” I growl as I put the pitcher on the counter. “What happened on the court happened to me. It was my accident, not his. I’m the one who had something to get over, not him. And besides—he doesn’t know how to talk to me? I’m the same person I always was—”

“No, you’re not,” Clint says, coming up behind me. Talk about blazing—he practically feels like a space heater.

“Thanks,” I grumble. “Comforting.”

“You’re not any less special, Chelse. But you’re not the same person he knew. You can’t be. You had a life-changing experience, didn’t you? Maybe you just need to reintroduce yourself.”

“Maybe if he cared about someone who couldn’t be an athlete, I wouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t think he cares about Brandon less because he doesn’t play ball.”

“He plays something,” I say.

“This isn’t a contest, Chelse. It’s a conversation. Remember those?” When he puts his hands on my arms I don’t feel skin at all, but the sun’s rays. “You don’t necessarily have to win conversations. Even though I do kind of like this combative you,” he teases.

I turn, put my palm against his chest. His skin radiates so much of the day’s heat that touching him feels like wading into the lake, opening my hand, and catching one of the white shimmers of blistering afternoon sunlight bouncing across the water.

“It was hot out there today,” I say. When I look up at him, our faces are so close that our eyelashes almost tangle.

He kisses me—gently. The kind of kiss that asks for nothing in return. And because it’s not demanding a thing from me, it feels like freedom. I swear, over these past few days with Clint, fear has become a shackle with a rusted hinge, weakened and brittle. Ready to crumble apart. And as our kiss lengthens, the shackle of fear gives way, falls off completely. I want to give everything I am to that kiss. To Clint.

“You’re frying,” I insist when our mouths finally part.

“I’m okay,” he tells me. He runs a hand down my back, sending a streak of heat through my T-shirt.

“How ’bout we get you cooled off?” I ask.

“Like a swim?”

“Like a shower.”

Clint nods. “Okay. I could use a hose-off. Just show me—”

I lead him down the hallway, toward the bathroom we’ve all been sharing, hoping the place doesn’t look like an absolute swamp.

When I flick the light on, I find Brandon’s hair gel and zit creams strewn across the counter, but at least Mom’s hung the towels up.

I shut the door, showing Clint that I’m not going anywhere.

“Chelse,” he says, shaking his head.

I kiss him again—kiss him the way he’d kissed me a moment ago, asking for nothing more than this moment. Telling him with my mouth that I only want this, that I am sure of nothing else but this. That the only thing right now that is pure and unsoiled and perfect is the way he feels against me.

Clint takes his red cap off and tosses it to the floor. I reach for his T-shirt, pull it over his head. I pull my own T-shirt off, and Clint reaches around to my back, unfastening my bra. He searches my eyes for a sign to keep going.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the Chelsea I became after the accident crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot. Frowning, she juts her head forward and starts to repeat the same word over and over again. I can tell, from the shape her lips take, that’s she’s shouting Gabe, Gabe, Gabe.

But she’s a TV show on mute. Her mouth moves but no sound comes. So it’s easy to turn my back on her. Easy to ignore her, to turn toward Clint, and toward the fiery-hot feelings that ignite inside me.

Our fingers start peeling back the rest of each other’s clothes in big chunks—the way I sometimes peel back the husks from fresh corncobs in the summer. Clint slides my bra off and I unbutton his shorts. After we peel back the thickest layers, we start to take away the tiny corn silks that remain: my panties, his underwear, my ponytail holder, his watch.

We stand naked in front of each other, studying the many inches of exposed skin.

Clint finally takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

As we kiss, I push him toward the shower. Our mouths are still locked as I twist the cold knob full-force, then grope for the hot, adding just enough to take the edge off. We’re still kissing as we step into the cool stream. But these kisses are more … tender, pleading. Please? our kisses beg, while answering, at the same time, yes.

The water pelts us, soaking my hair and Clint’s, making rivers down our bodies, running between our lips.

Clint’s body is glorious. The reality of him far outshines any mere fantasy. The cool shower refuses to squelch the passion that radiates far hotter than the summer sun ever thought about. His hands are everywhere—my breasts, my backside, my thighs.

I suddenly realize what he’s touching, and I grab his hand. Stare down at my scar. After being pummeled by the shower stream, it looks brutally pink. Raw. Ugly.

But Clint untangles his fingers from my own, traces the outline of my surgical scar. Against the thick tip of his finger, the scar looks tiny by comparison. Actually disappears beneath his hand.

“Show me where your room is,” he mumbles.

I’m already twisting the knob to kill the shower, and we’re hurrying our naked, dripping bodies down the hall.

We fall into a twisted, jumbled mass on the bed as Clint kicks the heavy cover back. We’re like ocean waves that just keep rising and crashing against each other, our wet bodies and hair soaking everything we touch. My arm flies to the purse at my bedside, tugs the zipper down. Thank God for Fair Grove commencement night at Hill Toppers’, I think as I pull out the box of condoms.

Clint grabs the box, tears it open. I close my eyes as our mouths come together, gently. He rustles against me; I’m sure he’s rolling the condom on.

He’s gazing right into my eyes when I finally open them. I can feel him, hard against my inner thigh, breathing hot on my neck. I run my hands down his back, turning my touch as soft as a summer breeze.

An engine roars up to the cabin.

Clint frowns, turns his head toward my window. When the engine outside dies, he growls, “You gotta be kidding.” He jumps off the bed like the mattress has teeth and is threatening to bite him.

“What? What?” I ask, panicking.

“Your parents are here,” he says, his feet stomping the floor as he races out of my room.

“What?” I repeat, because I’m absolutely sure that I’ve heard him all wrong. This can’t be happening …

“Hurry,” Clint yells, even though I’m moving faster than I have since my last game.

Clint’s already fastening the button on his shorts when I burst into the bathroom. He throws his shirt over his head and tries to hand me the jean shorts I’d been wearing a moment ago. But they’re so tight, and my legs are still so wet, I know they’ll only get stuck mid-thigh. And I have no idea where my T-shirt landed. Desperate, I grab one of Brandon’s concert tees from the bag Mom’s using for our dirty clothes, along with the baggy shorts I slept in the night before.

“Come on,” Clint urges, dragging me back down the hall while I’m still hiking up my shorts. He grabs his iced tea off the counter, and we plop into a couple of kitchen chairs just as Mom opens the door.

“What—Chelse?” Mom says, her eyes flying wide behind her glasses at the moment she steps into the kitchen.

“You’re back awfully early,” I say, trying on an innocent tone. It doesn’t fit me any better than a pair of size two jeans would, no matter how hard I try to tug on it.

“Brandon—ah—he forgot his strap,” Mom stutters. “He’s trying to play sitting on a stool, but he’s so miserable not being able to dance—jump—whatever he does—that I decided to come back for it. Your dad’s still at Pike’s.”

“Hey, Mrs. Keyes,” Clint says, waving coolly before raising the glass of tea to his lips.

“Why are you two so wet?” Mom finally asks, through a frown.

“Turned the boat over,” Clint said. “Can you believe it? Not two minutes into our trip.”

“You didn’t get hurt again,” Mom says.

“No, no—Chelsea Keyes, made of steel. Literally,” I try to quip.

“Your clothes dried awfully fast,” Mom says, running her eyes over both of us. She crosses her arms over her chest and tightens her lips at me.

“I changed,” I say with a shrug.

“Me, too,” Clint adds. “I had some extra stuff in the truck. Chelse was nice enough to let me use your bathroom.” Is he explaining too much? He gulps down his tea so fast I’m sure he gets brain freeze. But he doesn’t show it—tonight, he’s rattled by nothing.

“You don’t have to run off—” Mom begins.

“No, no, that’s all right,” Clint tells her. “I have to get to the lodge. Guy up there does maintenance on the Lake of the Woods boats. I’ll get him to look over that motor on the skiff. Greg’ll kill me if I did any real damage.”

“Which means I can go to Pike’s after all,” I tell Mom with a plastered-on grin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I insist. “It really wasn’t a big deal.” This could quite possibly be the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Not a big deal! I replay what just happened in my room.

Clint pats my shoulder like we were old pals. “See you, Chelse. Thanks for the tea—and better luck next time. Rain check, okay?” He winks.

I nod, watch him grab the fishing poles before he walks out of the kitchen.

“I’ll comb my hair, grab something a little better to wear,” I tell Mom as Clint stomps out of the cabin.

I dash down the hall. But when I think again of what just happened, I can hardly walk—my toes nearly curl under in sheer pleasure. And when I think about how close I’ve just come to losing my virginity, I mostly just feel like I need another shower. Arctic cold, this time.