Playing Hurt

Clint

substitution





Shouldn’t be cooped up in here,” I say, sticking my head into the office of the Lake of the Woods main lodge. Kenzie looks up, the glow from her computer screen washing her face harshly. Or maybe it’s the frown that washes harshly across her face.

“Must have bumped your head in that fall, Morgan,” she grumbles, then turns back toward the screen.

“Girl like you,” I stutter. “Shouldn’t—ah—shouldn’t—” I can feel my cheeks flaming.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asks.

I rub my face. This is harder than I thought it’d be.

“I’m—I’m finally taking you up on your offer,” I say. “Or—I’m—you’ve always seemed like you were open—I mean—”

“Where’s this coming from?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not deaf, either. I’ve heard all the gossip around here. You and that basketball player. Talk exploded after that little accident of yours. Just confirmed every single thing I already knew was going on after I saw you two at Willie Walleye Day—and when I was out there sitting on the dock, watching you coming back from her cabin.” She grimaces, like she’s kicking herself internally.

My instinct is to just nod and tuck my tail between my legs as I slip back out of the office. But my promise to Chelsea keeps bouncing around inside my head—no more living timidly—so I force myself to keep forging ahead, like a moron.

“It’s—taken me a long time,” I stammer. “To even think about dating. And now I’m finally asking if you—you want to have dinner?”

“As in—dinner,” she repeats.

“I’m really bad at this,” I say. “Can I just take you someplace nice? This Friday? To make up for all the time it took me to get here?”

She sighs, her shoulders falling. But her scowl is gone, and a smile slowly starts to spread.





Chelsea

switch





Found my camera!” Brandon calls as Gabe and I step inside with two enormous, piled-high pizzas.

“Nothing formal,” Mom adds from the living room. “We’re eating in the comfortable chairs tonight.”

Gabe opens the two pizza boxes on the coffee table and we all help ourselves, each of us insisting that Hank at Hill Toppers’ is in fine form tonight. Everyone but Brandon, who’s thrusting his digital camera in Gabe’s face.

As he starts to yammer on about the Dwellers, I stare at the browned cheese on my slice and remember graduation night all over again. I think about the me who stood on the sidewalk outside of the pizzeria, bidding her former teammates an awkward goodbye. About how she had no idea what she would discover in Minnesota. My ears fill, for a moment, with the pulse of a waterfall.

“Here’s Pike’s,” Brandon says, pointing at the back of the camera. He tosses his hair away from the rim of his glasses. I notice he’s stopped trying to gel the hair into place, letting it go all wavy around his ears; apparently Kenzie really did tell him she liked his crazy hair. I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes at him.

“So we were kind of a cross between Kings of Leon and Fall Out Boy, but we had our feet firmly planted in the roots, you know?” Brandon brags as Gabe keeps pushing the button on the back of the camera to view the photos. Brandon’s talking like he’s being interviewed by Rolling Stone. “Sex Pistols and the Stones, and I can see myself really branching out. I’ve been writing a few songs—”

“Who’s this?” Gabe asks. “He’s in an awful lot of these photos.”

My face falls when he pushes the camera under my nose. In the picture, Clint and I are standing on the dock—open-mouthed, obviously laughing. When Gabe flips backward through the stream of photos, there we are again, on a hiking trail. Or climbing into his GMC. Here Clint is, helping me out of his boat during our first fishing trip. My stomach starts doing somersaults. Brandon, you moron, I want to shout. Why on earth would you take so many pictures of the two of us?

I watch Gabe in horror, wishing I could read his mind. What is he thinking? Good God, are Clint and I looking at each other in a telltale way in any of those photos? Can Gabe see in our faces what we’d done?

Worse yet—what if Brandon snapped a shot of me and Clint holding hands? Or kissing?

“Just my personal trainer,” I say, yanking Brandon’s camera out of his hands.

“Chelsea,” Gabe says, frowning.

“Sorry—sorry. Just wanted to show you my—my—enormous catch—my walleye,” I lie. “It’s got to be here somewhere. I’m not such a bad fisher,” I add, trying like hell to seem nonchalant.

“Chelsea found out she’s good at lots of things over vacation,” Dad says from behind a mouthful of mushrooms and pepperoni. “She rescued that trainer when he wrecked his ATV.”

“Chelsea?” Gabe says, impressed. “No kidding?”

“I shouldn’t have been racing him,” I say, and instantly regret it. Why would you race your trainer? Someone you work with? Isn’t that something you do when you’re goofing off? You don’t goof off with a trainer. You goof off with the guy you’re fooling around with behind your sweet boyfriend’s back …

“Well, I tend to think Chelsea’s pretty good at anything she tries.” Gabe smiles at me as he adds, “I’d believe she spent the summer catching great white sharks, or rescuing shipwrecked tourists from deserted islands.” But his smile quickly gives way to a concerned frown. “Are you hot? Your face is all red.”

“Hot,” I agree, stupidly, fanning my face with my hand. “I think I got overheated this afternoon in the Explorer.”

“Get real. We had the air on full-blast,” Brandon argues, rolling his eyes at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Scratches!” I shout, scooping him into my arms. “Scratches, I missed you so much.” I squeeze him to my chest, bury my nose in his neck, let his whiskers tickle my cheek, hoping that everyone will take this little distraction as an opportunity to find something else to talk about.

“Before I forget,” Gabe says, wiping orange smears of grease from his mouth. “I bought two tickets to an exhibition game at MSU.”

“Awesome,” Dad says, leaning, as he hasn’t in ages, on his high school lingo, his eyes lighting up at the idea of me being back in a gym. Any gym. Even the bleachers of a gym. “Basketball game?”

Gabe nods. “Lady Bears. Figured we could spend the night with my brother at his place so we won’t have to drive back exhausted.”

“Good plan,” Dad nods. “Worst thing you can ever do is drive tired.”

Yet again, the Gabe Ross charm has its advantages. Dad (thank God the high school gossip about journalism camp never made its way to the parents) would never even suspect that Gabe and I would do anything other than go to the game and bed down on separate couches.

I begin to relax a little. A basketball game sounds amazing, actually. I can already taste the popcorn. Maybe, by now, I won’t even mind so much being in the concession stands during halftime, instead of a locker room. Every athlete has to make that transition at some point. Mine just came a little earlier than I’d anticipated. Right?

“Only hitch is, the game’s the day after tomorrow,” Gabe says. “It’s short notice—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Mom says, waving him off. “We’ve had Chelsea for three weeks. Now it’s your turn. I’m sure you guys want some quality time before your fall semesters start and you both take nose-dives into textbooks.”

Ever since the Explorer hit the city limits, I’ve been so wrapped up in guilt I’ve forgotten how easy it is to be with gorgeous, sweet Gabe Ross. Now, though, I begin to unwind, begin to imagine being with Gabe on campus as soon-to-be freshmen, hand-in-hand, walking across the quad toward the sports arena …

After dinner, Mom gathers our plates and I walk Gabe to the door.

“Thanks for the pizza,” I tell him as I shut the door behind us and head out toward his ’Stang. “That really was incredibly thoughtful.” Would Clint ever be that thoughtful? I wonder. Hard to know for sure, since we were never allowed to admit to being a couple in front of my family.

“And the MSU game sounds—”

“I don’t have tickets,” Gabe says, his eyes sparkling playfully.

“But you said—”

“Come on, Chelse. You didn’t forget, did you? Didn’t you count down the days of your vacation like I did? The game was the only cover-up I could come up with. The only excuse I could think of to explain why you would be away with me all night.”

“There’s no game?”

“Oh, there’s a game. At MSU, just like I said. And that’s why I made reservations for the Carlyle that same night.”

The Carlyle. My stomach starts to churn like ocean waves during a typhoon.

“The Carlyle,” I repeat. “Night after tomorrow.”

He nods, squeezing my hand. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispers into my ear. “It’s just us—there’s nothing to be nervous about us, right?”

I nod as he leans in for a good-night kiss.

He’ll know, I think as Gabe wraps his arms around me. He’ll know I’m not a virgin anymore.





Clint

long shot





Seems pretty quiet around here,” Todd says, cracking open his third can of Bud.

“You drink all the beer, you have to bring it next time,” Greg warns, like he always does, though he never follows through on his threats.

Todd’s right—out here night fishing (really night fishing, not lying to be alone with Chelsea), the whole world seems empty except for the three of us. Our lines drift lazily along the surface of the lake. The water sloshes against the side of the Minnow. Whenever I hear water anymore—a rush, a gurgle, even the trickle from the faucet in my bathroom—I think of Chelsea. For a second, I swear I can taste her.

“That Brandon, man, he kept us busy,” Todd goes on, slurping off the top of his can. “Maybe we could advertise on Craigslist or something for another bass player.”

“Maybe,” Greg says. “Hard to find somebody that good.”

“Or somebody who shows up to practice,” Todd agrees in a half-sigh.

“You’re quiet tonight, Morgan,” Greg says, attempting to stretch his legs in the cramped skiff. “You going to come listen to me and Todd limp along without a bass at Pike’s tomorrow?”

“No,” I say quietly. “I have a—date—actually.”

You’d think my words started some sort of tidal wave out in the middle of the lake, the way Todd grips the side of the boat.

“With who?” he asks.

“Kenzie,” I breathe.

Todd starts muttering something about lucky bastard, while Greg just stares at me, squinting as he leans against the side of the boat. “Huh,” he mutters. “And here I was thinking this resort probably felt quieter to you than it did to either of us.”

It does, I think, but I just shake my head, tighten my line. Chelsea’s a past tense. Summer will be over soon. I can’t go brooding over her like I did for Rosie.

I reel in my line to bait my hook again. Don’t live timidly, I tell myself as I cast out into the lake.