Playing Hurt

Clint

second half





I sign the postcard and slip it into the mail drop at the lodge. I stare at the darkened slot a minute, a goofy grin plastered on my face.

“Another summer coming to an end,” Earl sighs from the check-in counter.

I nod as I turn to attack my boot camp poster, ripping it from the wall. Little white pieces of paper stay speared under thumbtacks at each of the four corners.

“I hear you stopped in at a certain sporting goods store a while back,” he says as he leans against the counter. A smile ekes out from under the blanket of his steel wool beard.

I shrug and nod, wadding the poster. “Never do know when a good pond game might break out.”

“Just a pond game?”

“Oh, I think the dream of me playing college hockey’s over, especially after all the time I’ve been away from it. But love is love—and you should never turn away from it completely. And I love hockey. Always have, really.”

“Huh. Got hope for you yet,” Earl says.

I chuckle as I toss the wadded-up poster toward the wastebasket. Three points, I think, the way people do when they pretend to play basketball. My nose fills with the peachy scent of soap and skin that I miss so much.

“You know, now that I’ve had time to think about it, that boot camp a’ yours doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. Sure was good for you, anyway,” Earl says, giving me an all-knowing look.

I start to deny it, but Earl just shakes his head and says, “Too bad your shoulder put you out of commission, after that ball player. But there’s always hope for next summer.”

My eyes rove straight back to the mail drop that’s swallowed my postcard. “Yeah,” I say, my grin now as big as a moon on my face. “Maybe next year.”





Chelsea

rebound





It takes a day and a half to cram all the stuff I bought for my dorm into my Camaro. When I’m finally through, I slam the trunk and dust off my palms.

“You sure you don’t want us to drive you?” Mom says, worry flooding her face.

“Mom. Cell phone, GPS, not to mention the twelve hundred maps you shoved in the glove compartment. And it’s not like I’ve never been to Springfield. I can practically see Springfield from here.”

I kiss them all goodbye for the seventieth time, even Brandon. At least I try to kiss him, but he punches me in the shoulder instead. Once a little brother, always a little brother, I guess …

I slide behind the wheel, fasten my seat belt, and shout, “Remind Scratches I’ll be back to visit in a couple weeks.” I can’t take prolonging our goodbye any longer, so I put the car in gear and start to edge away from the house.

Brandon, in his true apathetic little sib form, steps off the curb and retrieves the mail from our box while Mom and Dad stay on the sidewalk, waving.

I inch the Camaro down the block. With no other cars around, I can use the stop sign as an opportunity to take a deep breath, shake off the goodbye sadness. I’m still adjusting my rearview when Brandon’s image pops into the mirror. He races straight toward me, waving our mail over his head. “Chelsea!” he screams. “Wait! Wait!”

I put the car in park and wait for him to catch up to me. I stick my head out the window. “What is it?”

“Look! Look what came for you!”

I slip the postcard from Brandon’s hand. It’s postmarked Baudette. The picture on the front is the one Clint snapped of me holding my walleye. On the back, his messy script reads, You won! Biggest catch of the season! You get your free week! See you next summer—Clint.

“Man, you’re so great,” Brandon says. “Yes! This makes my year! Only ten more months till we can go back. The Bottom Dwellers reunion tour!” He races down the street, making woo-hoo noises all the way back to our house.

For a while, I can’t quit staring at the postcard. When I finally do look up, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I smile, liking what I see. I flip the visor down and slip Clint’s postcard under the clip that holds my photo of the lady slipper. I smile at a couple of late bloomers who finally decided to open their petals.

“The heart is the truest compass,” I mumble, staring at Clint’s handwriting.

I touch my lips, feeling them curve into a smile, as I put the car in drive. Already I’m fantasizing about how Clint will look the next time I see him, sun dancing on the water as he steers his Lake of the Woods fishing boat toward the dock.

My whole body tingles with the kind of bubbly anticipation that I know even ten months won’t be able to water down. I steer out of my neighborhood and down Old Mill Road, past White Sugar, past Hill Toppers’, past all those businesses that keep reinventing themselves as the decades roll.

It really is true, I think as I stare at those ancient stone faces—history never leaves us. But it’s not like it sticks around just to weigh us down, to taunt us, to torture us with what can never be again. History is who we are right now. I mean, just because a chapter of life is over, it isn’t gone—basketball is still in my bones. And Clint is in my heart …

I accelerate onto the on-ramp, veering onto the highway that will take me to Springfield. I stretch my arm out the window. A wild screech of utter excitement fills the air as the odometer starts to add up the miles I’m putting between myself and my girlhood home.