Playing Hurt

Clint

body checking





One of these days, I’m going to come out with you,” Kenzie promises. At first I think “one of these days” means “today,” but instead of climbing aboard, she stays on the dock and picks up a fistful of fishing poles.

“Don’t know why you haven’t yet,” I say, in the same tone I’d use talking to Greg or Todd. Friendly, open. Not like I have to have her out with us. Not like I’m pining. Or foaming at the mouth, like Todd. Sure, you can come out with us. But the world won’t end if you don’t.

I lean over the edge of the boat to accept the poles, then carry them beneath the cover that shades the passengers’ seats on the Lake of the Woods launch—one of the twenty-five-foot motorboats that Greg, Todd, and I use to take out ten or so vacationers at a time. We could fit in as many as fifteen, but Earl likes to keep the groups a little smaller than that. And it’s such a great gig, none of us would ever think about testing Earl’s rules.

“Sure do bring a lot with you,” Kenzie observes as I motion for her to hand me my boxes of tackle, too. I learned on day one that it’s best to bring the just-in-cases—because there’s always at least one weekend fisherman every trip who realizes, halfway out into the lake, that he’s accidentally left something behind in his cabin. Or there’s always a couple of tourists, usually women, who swear they hadn’t intended to fish, but now that they’re here, and it’s such a beautiful day, and pretty please, any way we can fish, too?

Once I’ve placed all my stuff in the boat, I climb back out onto the dock. I’ve learned, too, that it seems more welcoming this way—if I’m waiting on the dock, vacationers assume there’s still space for them on the boat. And this morning, I want to get as many onboard as I possibly can.

I glance over at Kenzie. She’s smiling at me, one of those all-knowing I’ll get you yet grins. The early morning sun plays off the waves in her hair.

But I’ve got too many worries right now to get all upset about maybe leading Kenzie on just by being nice to her. I’m remembering the words I bounced around in the lobby two nights ago, when the Keyes family first arrived: Fishing’s about as low-impact as it gets. Easy way to start. And if you all come out, you’ll get a chance to see how Chelsea and I are going to work together while you’re here.

Her dad had frowned at the suggestion. Tried to back out of it, but her mother persisted, nodding, liking the idea.

You guys take tomorrow to get settled in, I’d offered. The next morning, I’ll take you all out on my first run of the day.

Talk about dumb. Now, instead of impressing one person, I’ve got to work her entire family. If I can take four or five vacationers in addition to the Keyes family, the others will offer a little bit of a distraction. But probably, I think as I spot the Keyes family in the distance, making the trek from cabin number four, it won’t be enough to really soothe my nerves. The mom and the brother don’t worry me so much—frankly, that gangly brother of hers is no concern of mine at all, and the mother seems like she’ll be pleased with just about anything (the whole lemonade-from-lemons type). The dad, though? And Chelsea?

I keep thinking about the way Chelsea backed away from me at the lodge when I introduced myself. And the way she ignored me yesterday, turning her back on me from the large front porch of cabin number four when I waved from the dock. Makes me wonder why her dad signed her up for boot camp at all.

“What is it?” Kenzie asks. She follows my gaze up the dirt path toward the Keyes’ cabin. She pinches her face, lets out a long sigh. “Is that your ball player?”

I nod. Kenzie shades her eyes. “Broke her hip, huh?” she says, her voice sour.

“Yep,” I say, motioning another cluster of vacationers toward the dock—I count five heads. Five in addition to the Keyes family. Thank God …

“Too bad somebody didn’t break her face,” Kenzie mumbles, so quietly she probably doesn’t even think I’ve heard.

But I have—and it makes my eyes shoot back up the path stretching toward cabin number four. Kenzie obviously sees Chelsea as some sort of competition, and this is the perfect opportunity for her to nitpick, to convince me Chelsea really isn’t that pretty.

She can’t, though—because Chelsea’s damn near perfect. But without flaunting it. Khaki shorts, white T-shirt. None of that obvious look-at-me crap girls put on in the summer, tiny sundresses and skimpy shirts that don’t even hide so much as a belly button. Chelsea’s breasts and waist and hips tug at her simple clothes, filling them out in all the right spots, turning a plain old pair of shorts and a T-shirt into one of the sexiest outfits a girl has ever worn.

Ouch.

My eyes trace the outline of her hips, troll down her thighs. I remember her mom telling me, that first night, that Chelsea’d been swimming for exercise. My mind fills with the image of Chelsea in a bikini—a white one that has a tendency to turn see-through when wet. It’s the first time in two years that the sight of a woman has given me a fantasy like this. I feel a little dizzy; I even squat and tighten the laces of one of my sneakers as an excuse to put my head between my knees for a minute.

Kenzie raises her eyebrow at me when I finally look her way, like she’s reading my mind.

“Get real,” I tell her. “She’s only eighteen.”

“And you’re only nineteen,” Kenzie says.

“She’s my client.” There. That sounded professional enough. Forget sounded, it’s true. And besides, I’m not interested. After burning your fingers to black crisps, how smart is it, really, to put your hand against a red-hot burner a second time? A pointless summer fling. Who needs it?

“Client. Sure,” Kenzie mumbles. “Here,” she growls, pushing her camera into my hands. “Maybe one of these days you’ll buy one of your own.”

I shake my head, still protesting, but she rolls her eyes and says, “I gotta get to the lodge.” Her legs swallow the dock in three strides, and she scurries off. Kenzie and I have never been a couple, not even close, but the way I’ve just looked at Chelsea has smacked her—and that makes me feel like the crud Earl sometimes gives me the distinct honor of scraping off the bottom of the Lake of the Woods canoes.

As Kenzie grows smaller, Chelsea approaches the dock, her long blond hair rippling and her incredible legs flexing with every step. And I know—nothing about the next three weeks is going to be easy.