Playing Hurt

Chelsea

nothing but net





Help you in?” Clint asks when I hit the end of the dock. He stretches his arm out, waiting for me to take his hand.

In the sunlight, his eyes are bluer than the sky or the lake, and somehow even purer than either. And the face that surrounds those eyes stands out far more clearly than it did inside the lodge the night we arrived—chiseled features, tan skin, teeth like glazed white pottery, a lock of dark hair tumbling across his forehead. His face sends shockwaves through me. Betraying the order from my brain to stay cool, my eyes are already traveling down the length of his body, taking in his muscular shoulders, his strong arms, tapered waist, sun-darkened calves.

The mere idea of spending an entire morning with him makes my face grow hotter by the millisecond. And my entire family’s going to be watching my every move. The whole outing is made infinitely worse by the fact that I had the entire day yesterday to think about it. To remember the way my body rang out like a cymbal just standing next to him in the lodge. To wonder how I’d feel, spending the morning sitting next to him on a boat …

“Just take my hand,” he says. “I won’t drop you. Promise.” He’s smiling, flashing his perfect, straight teeth. My stomach starts doing some weird acrobatic routine. Gabe, I start chanting in my mind. Gabe, Gabe, Gabe …

I’d like to stick my nose in the air and step onto his stupid boat myself, knocking him onto his butt in the process, but I’m afraid of falling. Sure, the boat’s enormous. But after the year I’ve had, I’m terrified of anything that isn’t solid ground. To me, the boat looks about as steady as a rubber ducky, the way it bobs. What if I were to lose my footing, slip, and hit my hip on the way down? Doctors have warned me about the dangers of falling a second time. And I don’t particularly think spending what should be my freshman year of college recovering from hip replacement surgery would be a blast.

I glance behind me, but the rest of my family and the five other tourists who plodded to the end of the dock are all onboard. There’s no one else to push ahead of me, to give me half a second to catch my breath. I’m all that’s left.

Reluctantly, I slip my hand into his, the touch of his skin causing my heart to beat double time. I try to hurry into the boat, eager to pull my hand away, to wiggle from the crazy beehive-swarm of emotions he arouses in me. But my foot slips on the ramp, and my heart stops.

My very worst fear of all time is coming true. I’m falling, in terrorizing slow motion. My whole mind replays the footage I’ve watched hundreds of times—me in the last moments of my last game, body twisted, arm raised above my head as the ball rolls off my hook shot, my hip hurting, sure, aching already, but that pain was nothing compared to what hit me when I slipped and crashed and broke …

I open my mouth—not again, not again—and I’m about to scream when I fall into his arms. All I let out is a pitiful “Ee—.” His chest is strong, and—oh, God—he smells so good. Like clean summer shirts just brought in from the clothesline.

“Thanks,” I manage to mumble.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m lifeguard certified. I’ll rescue you from the lake if you fall. Actually, I’d be glad to jump in on a hot morning like this.”

Actually, I might just jump in on purpose if you’re coming after me. The thought explodes into my brain from nowhere, rattling me like an earthquake. How could these thoughts be coming to me when I’m already in love with someone else? I can feel my cheeks turning strawberry pink. I finally squirm out of his grasp and hurry to take a seat next to Brandon, one of the twenty or so seats that surround the railing along the back of the boat (or is that the bow? The helm?). That’s good, Chelse. Distract yourself from the way you feel with a list of vocab words.

“What’s the deal?” Brandon whispers, seeing right through me. “Why are you acting so weird? You’d think you’d never seen a guy in your entire life.” He raises his camera and takes a picture, recording my sheer mortification.

“Knock it off,” I snap.

The truth is, I feel exactly like I did when I’d insisted on riding the Tilt-A-Whirl ten times straight on my tenth birthday—dizzy and weak. My mouth is dry. My hands are even trembling a little. While I’m still trying to get myself under control, Clint suddenly appears and wraps his hand around my biceps, hauling me to my feet. Lightning flows through me at his touch. So help me God, lightning.

“I need a model,” he says, leading me gently toward the center of the boat. We turn to face the passengers.

“We call these things Mae Wests,” he says, holding up a life jacket by the shoulders. I turn and slip my arms through the holes.

Clint works me like a top, spinning me around. His face—his beautiful face—is right in front of mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. My mind reels. I need something to say. Something to distract me from the fact that his hands are reaching toward the ribbons on the life jacket—ribbons lying right over my chest.

“So—so why’s it called a Mae West?” I manage.

“Oh, I bet I’m the only one here old enough to know who Mae West was,” a gray-haired woman shouts as she laces up her own jacket. “That lady’s boobs could fill up an entire movie screen! The only way I’ll ever get ’em that big is to wear one of these things.”

I look at Clint, horrified. He nods. “Yep,” he says. “You ever fall in the water, all you’ve got to do is pull this cord down here, and poof! ” He holds his arms out like he’s illustrating ample bosoms. “You’ll be an instant Mae West.”

I’m sure my entire face is now maroon as I scramble back into my seat. Brandon’s ready to swallow his tongue he’s laughing so hard. “This is too great,” he tells me. “I’m so glad we came. I don’t think your face will return to its normal color ever again.”

I glare as he snaps another picture.

Clint quickly steers the boat toward the middle of the lake, then slows the engine. As we putter along, he calls out, “Get your lines in the water! We’re going to troll.”

Instantly my mind fills with images of elves—wrinkly and short, in pointy hats and shoes. There’s no way that’s what the guy’s talking about.

“Hey, Chelsea, you want me to help you get that line in the water?” Clint offers. He stands right behind me, his arms around my shoulders. I bite my lip.

“Here, let your line out. Just let it drag beside the boat.”

A whoop steals Clint’s attention away from me.

“I got one! I got a bite!” the old woman who made that awful Mae West crack shouts. “Get your net, Clint! It’s a big one!”

Clint rushes to help her. I breathe a very grateful, yet (do I even admit it to myself?) slightly disappointed sigh of relief.

“It’s a beaut, Gladys,” Clint shouts as he pulls the fish into the boat. He holds it up for everyone to see. “Nice largemouth bass,” he says. “Good eating size. Chef Charlie at the lodge will love to get his hands on this guy. Gladys will have a fine dinner tonight.” He places the fish on a stringer in his ice chest while everyone onboard congratulates her.

“Chelsea!” he shouts, turning his attention right back toward me. “You’ve let out so much line, I think you’re actually fishing in Canada! The fish you catch will all need passports.”

I grimace, shift my weight, and try to reel my line in. “Jeez. I think—I’m hooked on something,” I say.

“Just keep it rolling. Slowly,” Clint says, coming over.

I clench my shoulders, but it’s been too long since I’ve done anything that could be classified as strenuous. I feel like some klutz in gym class, uncoordinated and praying that no one tries to watch me dribble. As I attempt (ridiculously) to reel the line in, wishing Clint would just cut me free, already, an enormous fish breaks the surface. His greenish scales glisten iridescent against the light blue water. He jumps so high that he looks like he’s actually standing on top of the lake.

“You’ve got one!” Clint cheers. “A big one, too, and he’s trying to break your line. Hold on tight. He’s trying to pull the hook out.”

My heart jumps higher than the fish on my hook. I glance to the side, waiting for Clint to come swooping in with his net. But he just stands back, even though that colossal fish probably weighs more than Brandon’s bass amp. I was barred from helping Brandon and Dad hoist that unwieldy Marshall into the cabin—so why isn’t anyone trying to help me here? Why is Clint watching me struggle? The beads of sweat on my forehead feel so big, I figure I look like I’m wearing some gaudy rhinestone tiara.

“Don’t stop—keep reeling—slow and steady,” Clint is saying.

I shoot him a glare and grunt, just to emphasize my annoyance.

But by now, no one, not even my parents or Brandon, is watching me. Everyone’s leaning against the side of the boat, watching the end of my line. Even a particularly rotund middle-aged guy has carved a viewing spot for himself; a dad’s holding his little boy up so that his eyes will clear the railing. The lake’s so clear, I’m sure they can all see the scales on the fish that fights me beneath the surface.

I clench my entire body as I crank the reel.

“Keep going,” Clint shouts. “You’ve got him. That’s beautiful! I’ve never seen anybody catch a fish that big on their first try.”

I slam one foot against the side of the boat and figure I can safely plant my thighs against the railing. I feel like every single muscle is involved in my fight, and I remember it—the burn of work. It all comes back, how physical tests had fueled me, been the source of my happiness. I keep winding, fighting, beginning to enjoy the battle.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I’m not on a boat but running down a court in the final quarter, fighting for control of the ball. I’m back—I’m whole. Unbroken.

I relish the conflict, flexing my biceps to wind the reel until the fish is so close, he could whisper in my ear. Finally, Clint’s arm flies in front of my face as he scoops the fish into his net—a much bigger net, I realize, than the net he used for Gladys’s catch.

“What a gorgeous walleyed pike,” Clint says.

It’s a funny word to describe a fish—but really not that far from the truth. Its scales shine like an antique gold bracelet in the sun.

“This guy’s huge,” Clint says as he hands the fish to me. The walleye stretches all the way from my head to just past my hip, making my arms tremble beneath the weight.

“We’ve got to take a picture,” he goes on, rushing toward his clump of fishing gear and emerging with a camera that he aims at me. “I’ll bet this one’s a shoo-in for the biggest catch of the summer so far. If it’s still the biggest catch in August, you’ll win a free week’s stay here at the resort next summer.”

My heart is racing, the sweat is cooling on my arms, and my legs are wobbly. For the first time since finding myself writhing in pain on a gym floor while my fellow Eagles stared down on me, too scared to help, I actually feel … like me.

“What a great way to start your vacation. We ought to celebrate at Pike’s tonight,” Clint announces.

Without thinking, I let a smile jump onto my face. But not just some polite, picture-taking smile. Not something smeared across my face out of obligation. I give Clint an honest, true smile of utter happiness. The same smile that, back in my junior year, first won Gabe Ross’s heart.

Before he snaps the picture, Clint smiles back.