Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,26

it in the bed,” I try.

Brandon lets out a horrified shriek. Chelsea cringes, touching her ear.

I give in, let my arguments die when she climbs in the middle. But when I slide behind the wheel, it smacks me on the side of the head how long it’s been since a woman has sat in the cab of my truck. Since long hair rippled in the wind. Since the sweet smell of shampoo and soap danced off long, soft arms and up my nose.

I accidentally brush Chelsea’s knee as I shift out of park. I do not want this, my brain immediately starts to chant. But other parts of my body like to disagree.

Brandon wants to talk about music—all the way to Baudette. Which is a little surprising, actually. Way the kid looks, I pegged him for Chess Club Champion. Now, though, as he hugs his guitar case, I notice all the silver hoops in his ears and the vintage Metallica T-shirt.

But at least he takes away the pressure of trying to find something to say. All I have to do is offer a nod and an occasional mm-hmmm or that’s cool to his incessant chatter.

Good thing the AC in my old truck is nonexistent, because that means the window’s down and can’t be hit with spit when Brandon spews out a weird guffaw of surprise. “What is that?” he shouts, pointing at the forty-foot walleye that looms beside a Welcome to Baudette sign.

“The fish your sister caught today,” I quip. Which actually gets the girl to smile—almost.

“A giant concrete fish? Seriously?” Brandon asks.

“Not just any concrete fish,” I say. “That’s Willie Walleye. He’s a legend here. A … mascot.”

The word mascot isn’t really that much of a sports term, but it makes Chelsea’s almost-smile fade just as quickly as it came.

“How many people do you think will show up tonight?” Brandon asks as I park the truck.

“Oh, as many as Pop can fit in—fifty or sixty.”

“Fifty or sixty,” Brandon whispers in awe.

“Leave your amp here for a sec,” I tell him. “I’ll introduce you to Greg and Todd.”

Chelsea climbs out of the cab behind her brother. As Brandon excitedly pushes ahead of me, banging his guitar case through the door, I stare at Chelsea. She’s standing on the sidewalk, the orange-neon glow from the Pike’s Perch sign washing across her face and arms. She points up toward the inscription in the stone façade of the restaurant: Bank—1906. “Is that for real?”

“Pop brews beer in the old vault,” I say, still holding the door open. The sounds of early evening dinner dishes clanking, voices laughing, and chairs scraping trickle out onto the sidewalk.

“My parents own a place kind of like this,” she says. “I mean, not a full restaurant, but a bakery. In this row of shops and businesses that’ve been a hundred different things over the years. Somebody’s taken over the original town bank there, too. It’s an office building now. I’ve always loved that about my town—how it kind of keeps getting reinvented without being torn down. How history sticks around.”

It’s the most she’s said to me since we’ve met. And the way she’s staring at my folks’ place, with that insanely cute smile on her face, makes an uncomfortable warmth spread just beneath my skin.

“Did you grow up working here?” she asks, turning her eyes from the building to me.

“I think I learned to walk bussing tables.”

Her smile grows. “Huh. We might actually have something in common.”

At first I think she’s being sarcastic. And then I remind myself that while I might know her story (or fragments of it, at least), she doesn’t know a single sentence of mine. She has no idea how much we really have in common.

“Hey,” a sweet, happy voice calls from the opposite end of the sidewalk. When I turn, Kenzie’s making her way toward the entrance of Pike’s. She’s all smiles, pushing her hair from her eyes. “I was hoping I’d find you here tonight,” she says, pausing at my side. Just as she puts a hand on my shoulder, she glances toward Chelsea. “The ball player,” she says quietly.

“Chelsea, this is Kenzie,” I manage. “We … grew up together.”

“Lot of training going on at Pike’s tonight?” Kenzie asks me, tilting her head. She clenches her jaw, obviously hurt. Or angry. Or both. “Client,” she repeats through gritted teeth.

Chelsea

out of bounds

Hey!” Brandon shouts, banging his hardshell guitar case against an empty table. “Where’s the band?” His face twists with utter disappointment.

“Not sure