Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,29

hungry for dinner, but for escape. For an envelope in the world where I don’t have to feel the weight of my own past.

Something cold and damp hits the back of my arm. When I turn, Clint’s face blocks out not only the back wall of Pike’s, but the entirety of the Minnesota landscape. He’s so close I can almost smell the day’s sun on his skin. So close his lips are practically an inch from mine. If I were to just lean forward, they’d actually touch. If I were even to pretend to stumble, I’d be able to taste his mouth—

“Here,” he says, pulling me away from my thoughts as he nudges me again with one of the two frosted mugs in his hands.

I give my head a little shake. What is wrong with you, Chelsea? Why would you ever think about another guy’s lips with Gabe at home? You’ve never had thoughts like this about another guy. Not once.

I should probably just sit down, but something keeps me rooted here, standing close enough to Clint to see the shadows his eyelashes cast on his face.

“Dad’s brew?” I ask, searching for anything to say as I glance down into the white foam.

Clint puts a finger to his lips, shhh-ing me. “He’d have my ass if he knew I took these,” he admits. When I accept, he raises his own mug.

“What’re we toasting?”

“Your catch, of course. First place is always cause for celebration.”

I clink my mug against his, take a sip. A slight raspberry flavor lingers on my tongue like new love—full of sweet excitement, laced with sour doubts.

My eyes drag down Clint’s muscle-bound arms, the bulging calves beneath his shorts. “You’re an athlete,” I say.

Clint’s face turns as black as defeat. “No.”

“Sure you are. ‘First place is always cause for celebration’? And what’re all those pictures inside? The hockey stuff.”

“No,” Clint says, the way people get after their dogs. No which actually means, Shut-up. Obey this command.

I can’t say I much like being ordered around. But there’s another note behind Clint’s words—a sad, minor tone that does make me back away.

Silence settles around us like a block of ice. But I want to look at Clint straight on, not through the thick chunk of brutal cold between us. So I start to babble, tossing out questions like a blindfolded pitcher tossing spit-balls.

“Did you happen to catch any of his great moves while you were inside? Brandon’s?” I ask. My brother doesn’t just jiggle a little when he plays; he literally throws himself around, thrashing, splaying his legs to the side wildly like he’s possessed by the ghost of every long-gone punk musician ever to wear a studded guitar strap.

“He gets into it, doesn’t he?” Clint agrees.

“Of course,” I add, “his performance is probably a bit tamer tonight, since he’s also singing.”

Finally, Clint smiles. “If that’s tamer …” His voice trails off as he shakes his head. “Seriously, though, he really did surprise me. He can play. And he’s got a decent voice.”

“For such a geeky-looking kid,” I finish before stopping to think, my voice all big-sister protective. Instantly, the block of ice between us turns into a freaking iceberg.

The whole scene’s got this weird undercurrent to it. Forget mere ice—there’s something festering between us, already. Something … to forgive, almost. And it doesn’t really make any sense. We’ve only just met.

“That’s not what I meant—he’s not—” Clint tries to apologize.

“I know.” I wave him off and sit at the weather-beaten table. “Never mind. Maybe we should just eat.”

The Clint Special, his mom called his dinner. I doubt any other person on the planet could have come up with such a wild assortment of food: onion rings, fried shrimp, barbecued ribs, baked beans, slaw, fresh bread. And pickles. Pickles fill every last available wedge of space, turning the plate into a green polka-dotted display. I put a piece of popcorn shrimp in my mouth, but it kind of turns my stomach. It’s not that Cecilia’s a bad cook—just the opposite. But nerves always steal my appetite. And being here with Clint has practically set my hair on fire. I didn’t get this worked up about taking the ACTs.

It doesn’t help, either, that Pike’s is close to some sort of swamp or marsh. I can’t see what, exactly, because the patio butts right up against an overgrown wooded area, the same kind of woods that line the highways back home. But somewhere not far from our rough chairs and the trees,