Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,5

body away from Hardy and I launch myself into a jump hook. But I know, even before I release the ball, that the shot’s all whopper-jawed. I’ve jumped too high to get the most power, and my body’s rotated all wrong.

“… Keyes shoots and …” Fred Richards narrates happily. But I wonder, as I always do at this point, how he ever could have thought my air ball, soaring wildly, would have landed anywhere near the hoop. How he ever could have expected to end his sentence with “… scores! ”

In the bleachers, Tucker mouths an ow and reels his arm back to punch his twin. Levi tries to lean out of Tucker’s reach; as he twists to the side, Tucker’s hand makes contact with the plastic soda cup, knocking it out of Levi’s fingers. The cup flies toward the court, hits the floor near the end line, tumbles. The soda spills beneath the basket. The brown, bubbly shadow creeps across the glossy gym floor, spreading across the key.

I hit pause on the remote while Chelsea is still in the air. At this moment, I have yet to come down from my crazy, desperate jump. My feet have yet to hit the puddle of Levi’s spilled drink. I have yet to lose my balance and slide through the sloppy soda. My legs have yet to shoot out in opposite directions like a Fair Grove cheerleader doing the splits. My body has yet to slam against the brick-hard surface of the court.

The me on TV has yet to be rushed to the emergency room, where a doctor will let his eyebrows crash together as he points to my X-rays, at the fracture that slices through my hip bone and makes me look like a cracked teacup. That doctor has yet to shake his head when I finally come clean about the pelvic ache, saying, Your hip was surely already weakened by a stress fracture, Chelsea. Overuse. You should have told someone you were hurting. I have yet to be sent for hip surgery, yet to be termed out of commission. I have yet to see my dreams of college ball ripped to the kind of violent, life-altering shreds that usually fill a trailer park after a tornado.

I stare at myself, wishing I could have paused my life here. Wishing I could have dangled in the air forever, and never had to endure the excruciating pain that followed.

Clint

minor penalty

Call me crazy,” says Earl, owner of Lake of the Woods fishing resort, from behind the check-in counter. “I happen to think that a man on vacation wants … a vacation.”

I instantly feel deflated. I glance back up at the poster I’ve just thumbtacked to the wall of the lobby. It’s not a bad poster. In fact, I personally think the collage I’ve put together of the northern Minnesota landscape looks enticing. Whitewater rapids, kayaks on clear rivers, brown fingers of hiking trails—what could be better? Give me a week, I’ll give you the tools for the best body of your life! my poster promises. Lake of the Woods Boot Camp!

“It’s a good idea,” I say, trying to defend myself. But my words hesitate far too much to convey any real confidence. I clear my throat and decide to be more assertive. “It’s not like I’m forcing people into the gym. It’s intense outdoor activities—hiking, swimming, rowing—surrounded by our incredible scenery. Isn’t that why people come up here in the first place? For the scenery? You don’t vacation in Minnesota to be inside.”

“I dunno,” Earl mumbles. “Most people like a little leisure with their time off. Hikes are strolls here, Clint. Kayak trips are sight-seeing adventures, not races. Swimming amounts to floating on an inner tube near the dock. Vacation, son. Rest. Relaxation. That’s what folks come here for. You should know that by now. The men fish. The women make eyes at the tour guides.”

“They don’t ‘make eyes’ at me,” I say, as the door to the dining room flops open.

“It’s all right, Clint,” Todd says around an enormous bite of a sandwich that reeks of vinegar. “Not everybody can be the stuff of fantasy. Just a select few of us.” He’s not really joking all that much. Here we are, on our first day of summer work back at the resort, and already he’s walking around in a Lake of the Woods T-shirt that’s too small for him, displaying all those hours at the weight bench for the girls on vacation. Usually,