Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,53
to him, stay with him until this mood has passed, I know the worst thing I could do would be to press him, turn clingy. Strategy, Chelse, I tell myself. You’re a smart girl. Get yourself a game plan.
“Tomorrow,” I say, nudging his side. “Something that scares both of us. Actually, me more than you.”
“What would that be?” he asks, perking up a little.
“Nope. Tomorrow. Not a word until then.”
Clint
man on
So where do I turn, anyway?” I ask. “We’re definitely not headed to town.”
“Not to Baudette, anyway.”
“How is it that you’re telling me where to drive? Wouldn’t it be easier if you’d just tell me where we’re going?” I raise my eyebrow, waiting for Chelsea to answer.
“Nope.” She sticks her nose in the air, the wind making her ponytail dance a frenzied salsa routine. “I Googled this place three times over. I know exactly where we’re going.”
“Not even a hint?” I ask, the same way I’d asked when we were on my group fishing expedition earlier that day. Even now, with evening creeping over the tops of the pines, I still have no idea what she’s got planned.
“Eyes on the road, bub,” is all she says, pushing my cheek so that my face turns back toward the windshield.
“One hint.”
“If you don’t mind, I thought we could do something a little—physical.”
Physical? I remember the way the curve of her breast fit in my mouth the night before, as we draped that thick blanket of steam across the windows of my truck. Just how physical is this thing she has in mind?
She scolds, “A little professionalism, please, sir,” like she knows what I’m thinking. “A small step, remember? Something a little scary for us both to tackle. Turn here.”
As I ease the truck across the cracked asphalt of a parking lot, Chelsea points to a large warehouse-looking building.
“You’re kidding,” I say, my stomach bottoming out.
A huge pink neon sign, complete with flashing white bowling pins, announces that we have just arrived at the Rose Bowl.
“Are you fifty or something?” I tease her as we pile out of the truck. “Bowling.”
“Small step—how many times do I have to tell you?” she asks playfully. She hurries ahead of me, grabs the door to the Rose Bowl, and opens it for me. Already she’s messing with my mind, showing me she’s got the upper hand. Showing me I’m the weaker one. She’s challenging me, even though I told her sports were behind me.
I give her a hard stare to let her know I’m on to this strategy. But she only widens her eyes and shrugs, acting completely innocent. Still, I don’t really appreciate having a challenge forced on me. Especially since I’ve spent the entirety of her vacation playing by her rules. Making sure we don’t do anything too strenuous. Watching out for her. Doesn’t really feel like she’s doing me the same honor. And for a second, it kind of pisses me off.
“Smells like I remember,” she sighs as we step inside. “Like sweaty shoes and cigarettes and stale beer.”
“Like you remember,” I mumble, dragging my feet. “This is my neck of the woods, isn’t it?”
“Like I remember,” she repeats. “All bowling alleys smell the same. And, yes, I’ve been bowling before. What were you expecting? That you’d get to wrap your arms around me while you showed me how to roll the ball down the lane?”
“That’s not—look, Chelse, I wasn’t kidding when I said I left competitive sports behind me. You can respect that, right?”
But she puts her hand on her hip and says, “If you think bowling is a serious competitive sport, you really have been on the sidelines too long.”
“I’m done. I meant that,” I insist.
“What is this, some sort of martyr complex?” she asks. “Really. Is this the same person who insisted I looked like one of the old men wasting their lives away outside of bait and tackle shops? Is this the same person who wanted to know where all my passion had gone?”
“Is this the same person who wouldn’t even attempt to toss a basketball?”
She juts her chin out. “See that? The way you just volleyed the conversation back at me? Your competitive spirit is crying to see the light of day.”
She wants me to smile at her, but I refuse. She slumps a little, then says, “The other day, at Pike’s, when you and Brandon went to hang up the flyers, your mom used the word scared to describe me. ‘I know you’re scared,’ she said.”
“So?”
“So—she used