while the men slink away and the women give each other high-fives.
“You’ve played professionally before, huh?” I ask as we untie our rented laces.
She shrugs. “I just used to play a lot.”
“A lot,” I repeat.
“I played in a league for about three years,” she says, patting my knee. “Don’t feel bad.”
I snort. “Don’t feel bad,” I mutter, trying to act like I’m peeved. But the lightness in my chest reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve felt … free.
“Listen,” I say, nudging her. “Seriously. Are you okay?”
“Okay?” she asks, tugging her left shoe free and tossing it to the tile.
“Your hip. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
Her hand freezes before she can pick up my sneaker. “I forgot it,” she says. “Completely. As soon as we started playing.” Her voice begins to scatter down our lane in laughter.
The sun is setting as I edge the truck through a field maybe a mile from the back door of Pike’s, up toward a creek bed. Excitement burns as hot inside me as it did the first time I tried hang gliding. Hang gliding. Dumb comparison. This is nothing like hang gliding.
I cut the engine, climb out of the truck, and extend a hand behind me without looking. Chelsea slips her warm skin against mine. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s also so familiar, as if we’ve been holding hands for the past ten years. The ease is shocking, and—the word pops into my mind before I can second-guess it away—wonderful.
“Thanks for bowling,” I say, still on a high even though our game ended almost an hour ago. “It’s crazy, but I haven’t felt that—I haven’t—” I can actually feel a happy light start to swirl through my own eyes.
“Yeah, I thought so,” she says, squeezing my hand back.
Does this really happen? Does life actually start to feel beautiful and whole again? Are second chances real?
When we reach the end of the stream, I tighten my clamp on Chelsea’s hand and make a mad dash for the lake, dragging her into the water with me. The afternoon heat is still clinging to the air, so the water is soothingly cool as it swallows our legs, our waists. Two more steps, and the depths stretch all the way up to our chins. Chelsea dunks her head underwater, soaking her hair.
“Don’t go any farther,” I warn when she comes up for air. “There’s a drop-off pretty close to here. You don’t want to get in too deep.”
“Maybe I don’t want to stay where it’s safe,” she says, looking me straight in the eye.
“Come here, anyway,” I say. “I have to make good on that bet I lost—I know exactly which water-drenched fish I want to kiss.”
It’s corny, but Chelsea giggles anyway as she floats toward me. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. As our mouths meet, water streams from her hair, running down both our faces. My hands fly up inside her wet shirt, her chilled skin cooling my palms. Our kisses turn deeper than the lowest point of Lake of the Woods. Without any real command from my brain, my hands are peeling back the soaked hem of her T-shirt. Shivers race down her body as I raise the shirt over her head. She pulls her arms out, the cool water leaving a trail of goose bumps across her chest—a trail I want to travel with my mouth.
She peels her bra away; my eyes trace the curves of her naked breasts while her shirt floats on the water beside me. As we come together for another kiss, I trace the lines of her breasts with my hands, squeezing her nipples gently, tugging a moan from her mouth. Her voice vibrates against my lips.
I don’t really know how much of this is new to Chelsea—how far she’s been before—but it’s been so long for me, it all feels new.
I push her away, but only slightly. Reach below the surface of the water, tugging at the waistband of her shorts. The water’s turned the material of her shorts stiff, but I manage to unfasten the top button and wiggle the zipper down. I want to touch her, touch everything.
“Clint!” a voice calls out through the encroaching darkness. “Saw your truck back there. Clint! ”
Chelsea splashes about frantically, searching for her tangled-up T-shirt and bra. When she finds them, she maneuvers behind me, hiding as she struggles to put everything back on.
“Well, hi, uh, George,” I say, recognizing the voice