Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,59

smile turns kind of plastic and forced as Brandon’s voice bounces against the cabin walls.

“Night fishing?” he screams.

“Just a minute,” she tells me as I step inside the cabin. She pushes Brandon into a hallway, out of sight.

Their voices hiss back and forth angrily. I fidget in the front room, wishing the TV were blaring so I wouldn’t have to hear their fight.

Sweat droplets form under my arms and trickle down my sides as I wonder if her parents are somewhere in the cabin, listening as Brandon challenges Chelsea’s excuse to be alone with me. Night fishing. It sounds dumb now, even to me.

“Hope you guys all have fun tonight,” she finally calls out, her voice ringing against the air in a hollow way. She’s a terrible liar. Maybe even worse than I am. When she steps into view, I realize she’s got on a pair of jean shorts that show off her strong legs—all curvy and sexy. I can smell her skin, even from here, and I remember the way her soft body always feels beneath my rough hands.

“Forgot your tackle box, didn’t you, sis?” Brandon taunts her, carrying his guitar case into the front room.

“Got her covered, Brand, thanks,” I say, my crappy-liar voice ringing pathetically. “Drop you off at Pike’s?” I offer, trying like hell to save face even though the suggestion is stupid. If Chelsea and I really were going fishing, the last thing I’d want to do is drive all the way to Baudette and back.

“Forget it,” Brandon mumbles. “I already got a ride.”

“Greg’s in the lodge—” I offer stupidly.

“I know,” Brandon tells me. “Who do you think my ride is?”

“Tell—tell Todd I said hi,” I try. But Brandon shakes his head.

“You guys don’t fool me,” he says. “You don’t.”

“Enough,” Chelsea tells him, as footsteps start a stampede toward the living room.

“Sure you two don’t want to come?” her mother calls.

“Everyone’s leaving—going to Pike’s to hear Brand play,” Chelsea informs me as her dad steps into view. She shrinks a little when he shows up.

It’s uncomfortable, being around the friction between the two of them. The kind of uncomfortable that makes me want to fix it, somehow. So I blurt, “Chelsea’s been at me to take her night fishing for a while now.” I hold up the poles to prove it’s true.

“Night fishing,” her dad repeats, his stare turning into an I wonder what’s really going on with you two glare.

Good idea, Clint, I congratulate myself. Way to amp the tension right up.

Chelsea

contact sport

It’s a charade—and maybe Dad knows as much. Maybe he’s as sure of what’s happening between Clint and me as Brandon is. Maybe he thinks even less of me now than he did before we went on vacation. Is that humanly possible?

I shift from one foot to the other, my nerves crackling inside of me. I wish they’d all just leave, already. Or maybe they’re waiting for me to leave. Wait—how far, exactly, do Clint and I have to take this charade of night fishing? Do we actually have to take a boat out into the middle of the lake? Isn’t the goal just to be alone? My mind starts turning over the possibilities of what Clint and I could actually do, wrapped in the seclusion the water …

Clint grins at me, his smile tearing at the tension in the room the same way two forks pull apart a dense angel food cake. “Hey, Chelse. Think I can trouble you for something to drink before we head out? I had two fishing runs this afternoon, and that sun blazed two-hundred degrees on that boat today.”

“Sure,” I say, jumping into action. “Sweet tea okay?”

“Long as it has plenty of ice,” Clint answers.

As we both head into the kitchen, Mom calls out a final “Good night” and three pairs of feet clomp out the door.

I pour him a glass of Mom’s sun tea, the ice cubes growing fuzzy corners as I think about the rough glare that Dad just tossed at me.

“He wants to talk to you, Chelse,” Clint says. “He doesn’t know how.”

“It’s not my fault,” I growl as I put the pitcher on the counter. “What happened on the court happened to me. It was my accident, not his. I’m the one who had something to get over, not him. And besides—he doesn’t know how to talk to me? I’m the same person I always was—”

“No, you’re not,” Clint says, coming up behind me. Talk about blazing—he practically feels like a space