Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,60
heater.
“Thanks,” I grumble. “Comforting.”
“You’re not any less special, Chelse. But you’re not the same person he knew. You can’t be. You had a life-changing experience, didn’t you? Maybe you just need to reintroduce yourself.”
“Maybe if he cared about someone who couldn’t be an athlete, I wouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t think he cares about Brandon less because he doesn’t play ball.”
“He plays something,” I say.
“This isn’t a contest, Chelse. It’s a conversation. Remember those?” When he puts his hands on my arms I don’t feel skin at all, but the sun’s rays. “You don’t necessarily have to win conversations. Even though I do kind of like this combative you,” he teases.
I turn, put my palm against his chest. His skin radiates so much of the day’s heat that touching him feels like wading into the lake, opening my hand, and catching one of the white shimmers of blistering afternoon sunlight bouncing across the water.
“It was hot out there today,” I say. When I look up at him, our faces are so close that our eyelashes almost tangle.
He kisses me—gently. The kind of kiss that asks for nothing in return. And because it’s not demanding a thing from me, it feels like freedom. I swear, over these past few days with Clint, fear has become a shackle with a rusted hinge, weakened and brittle. Ready to crumble apart. And as our kiss lengthens, the shackle of fear gives way, falls off completely. I want to give everything I am to that kiss. To Clint.
“You’re frying,” I insist when our mouths finally part.
“I’m okay,” he tells me. He runs a hand down my back, sending a streak of heat through my T-shirt.
“How ’bout we get you cooled off?” I ask.
“Like a swim?”
“Like a shower.”
Clint nods. “Okay. I could use a hose-off. Just show me—”
I lead him down the hallway, toward the bathroom we’ve all been sharing, hoping the place doesn’t look like an absolute swamp.
When I flick the light on, I find Brandon’s hair gel and zit creams strewn across the counter, but at least Mom’s hung the towels up.
I shut the door, showing Clint that I’m not going anywhere.
“Chelse,” he says, shaking his head.
I kiss him again—kiss him the way he’d kissed me a moment ago, asking for nothing more than this moment. Telling him with my mouth that I only want this, that I am sure of nothing else but this. That the only thing right now that is pure and unsoiled and perfect is the way he feels against me.
Clint takes his red cap off and tosses it to the floor. I reach for his T-shirt, pull it over his head. I pull my own T-shirt off, and Clint reaches around to my back, unfastening my bra. He searches my eyes for a sign to keep going.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the Chelsea I became after the accident crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot. Frowning, she juts her head forward and starts to repeat the same word over and over again. I can tell, from the shape her lips take, that’s she’s shouting Gabe, Gabe, Gabe.
But she’s a TV show on mute. Her mouth moves but no sound comes. So it’s easy to turn my back on her. Easy to ignore her, to turn toward Clint, and toward the fiery-hot feelings that ignite inside me.
Our fingers start peeling back the rest of each other’s clothes in big chunks—the way I sometimes peel back the husks from fresh corncobs in the summer. Clint slides my bra off and I unbutton his shorts. After we peel back the thickest layers, we start to take away the tiny corn silks that remain: my panties, his underwear, my ponytail holder, his watch.
We stand naked in front of each other, studying the many inches of exposed skin.
Clint finally takes my face in his hands and kisses me.
As we kiss, I push him toward the shower. Our mouths are still locked as I twist the cold knob full-force, then grope for the hot, adding just enough to take the edge off. We’re still kissing as we step into the cool stream. But these kisses are more … tender, pleading. Please? our kisses beg, while answering, at the same time, yes.
The water pelts us, soaking my hair and Clint’s, making rivers down our bodies, running between our lips.
Clint’s body is glorious. The reality of him far outshines any mere fantasy. The cool shower refuses to squelch the passion that radiates far