Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,64
bite my lip until I can taste blood, until the pain radiating from the clamp of my teeth takes my tears away.
When I turn, Clint’s face is maybe an inch away from my own. Earl is gone; the front counter is empty.
“Did you—you heard—he’s just—I can’t—”
“You love him,” Clint says.
“But I—you knew I had—”
“But you love him,” Clint repeats. “That’s what you just said, anyway.”
I’m in the last moments of my last game, all over again. I’m in my Eagles jersey, and I’m jumping, twisting my pain-racked body, bringing my arm behind my head. I’m falling.
“But you knew,” I insist.
“What are you doing with me?” Clint snaps. “You act like—like there’s this undeniable thing between us—and then you turn around and talk the same way with him. I don’t understand. I thought—you know about me, too, about—what I’d been through—and here you are screwing with me.”
“I’m not—I’ve been completely—”
“Do you love him?” Clint asks.
My jaw swings open, shuts again. I’m actually disappointed for a second that no words have magically poured out all on their own to explain the entire situation.
“Damn,” Clint says, running his hand through his hair. “Thank God it didn’t happen last night. Thank God I didn’t let you run right over me—”
“That’s not—I wanted—”
“From here on out,” Clint hisses at me, “I’m your trainer. Got it? You only have a few more days left of your vacation left, anyway. Your trainer. Period. Your trainer, who takes you on the most boring walks through the countryside.”
“You haven’t,” I insist. “I’ve been trying!”
“Your trainer,” he continues, “who is helping you throw your vacation away, because you’re the most frightened little girl I’ve ever met.”
“I’m—?”
“The most frightened. You don’t even have the strength to choose between guy number one and guy number two. So I’ll help you out. I’ll choose for you. Trainer, Chelse. That’s it.”
My tears come as soon as he’s stomped out through the lobby door. I try to rein them in, but it’s harder than pushing a thunderstorm back up into the sky.
When I finally get some sort of control over my blubbering self, I wipe my face and hurry to the gift shop around the corner from the dining room. I make a beeline for a rack of postcards, spinning the metal display as I pick out different shots of the resort.
I pay for the postcards and a pen, then wander toward the bench next to the front door.
XXXXXXXXX, Chelse, I write on one.
One more day closer to you, I scribble on the next.
Don’t forget—I love you more than Scratches.
“There you are,” Brandon says, bursting out of the dining room. “Look, tell Mom when you see her that I’m going straight to Pike’s after band practice, all right? What’s the matter? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“Go away. I’m busy,” I mutter.
“What’re you doing?”
“Writing postcards to Gabe. One for each day we have left of vacation. I’m going to drop one in the mail every morning. To show him I’m thinking about him every day.”
“Uh-huh,” he says in a knowing tone. “Only by writing them all now, you don’t have to think about him every day. Which is the point, right?”
“No. I just want to get them all done.”
“You don’t look too happy there, Chelse. Kind of looks like you’re doing a homework assignment you forgot about until two minutes before it was due.”
“I’d think you, of all people, would be proud of me,” I snap.
“Proud of you for finding a way to snow your boyfriend?”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” I grumble. I scribble Gabe’s address on another postcard.
“I’ve seen you and Clint together,” Brandon says coolly. “And believe me, I could say a lot worse right now.”
I’d kill him for that remark … if it wasn’t so true.
Clint
time-out
I’m too pissed after that phone call to realize just how quickly I stomp through my afternoon orchid hunt. But when we circle back around the trail, winding up back at the lodge, I turn to find my entire group huffing and puffing like I’m their track coach. Like I’ve just sent them through the most grueling practice session of all time. Some of them have actual sweat stains on their T-shirts.
“Ah—there’s ice—iced tea in the dining room,” I mumble. Even embarrassment doesn’t make me any less angry. But I’m not mad at Chelsea—I’m furious with me. Of all the people to have a thing for, I chastise myself. Chelsea. Due to leave Minnesota in less than a week. What’d you expect?
I go jogging