Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,70
It was always my fault. Right? I’m the one who blew it.”
Dad shakes his head. “I should have known. Brandon said he did—even that night at the hospital, the night of the accident, he said he knew you were hurt. That he should have said something. That he shouldn’t have let you play. All I could ever think was, if Brandon knew, why didn’t I?”
“It was my hip. Mine. I was the one who should have known.”
“I still feel bad about it.”
“Yeah. Well. Me too.”
We stare at each other. Just stare. The sun keeps sinking; bugs keep swarming in the grass; the drums keep beating on through the walls of Pike’s. In the distance, I think I can hear the ATV revving to life. Gene will be showing up before too much longer.
“Come on,” I tell Dad, bouncing the ball his way. “Horse. Rusty as I am, I’ll bet my first semester’s tuition I can still kick your butt.”
Dad dribbles, takes a shot. The ball bounces off the rim; he catches it and passes it to me.
Feet firmly planted, heart stomping, ears ringing with the echo of the cheering crowd in the Fair Grove High gym, I raise my arms and take the first set shot since my last game. The ball bounces off the backboard and dances on the rim a few seconds before deciding to fall through.
“Still got it, Keyes,” Dad says.
“I’m still better than you, anyway,” I tease.
He’s smiling as he goes for a lay-up.
Clint
hooking
I swear, the couple of days I agree to take off from work after the accident torture me far worse than the actual dislocation. Because I spend the whole time thinking about Chelsea—and how wrong I’ve been. I never should have pushed her away, never should have ignored the way every single fiber in my entire body told me she was what I wanted. I have to talk to her, but not on the phone. I know I have to look in her face to tell her what’s swirling through my head.
The day I finally do go back to work, I’m armed with Ibuprofen, the promises I made to Mom about taking it easy, and the promises I made to Pop about doing the gentle range-of-motion exercises the ER doc gave me so my arm won’t freeze. I’d promise anything at this point; I have to get out of the house.
I can’t wait to find her.
I’m sore and tender, but I still rush to cabin number four. When I realize it’s empty, I start breaking my promise to Mom by racing around the resort searching for Chelsea. Because yes, maybe there’s another guy waiting at home for her. Maybe she does have feelings for him. But isn’t there still love inside me, too, for Rosie? Won’t there always be?
Screw Gabe. Screw all this stupid fear. And screw the clock that counts down the time Chelsea and I have left. I’m already in deep enough that it’ll hurt when she leaves. I’ll miss her. But right now? All I know is that I want her. That I’m giving this a shot.
By the time I rush into the lodge, I’m covered in a thick, sticky sweat. I feel a little beat up, but it’s worth it when I finally find her in the lobby, staring at the bulletin board that still has her photo tacked to it—the one I took of her and her walleye.
When she turns and sees me, her face smooths out, like maybe my showing up means she’s just found what she’s been looking for, too.
“You could go out on the boat again,” I say, pointing at the photo of her walleye. Not at all what I’d wanted to say, but I don’t really know where to start.
“It wouldn’t be the same without you.” She smiles at me. “And you’re out of commission for the next few weeks. At least you don’t have to wear a sling. Does it still hurt?”
“The thing is,” I say, charging ahead, not able to hold it back any longer, “you get hurt regardless, you know? No matter how safe you try to stay. Things … you … ” You had two days to think of what you’d say to her, Morgan, and here you are acting like an idiot.
Chelsea grins slyly. “You decide to change your mind about the trainer thing?” she whispers.
God, did I.
“Listen,” she says. “I have an idea. About what we could do tomorrow. If you think you can get away, that is.”
“I