Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,78
neck, let his whiskers tickle my cheek, hoping that everyone will take this little distraction as an opportunity to find something else to talk about.
“Before I forget,” Gabe says, wiping orange smears of grease from his mouth. “I bought two tickets to an exhibition game at MSU.”
“Awesome,” Dad says, leaning, as he hasn’t in ages, on his high school lingo, his eyes lighting up at the idea of me being back in a gym. Any gym. Even the bleachers of a gym. “Basketball game?”
Gabe nods. “Lady Bears. Figured we could spend the night with my brother at his place so we won’t have to drive back exhausted.”
“Good plan,” Dad nods. “Worst thing you can ever do is drive tired.”
Yet again, the Gabe Ross charm has its advantages. Dad (thank God the high school gossip about journalism camp never made its way to the parents) would never even suspect that Gabe and I would do anything other than go to the game and bed down on separate couches.
I begin to relax a little. A basketball game sounds amazing, actually. I can already taste the popcorn. Maybe, by now, I won’t even mind so much being in the concession stands during halftime, instead of a locker room. Every athlete has to make that transition at some point. Mine just came a little earlier than I’d anticipated. Right?
“Only hitch is, the game’s the day after tomorrow,” Gabe says. “It’s short notice—”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Mom says, waving him off. “We’ve had Chelsea for three weeks. Now it’s your turn. I’m sure you guys want some quality time before your fall semesters start and you both take nose-dives into textbooks.”
Ever since the Explorer hit the city limits, I’ve been so wrapped up in guilt I’ve forgotten how easy it is to be with gorgeous, sweet Gabe Ross. Now, though, I begin to unwind, begin to imagine being with Gabe on campus as soon-to-be freshmen, hand-in-hand, walking across the quad toward the sports arena …
After dinner, Mom gathers our plates and I walk Gabe to the door.
“Thanks for the pizza,” I tell him as I shut the door behind us and head out toward his ’Stang. “That really was incredibly thoughtful.” Would Clint ever be that thoughtful? I wonder. Hard to know for sure, since we were never allowed to admit to being a couple in front of my family.
“And the MSU game sounds—”
“I don’t have tickets,” Gabe says, his eyes sparkling playfully.
“But you said—”
“Come on, Chelse. You didn’t forget, did you? Didn’t you count down the days of your vacation like I did? The game was the only cover-up I could come up with. The only excuse I could think of to explain why you would be away with me all night.”
“There’s no game?”
“Oh, there’s a game. At MSU, just like I said. And that’s why I made reservations for the Carlyle that same night.”
The Carlyle. My stomach starts to churn like ocean waves during a typhoon.
“The Carlyle,” I repeat. “Night after tomorrow.”
He nods, squeezing my hand. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispers into my ear. “It’s just us—there’s nothing to be nervous about us, right?”
I nod as he leans in for a good-night kiss.
He’ll know, I think as Gabe wraps his arms around me. He’ll know I’m not a virgin anymore.
Clint
long shot
Seems pretty quiet around here,” Todd says, cracking open his third can of Bud.
“You drink all the beer, you have to bring it next time,” Greg warns, like he always does, though he never follows through on his threats.
Todd’s right—out here night fishing (really night fishing, not lying to be alone with Chelsea), the whole world seems empty except for the three of us. Our lines drift lazily along the surface of the lake. The water sloshes against the side of the Minnow. Whenever I hear water anymore—a rush, a gurgle, even the trickle from the faucet in my bathroom—I think of Chelsea. For a second, I swear I can taste her.
“That Brandon, man, he kept us busy,” Todd goes on, slurping off the top of his can. “Maybe we could advertise on Craigslist or something for another bass player.”
“Maybe,” Greg says. “Hard to find somebody that good.”
“Or somebody who shows up to practice,” Todd agrees in a half-sigh.
“You’re quiet tonight, Morgan,” Greg says, attempting to stretch his legs in the cramped skiff. “You going to come listen to me and Todd limp along without a bass at Pike’s tomorrow?”
“No,” I say quietly. “I have a—date—actually.”
You’d think my words started some sort of