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“That really doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “You’re working—you know what you can handle—”

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“I’m not sure I do,” she cuts me off. “I’m starting to wonder if it really is my safety that’s keeping me sidelined, that’s making me say no. Or maybe I’m just—really—afraid.”

I stare at her a minute—long enough to know this isn’t a tactic. She’s serious. There’s no way I’m going to be able to back out after that little mini-speech.
Great,
I think as I turn toward the counter.

“Size twelve,” I tell the man at the shoe-rental counter. He’s wearing one of those fancy league shirts, this one with “Burt” embroidered over the breast pocket. He nods a hello, and I offer a hello that sounds more like a grunt.

Chelsea leans against the counter, staring at the rack of shoes. “Got any baby booties back there?” she asks. “Might need them for the little man here.”

“Little man,” I repeat. She’s doing it again. This is a tactic—no doubt about it.

“It’s okay, sweets,” she teases, petting my arm. “Don’t worry. Your mom’ll still love you, even after you get your butt whipped by a girl.”

“Where’d you find her?” Burt asks, wagging a thumb at Chelsea in disbelief.

“Yet again, this is definitely not where I imagined this night going,”

I say.

“Get used to it,” she announces, sticking her chin out defiantly. Cute, cute, cute. Damn her.

“You going to just
take
that?” Burt asks.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll bite, Keyes.” I point at the shoes Burt’s put on the counter, asking, “You did give her a pair that’s completely covered in athlete’s foot, right?”

“Doesn’t really sound like this is gearing up to be a friendly game,”

Burt says.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s just trying to intimidate me,” she explains to Burt. “But little does he know, I’m unshakable.”

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Burt chuckles. “You guys’ve got lane three.”

She races to the ball rack. I take my time walking there, deciding to show her that I’m
so
good, I have no worries. I can take my time—I could, in fact, beat her at bowling while cleaning a fish with one hand and taking a hundred pictures on Kenzie’s digital camera with the other.

“Here,” I say, in a sarcastic tone. “Here’s a pretty little pink ball. A good one for you. A two-pounder.”

“Sorry, did you
see
that enormous fish I reeled in all by myself? The one that’s going to win my family a free week next summer? Need I remind you?” She bats her eyelashes, waiting for my response. Just as I open my mouth to answer, she interrupts by screaming, “Clint! That swirly little blue ball has your name on it. Look! Sparkles!”

“I’m so going to kick your butt,” I warn her. Just to intimidate her, I grab a green sixteen-pounder—the heaviest ball on the rack—and head for our lane.

“The taller you talk yourself up, the more it’s going to hurt when you fall.”

“In for a little wager, Keyes?” I say. I flinch when I realize I used to do the same thing on the ice—use last names.

“What’d you have in mind,
Morgan
?” she says, playing along. I pull myself together, tell myself to forget hockey. There’s just right now, nothing else. “The loser has to kiss a fish.”

“Kiss a fish,” she repeats. “What kind of bet is
that
? Loser buys drive-in tickets, maybe. But kiss a fish? Besides, it’s unfair for me to take a bet. You being such an underdog to my insane bowling abilities.”

“We flip for the first frame,” I tell her, pulling a quarter from my shorts.

“Heads,” she shouts, and grimaces when my
tails
shines under the fluorescent light.

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I dip my fingers into the holes on the ball, line my body up with the lane. But it feels like falling off the wagon, being in here. Playing. Competing.
Suck it up, Morgan,
I tell myself. I pull my arm back, knock down a respectable spare, and swagger back toward our bench. “Take that,” I say proudly.

“Not bad,” she admits, sinking her fingers into her ball. She lines her body up with the arrows on the lane, swings the ball up close to her chest, starts to raise a foot, then stops.

I know what she’s doing. She’s thinking of all sorts of horrible scenarios: tripping on a loose shoelace, getting the ball stuck on the knuckle of her middle finger just as she tries to launch it down the lane and losing her balance. Falling. Just like she did before. She glances back over her shoulder. I just raise an eyebrow at her, shrug and hold a hand up, palm out. “It was your idea,” I tell her. “Can’t chicken out now. You do, it’s a forfeit.”

She narrows her eyes—that got her. Stiffens her back, tightens her hold on the ball. She takes three long, graceful steps and releases the ball. The pins fall, every last one. Strike.

“And so the competition truly begins,” she says, trying desperately to suppress a
gotcha
smile. She fails miserably.

“Better get your game together, buddy.” We both turn to find Burt leaning over the railing behind our lane, watching us. “She’s good. But surely you can beat her.”

“I’m going to, already,” I defend myself as I grab my ball. “She just had a lucky frame, is all.”

Chelsea bristles. I try to tell myself I’m just pushing her, like any good coach would. But it’s more than that. I don’t want to lose. Her next two balls are strikes, too. “Easy as cuttin’ butter,” she taunts as she points to our score screen, where the image of a turkey flashes.

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“Hey,” a rotund older guy says, pointing at our lane with his cigarette. “That girl’s good.”

Having seen the turkey, Burt wanders down from the front counter again. “What’s going on?” he calls to me. “You’re not losing, are you?”

“No,” I shoot back. But on our screen, it’s clear that after my spare, I’ve left two open frames.

“I think you are,” another man yells, putting his beer down just long enough to point at the screen.

“It’s not over yet,” I snap, frustrated.

Maybe I snap it just a little too loudly, because Chelsea sort of droops. Like she’s decided, in that moment, not to push it any further—like she’s decided I feel bad. That she thinks I might even be a bit of a sore loser. That it’s not worth getting me completely peeved. But when she gathers her ball for the next frame, two women at the concession stand start whistling through their fingers, hollering and clapping like Chelsea’s somehow standing up for every downtrodden female throughout the history of all time.

“I can’t exactly let them down, now, can I?” she asks me as she lines herself up again.

Another strike for Chelsea. Six pins for me. Without thinking, I growl and slump into my seat, cross my arms over my chest. I start to wonder why I care so much. Why I can’t stand to lose. But I know the answer—I had no idea how hungry I was for a clean rivalry. A battle. I had no idea how much I’d been needing this very thing. I feel like
I’m
the one getting mended. By bowling. Of all things. When I catch Chelsea smiling at me, I figure she knows it, too. Two strikes later, every woman in the alley—including the woman who’s been sweeping the floor and the girls who’ve been leaning on pool tables while their boyfriends play eight-ball—are all crowding around our lane cheering, while the men start shouting, “Come on,” and “Get

’er,” and “What’s the matter with you?”

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Chelsea scores a spare on the seventh frame, which the men take as their shot to rally. But I’m pathetic—rusty. Not that I was ever much of a bowler, but when I was still playing hockey, I must have been better than
this.
I’ve only snared two spares the entire game. With the hopes of the entire male population resting on my shoulders, I hit one measly outside pin, then roll a gutter ball. I’ve definitely forgotten what it’s like to shoulder pressure.

“I’d regret the ass kicking I’ve just unloaded on you if that pouty look on your face wasn’t so adorable,” she murmurs in my ear. For the first time, I
feel
the pout on my face. Laughter starts to pour out of me, surprising me. When a jokester throws me a small white towel, I say, “No way. I’m not quitting. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.”

Chelsea’s last frame’s another strike, landing her two more chances.

“You want them?” she teases. “Might improve your score.”

I drape the white towel over my head. “Just go on. Let me know when it’s over.”

Spare.

Her feet click right up to where I’m sitting on the bench. She peeks under the towel and whispers, “Want a rematch?”

“You’re joking, right?” I grab the towel and wave it. “Complete and utter defeat,” I announce, while the men slink away and the women give each other high-fives.

“You’ve played professionally before, huh?” I ask as we untie our rented laces.

She shrugs. “I just used to play a lot.”

“A lot,” I repeat.

“I played in a league for about three years,” she says, patting my knee. “Don’t feel bad.”

I snort. “Don’t feel bad,” I mutter, trying to act like I’m peeved. But the lightness in my chest reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve felt …

free.

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“Listen,” I say, nudging her. “Seriously. Are you okay?”

“Okay?” she asks, tugging her left shoe free and tossing it to the tile.

“Your hip. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

Her hand freezes before she can pick up my sneaker. “I forgot it,”

she says. “Completely. As soon as we started playing.” Her voice begins to scatter down our lane in laughter.

The sun is setting as I edge the truck through a field maybe a mile from the back door of Pike’s, up toward a creek bed. Excitement burns as hot inside me as it did the first time I tried hang gliding.
Hang gliding
. Dumb comparison. This is nothing like hang gliding. I cut the engine, climb out of the truck, and extend a hand behind me without looking. Chelsea slips her warm skin against mine. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s also so familiar, as if we’ve been holding hands for the past ten years. The ease is shocking, and—the word pops into my mind before I can second-guess it away—
wonderful
.

“Thanks for bowling,” I say, still on a high even though our game ended almost an hour ago. “It’s crazy, but I haven’t felt that—I haven’t—” I can actually feel a happy light start to swirl through my own eyes.

“Yeah, I thought so,” she says, squeezing my hand back. Does this really happen? Does life actually start to feel beautiful and whole again? Are second chances real?

When we reach the end of the stream, I tighten my clamp on Chelsea’s hand and make a mad dash for the lake, dragging her into the water with me. The afternoon heat is still clinging to the air, so the water is soothingly cool as it swallows our legs, our waists. Two more steps, and the depths stretch all the way up to our chins. Chelsea dunks her head underwater, soaking her hair.

“Don’t go any farther,” I warn when she comes up for air. “There’s a drop-off pretty close to here. You don’t want to get in too deep.”

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“Maybe I don’t want to stay where it’s safe,” she says, looking me straight in the eye.

“Come here, anyway,” I say. “I have to make good on that bet I lost—I know exactly which water-drenched fish I want to kiss.”

It’s corny, but Chelsea giggles anyway as she floats toward me. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. As our mouths meet, water streams from her hair, running down both our faces. My hands fly up inside her wet shirt, her chilled skin cooling my palms. Our kisses turn deeper than the lowest point of Lake of the Woods. Without any real command from my brain, my hands are peeling back the soaked hem of her T-shirt. Shivers race down her body as I raise the shirt over her head. She pulls her arms out, the cool water leaving a trail of goose bumps across her chest—a trail I want to travel with my mouth.

She peels her bra away; my eyes trace the curves of her naked breasts while her shirt floats on the water beside me. As we come together for another kiss, I trace the lines of her breasts with my hands, squeezing her nipples gently, tugging a moan from her mouth. Her voice vibrates against my lips.

I don’t really know how much of this is new to Chelsea—how far she’s been before—but it’s been so long for me, it all feels new. I push her away, but only slightly. Reach below the surface of the water, tugging at the waistband of her shorts. The water’s turned the material of her shorts stiff, but I manage to unfasten the top button and wiggle the zipper down. I want to touch her, touch everything.

“Clint!” a voice calls out through the encroaching darkness. “Saw your truck back there.
Clint!
”

Chelsea splashes about frantically, searching for her tangled-up Tshirt and bra. When she finds them, she maneuvers behind me, hiding as she struggles to put everything back on.

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“Well, hi, uh, George,” I say, recognizing the voice and the burly silhouette at the water’s edge. “Gonna do a little night fishing?”

“You bet,” Pop’s old friend answers. “Figured you were, too.”

“Just cooling off. Had a couple of long hot days on the fishing boat.”

“Man, that sun will get you every time.”

“Sure will. Sorry to be trespassing on your land—just wanted to get away from all the tourists. See enough of ’em during the day,” I lie.
Can’t seem to ever see enough of one,
is all I can think.

“You don’t have to apologize, Clint. You’re welcome out here anytime, you know that …”

As George rattles on, I turn my head and hiss, “You decent?”

“Yeah,” Chelsea whispers back.

“Think I’ll head for home. I’m really bushed—you enjoy yourself, George,” I say, dragging myself—and Chelsea—out of the water. Chelsea crosses her arms over her chest as we hurry toward the truck, the two of us drenched and dripping.

“See you, George,” I call, waving over my shoulder.

“Well, now, you—ah, well, you and your, ah, friend, well, there, you two don’t have to run off on my account …” He’s shocked. Foot-on-adowned-power-line shocked. He’s got to recognize that the silhouette of my friend is decidedly female. Clint Morgan …
he’s not as dead as we’d
all started to think he was.