19. Jaxon #2
She sets her towel down and pulls the T-shirt over her head.
I look at the opposite bank so she doesn’t feel like I’m watching her, but I still catch enough skin to feel a rush of heat prickle through me.
“Turn around,” she says. “I don’t want you to watch me do this in case I belly flop.”
“You won’t,” I say, turning my back to her.
I hear her grab the rope, the creak of the branch, and I peek over my shoulder right before the splash.
She doesn’t belly flop so much as she goes all in on the jump—arms windmilling as she hits the water with an enormous splash, screaming on the way down.
It’s adorable and hilarious at the same time.
I’m treading water when something connects with my ribs. She surfaces right next to me, gasping and laughing at the same time. “You turned around too soon!”
“I wanted to see your jump,” I say.
“And I didn’t want you to make fun of me!” She pokes me again in the same spot, and I grab her wrist before she can do it again.
“Hey!” She struggles against me, then pulls me under the water before surfacing again.
I tickle her waist, and she shrieks in laughter. We end up tangled together—arms, legs, both of us trying to dunk the other before I splash her with a handful of pond water that she totally deserves.
“That’s it!” she yells and then gives it back immediately.
At some point she grabs my shoulders, wraps her legs around my waist and drags me under, which is dirty fighting.
When we both surface, she’s still stuck to me like seaweed.
We’re close enough that I can see the drops of water on her eyelashes.
She’s breathing hard, hair plastered back, the evening light highlighting her bare shoulders.
My eyes drop to her lips, all soft and wet, and for a moment neither of us says anything. I can’t even remember what we were arguing about.
“You fight dirty, you know that?” I murmur.
“I fight to win.” She untangles her legs from my body and swims backward, looking very pleased with herself. “Cowboys are supposed to be tough.”
“Cowboys don’t usually have to worry about being drowned.”
She turns and swims to the far side of the pond, putting some needed distance between us.
If she’d stayed that close, I don’t know how long I’d have lasted before I closed the gap and found out what she tasted like, pond water and all.
One more second of her body pressed against mine, and I don’t think either of us would’ve made it back to shore without crossing a line that would’ve changed everything.
I climb out of the pond and tell myself that what happened was just two competitive people who don’t know how to lose gracefully. But I know better. I’d lose to her any day if it meant I got to kiss her, thread my hands through her wet hair, and feel her next to me again.
She swims the length of the pond, then picks up her towel. I hold out the second sandwich as she sits next to me.
“Did you poison this?” She sniffs it, checking for evidence.
“Ada Mae made them. If they’re poisoned, we both go down.”
“Comforting.” She opens the plastic wrap and lifts the bread. “What kind is it?”
“Turkey and provolone.”
“My favorite.” She takes a bite.
We eat in silence for a minute before she asks, “How are you doing? I mean, with your parents gone and running the farm?”
I put my sandwich down. “Got a rejection for an NHL coaching position today and a letter from the bank refusing a loan extension.”
She looks over at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you applied for any coaching jobs.”
“Before I came home, I sent out a bunch of résumés.” I pick at the crust on my sandwich. “I keep thinking I can find some version of my life that still involves hockey.”
“You always have the Golden Springs Youth League,” she reminds me.
“Not even remotely the same,” I say with a laugh. “Did you see the kid last week who showed up to practice without skates?”
She presses her lips together, trying to hold back a smile.
“I spent fourteen years in professional hockey,” I say. “And I’m now teaching a child who can’t remember to bring the right equipment. I feel like I’m failing.”
“My mom used to tell me something,” she says, setting her sandwich on her lap.
“Every time I messed up, she’d say, Failure is how you learn.
Anyone who tells you differently has never actually tried anything worth failing at.
” She pulls up her knees and wraps her arms around them.
“I don’t know if this wedding venue will work. But it’s worth trying.”
I glance over. “So you’re saying this is a bad risk for me?”
“No.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “I’m saying there are worse things in life than getting it wrong. Even if I fail spectacularly, I know my mom would still be proud of me.” She finishes her sandwich and brushes her hands off. “I should head back before it gets dark.”
“Hey.” I nod at her phone. “You want a picture for the social media account?”
She shakes her head. “No. This memory is just for us.”
“Then I’m glad you gave me back my shorts,” I say.
“Next time, I might not,” she says with a smile.
She disappears through the trees, then I lie back on the grass and study the way the clouds are turning pink at the edges.
Sure, I got rejected by the bank and an NHL team in the same day. But I’m still here, thinking about her legs wrapped around my waist more than either of those letters. Which is probably not a good sign.