Rush The Game

remember something. I just can’t place—
    “Last summer. You were up to your waist in the water, wearing a dark blue bathing suit. I could see the edge of your tattoo. . . .”
    He reaches out and lays the tips of his fingers lightly on my chest, over my heart, over my eagle. I swallow and stare at him, waiting. . . .
    “You weren’t wearing sunglasses,” he continues, letting his hand fall away. “You turned and looked at me. I saw your eyes. I knew you were like me. And then I looked for you until I found you.”
    “What?”
    Then a memory hits me. Mine? His? Both? I’m running on the sand toward the long pier, small in the distance. I veer toward the water, the waves lapping at my feet . . . my ankles . . . my knees. I throw myself in, swallowed by the surf, going under, coming up. I blink the salty sting from my eyes, and there’s a boy on the beach, his hair glinting gold, the sun casting his shadow long and lean. I think the corners of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile. His eyes are shaded by dark glasses. But I know he’s looking at me.
    And I look straight at him.
    A wave takes me and when I come back up, he has his back to me and he’s walking away. He stops by my dad’s beach umbrella, his back still toward me, and I see my dad sit forward and tip his head back to look up at the boy, his mouth moving. I lose interest and turn away, diving into the next wave.
    “Have you ever been to Atlantic Beach?” I ask. Silly to ask. I know the answer. That hint of a smile . . . I remember the first time I saw him in the lobby, the sense of déjà vu I felt when I saw that smile.
    “Once,” he says.
    “Last summer,” I whisper.
    “Last summer,” he confirms, tipping his glasses back up.
    “Why? I mean, why there? Why Atlantic Beach?” During the same week I was there. On the same stretch of beach where I was swimming.
    “Why were you there?” he asks.
    “We always go. We’ve been going to North Carolina since I was a baby. We rent a cottage every summer for a week.” I pause. “Your turn.”
    He stares out at the empty baseball diamond and takes his time answering. “I’m not sure. I’d say that my parents suggested it, but I’m not certain they did.” He turns his face back toward me, his eyes shadowed, his expression troubled. But in usual Jackson fashion, he keeps whatever it is that’s bothering him to himself.
    “So once you saw me, how did you find me again?”
    “Your dad’s hat made it easy.”
    Confused, I just stare at him. Then I remember Dad’s ball cap with the Rochester Bass Anglers logo on the front and his name stitched on the back.
    “Wait . . . you looked for me . . . you came to Rochester because of me?” The possibility is overwhelming. “I don’t understand. I thought your dad was transferred here. I—” Nothing makes sense.
    “The Committee has ways of working things out.”
    Does he mean that the Committee was responsible for his dad’s transfer, or that they were responsible for his being in Atlantic Beach?
    “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? You tell me that you saw me last summer, that you searched until you found me, and I’m supposed to just nod and—” And what? I don’t even know what to say.
    “Don’t ask. Not right now.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Just let me . . .” He leans in, the wonderful scent of him—citrus shaving cream and warm male skin—luring me closer. I freeze, every cell in my body straining toward him. My lips part. My pulse hammers. I want him to kiss me. I want Jackson Tate to put his strong arms around me and hold me close and put his lips on mine.
    He strokes my hair back from my cheek. “Miki . . .”
    His eyes fix on me, his pupils dark and dilated, surrounded by swirling silver irises. But something’s holding him back. Something is etching regret in his features and making him pull away.
    Something he almost told me, and then didn’t.
    “Jackson,” I whisper, not even knowing what I mean to say.
    The moment is lost. Maybe I broke it when I spoke his name, or maybe it was gone before that.
    He tucks the empty container in my bag, zips it up, and leans away. Then he settles his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes once more. “Bell’s gonna go in a second. We’d better head back.”
    “I can carry my bag,” I say as he takes it from me and stands.
    “I know.” But he makes no move to let me do exactly that.
    I clamber down