Foolproof by Jennifer Blackwood

gripping tightly around his neck, not wanting any part of me in the cool Pacific water. Even in June, the water remained frigid three hundred and sixty-five days a year. “No, no, no. I’m sorry. Just don’t drop me in.”
    “Now you’re begging for forgiveness?” He dipped lower, my butt coming way too close to the waves.
    “Yes!” The crashing waves swallowed my scream.
    “And what’s in it for me?”
    If my Sevens touched the saltwater, I might have a conniption. They were one of my last nice pairs of shorts, and it’d be years before I could splurge on outfits again. “Anything you want, DeShane,” I whispered in his ear.
    He straightened, my body moving farther away from the water. For a second I thought he was going to safely deposit me back on shore. “Sorry, too bad.” And then his hands disappeared from underneath me and my legs plunged knee-deep into the chilly water.
    I screamed, still hanging on to his neck, goose bumps snaking from my legs to every inch of my skin. “You’re so gonna pay for that!”
    “Oh yeah?” He unhooked my hands from his neck, ducked down quickly, and splashed water on the remainder of my legs—and my shorts.
    Lord give me strength not to smite him . “Make me.” He grinned and then took off toward the shore. I might have been freezing my ass off, but this was the most fun I’d had in a long time.
    I rushed toward him, water splashing every which way as my feet trudged through the ocean, laughing, my whole body tingling, wanting to be near him.
    Racing up behind him, I jumped, trying to tackle him to the sand. Instead, I planted myself on his back without him moving an inch. Not even rattled that another human body made impact with his. Time to play dirty. Ten years of watching my brother play soccer paid off; I knew just how to take down a player. I pushed my foot into the soft spot right behind Ryan’s knee as he ran up the beach with me clinging like a barnacle to his back. His leg buckled and he went down. My foot stung as it hit something on the beach, but I laughed it off, still giddy.
    I let go of his back, lying on my side in the sand, as he rolled over. “You fight dirty,” he said, brushing sand from his arms.
    “You love it.”
    His baby blues bore into me, melting away any last bit of ocean chill that nestled in my body. “Maybe.” His gaze flicked down to my legs and his brows knit together. Did I miss a spot shaving? Did he see that one spot of cellulite that I just couldn’t seem to get rid of no matter how many squats I did? “Shit. Are you okay?”
    I looked down at my foot, which was spewing blood onto the sand, like something out of a horror movie. From the amount of blood, I couldn’t tell where the gash began or ended, but I knew it needed to be cleaned out. Pronto. “I’m okay.” My scalp prickled, my vision wavering.
    In the second grade I raced Tommy Brooks on my pink bike, streamers fluttering through the air as I totally trashed his ass, putting an end to his boys rule girls drool view on life. I was too busy celebrating my victory to notice a pothole in the pavement. My bike dipped, and I went sailing through the air, rocketing straight to Neverland. Unfortunately I didn’t see Peter Pan, but I did break my arm in three places, my blood staining the asphalt. I rocked that pink cast, but was squicked out by my own blood from thereon out.
    Taking a deep breath through my nose, I closed my eyes and willed away the urge to upchuck. I just needed to get it cleaned up and I’d be okay.
    “C’mon. Blake always has a first aid kit in his truck. I once got a fishing hook caught in my ear, and he stitched me up since we were four hours from the nearest hospital.” He stood and, without so much as a struggle, hooked his arms around my waist and under my knees and lifted me off the ground. We were a good half-mile from the parking lot, and my mind went through all the meds I should take just in case it got infected. Would I need an