My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star (HOT Firefighters & Sportsmen)

18. Chapter Eighteen

Vaughn

I t’s been close to two hours now since Rachel and I washed ashore. The situation keeps getting more desperate and scarier—no ship or boat, in sight as I look expectantly at the endless stretch of water before me.

Hope.

All I can do is hope that someone shows up in a water vessel or even an airplane soon. That’s all we can do, or else I’d go crazy.

But as I have learned time and again throughout my life, hope needs something to stay alive, or else the flame dies out. I am not about to sit here waiting for someone to finally spot us without making an effort of my own.

I turn my gaze from the water to the dense clusters of trees and shrubs behind me. Who knows? There may be an exit route through the bushes from this godforsaken island.

I hop on my feet and stare down at Rachel. She looks pale and tired. The hem of the black dress that she is wearing rides up her knees a couple of inches, revealing part of her thigh. She doesn’t seem to notice as she lies on the sand, staring up at the sky, seemingly lost in the ocean of her thoughts.

I feel sorry for her. She wouldn’t have been part of this if it wasn’t for me, but of course, I am not about to tell her that. I wonder what would have happened if she’d drowned. I doubt I would have ever been able to forgive myself.

For as long as we stay on this island, she’s more of a responsibility to me than I am to her—Vaughn Graham won’t be kicking any black-and-white ball anytime soon.

“I am going to check out this island,” I say, more to myself than to her, but the sound of my voice causes her to stir.

She sits upright and looks at me. “You are leaving?”

“I need to see what’s out there. Before we lie here hoping someone comes to rescue us, we might as well see how we can help ourselves.”

She bobs her head in understanding. “Even if we had to wait, we would still need to survive.”

“Good point,” I reply simply, turn my back to her, and start heading to the dense bushes.

“Wait, Vaughn! Are you really going in there?” Her voice is anxious, causing me to turn back to her.

Perplexed, I say, “Sure. Where else do you think we might find an exit?”

“B-but it’s too dangerous. You don’t know what is in there. There could be wild animals, like a grizzly bear or something. And the last time I checked, you don’t have a weapon with you.”

I pause to consider what she just said.

As if trying to convince me further, she adds, “And the sun will set in about an hour. I would guess it’s around 5 p.m. now.”

There might be some truth to her opinions, but the sooner we get to know our new surroundings, the better our chances. If there’s an exit, we’ll find it. If there isn’t, we’ll figure out how to live here.

“You might be right, but it has to be done,” I say with finality, not wanting to hear more. I resume walking toward the bushes and take five steps before she calls out again.

“Wait!” Then I hear soft footsteps on the sand approaching me.

I suppress my exasperation, but I can’t help turning sharply. “What?”

“I am coming with you.”

Ridiculous.

“No.”

“What? You surely aren’t thinking of leaving me here all alone.”

“You seemed to have made that decision yourself. Now, you wouldn’t want to get hunted down by a grizzly or a brown bear or even a dinosaur, would you?”

She pauses and comes closer. “There’s no way I am letting you leave me here alone. We’ll fight the bears together if we happen to encounter them.”

I don’t stifle the laughter that follows.

Ridiculous.

This is a person I had to carry, someone still visibly fragile from almost drowning, saying this. From the look in her eyes, she seems to believe what she just said.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. It’s just that you haven’t gotten your full strength back. You stay here.”

“No.”

“It’s an order, Rachel,” I scowl. I am certainly not strong enough to carry an unconscious woman in my arms for the second time.

“Oh?” Her brows rise. “It’s an order, huh? And do what exactly? Get you your dinner? Organize your schedules? Call a client to postpone your meeting with them? Well, the last time I checked, we aren’t in Vaughn Charity Center, New York FC headquarters, or Australia. We are in the middle of God-knows-where, so save that for when we get back, if we ever do get back.”

Her eyes flash as she says this, and there’s no mistaking the defiant gleam in them. Wherever she gets this audacity, she should be sure to return it once we’re back in New York. For now, there are more pressing issues to worry about, and I am not about to waste what little energy I have left arguing.

I turn my back to her and shrug. “You can come if you want to,” I say and resume my walk. Without hesitation, she trails behind, trying to catch up to my quick steps.

I part a bunch of leaves and step into the opening, and the sight that presents itself before me is as beautiful as it is terrifying.

Above us, tall canopies shelter the ground below, with beams of sunlight penetrating it in various spots, casting a mosaic pattern of colorful rays on the smaller plants on the ground.

The chirping of what sounds like lorikeets and flowerpeckers graces my ears—sounds I hadn’t heard before.

“This is beautiful,” Rachel, who’s now standing beside me, says, a smile spreading on her face. She closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, and adds, “Hmm, wildflowers.”

Beautiful, yes. Terrifying, also yes. Because this forest stretches as far as the ocean seems to stretch—no end in sight.

I don’t respond to her obvious soliloquy. Instead, I follow a steady path and make my way deeper into the forest, hoping to come across any sign of civilization. Perhaps there is a bay area on the other side of the forest that connects the sea to the land. If that’s the case, then it’s possible to find someone here.

I hope that’s the case.

But then it’s too late for that already, I think. I will do more exploration tomorrow. If I don’t find any sign of civilization in my intended short walk, we are going back. Ever since Rachel mentioned something about bears, a scenario has occasionally played in my mind.

As we venture deeper, we hear more birds and begin seeing small rodents scurrying around. Two plum trees heavy with fruits and a peach tree come into full view, making us pause.

“Well, I guess our little walk did yield some ‘fruits,’ after all,” Rachel comments, staring hungrily at the trees.

Funny.

She laughs at her joke and then laughs some more, which causes a reluctant smile to spread over my face. I’m not smiling at her joke; I’m smiling at her ability to see humor in desperate situations like the one we have found ourselves in. I guess she won’t prove too difficult to live with while we’re out here. I hope she won’t prove too difficult to live with while we’re out here.

“I will climb the peach tree and get some for dinner. You pick them up while I throw them down at you.”

She nods. “Okay.”

A few hops and grips later, I am atop the peach tree, selecting the juiciest fruits and hauling them to the ground. She gathers the fruits into the hem of her dress, creating a makeshift basket. I climb down when I think we have enough, and we start making our way back to the seashore.

As we walk back in silence, she stumbles twice over objects that one wouldn’t normally have any problem avoiding. First, a small, almost insignificant stump, and second, a pile of dried leaves.

I suspect it must be from the fruits she is carrying, so I offer to carry them, but she firmly declines.

“Are you okay?” I finally asked after we’ve walked some more.

She says yes, but her trembling voice causes me to stop and regard her. Her black hair is strewn into a mess, with long, loose strands draping over her forehead and temple, partially obscuring her face.

“Look at me, Rachel.”

She doesn’t need to look at me before I notice that she is shivering, but when she eventually does, her face is as white as a ghost, and her eyes dim.

A pang of worry gnaws at my stomach, and I ask again, “Are you okay?”

Obviously, she’s not. But still, out of panic, I ask.

She says yes again, and I blurt out, “No, you’re not okay.”

I removed my jacket, which, thankfully, has dried from the sea breeze, and wrap it around her. “I am taking these,” I say as I drop all eight fruits on the floor. I remove my shirt and tie the sleeves together into a knot, making a makeshift sling sack. I put the fruits in it and throw it over my shoulder.

With an arm wrapped around her and the other holding the hem of my shirt, we continue toward the shore. But it seems the more we walk, the sicker she becomes. She misses her steps several times, and I have to quickly grab her to prevent her from falling.

“I am sorry for stressing you out, Vaughn,” she says in a faint voice.

“Shh, conserve your energy. You can apologize when you get better.”

At this point, she’s gasping for breath. I contemplate carrying her in my arms, but then an idea strikes me: since we’ve gotten close enough to the shores, we might as well camp here for the night. The shore will only get colder as nighttime approaches. That won’t be favorable for a shivering Rachel.

She’s your responsibility as long as you’re stuck here with her, a voice in my head says. But what do I do in such a situation?

I lower her gently onto the grass, and she lies sprawled on the floor. What started as a simple shiver now seems to have transformed into full-blown trembling, exacerbating my panic.

What should I do? What if she dies?

I shake my head to dispel the thoughts. I look up and silently beg the heavens for intervention. Still, all I see is the sun’s radiant beams reduced to a mere twinkle—nighttime is drawing closer.

As if our luck couldn’t get worse, rain clouds slowly begin to form, and I swear I almost scream in frustration. I have heard stories of people stranded at sea or abandoned islands, and to think we’re going through all this despite not having even spent a full day is terrifying.

What if this is just the beginning of our suffering?

I imagine several of my teammates lodging in the expensive hotels scattered all around Melbourne in preparation for the promotion tomorrow. I imagine that Coach McLauren has called me several times without success and is probably wondering what happened. I curse my luck for turning out this way. If only, if only there was at least a cell phone in hand!

But what am I to do? It’s my luck. I might as well make the best out of it.

“Are those . . . clouds?” I hear her faint voice again, snapping me out of my self-pity.

“Yes, but don’t worry. We will be fine.”

As if fueled by the panic raging inside me, my survival instincts get triggered, and an idea strikes me: There’s enough material in the forest to make a not-so-bad makeshift tent. I will have to bank on the possibility that it won’t rain heavily, and if it does rain heavily, then I guess we’re cooked.

I get back up on my feet and find some medium-sized branches off a nearby hardwood tree. Afterward, I dig four holes using a stump I found lying around and bury one end of four branches in each hole, angling them so that their other ends meet in the center. I obtained some vine from a passionfruit tree and secured the meeting point to a reasonable stability.

Next, I gather a whole lot of long grasses and palm fronds and layer them onto the framework, creating a tent.

By the time I’m done, more clouds have gathered, so I help Rachel to get into the tent and rest her head on a pile of grass as a pillow.

Rachel falls asleep as soon as her head hits the grass, but she’s running a temperature that only doubles my panic. Her epileptic shivering has subsided, replaced with a lighter version.

Small rain droplets begin to fall, and I know it’s only going to get colder for me, but more importantly, for Rachel. So, I do the only thing I think will reduce the effect. I wear the jacket and secure Rachel inside it so she can draw warmth from my body as well as the jacket. Her face is still pale but peaceful, which is strange given the circumstances.

Hunger pangs stab at my stomach, but I can’t bring myself to eat the fruits we have collected. My hunger is more than my thirst. But what do I drink, seawater?

What would Rachel drink when she wakes up the next day?

She’s my responsibility for as long as we remain on this island for obvious reasons: if it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t be here.

As I muse on our predicament, I drift into a slow, uncomfortable sleep with the hope that things will work out better the next day than they did today.