Rule #4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter (Hockey Rules)

CHAPTER ONE

S omewhere Off the Coast of Fiji

Jason

The thing about being stranded in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with a man who hates you is that you’re bound to reconsider your poor life choices.

Unfortunately, I have many.

In fact, my poor life choices are currently trending on X, dominating sports forums, and providing prime material for TV anchors.

They’re also the reason why Cal Prescott, sports journalist and bane of my existence, is following me on a separate jet ski as we cut through the turquoise waters off Fiji.

Getting suspended after being crowned “Professional Sports’ Most Homophobic Player” tends to make the news.

Apparently, telling the journalist who wrote that article “I don’t want to talk about it” means “chase me across the world.”

When I hired a jet ski, so did he.

I accelerate, enjoying the spray of cool water against my sun-heated skin. The rumble of the engine vibrates through my body as I push the jet ski harder, putting more distance between us. Cal struggles to keep up, his jet ski bouncing roughly, and for the first time this week, I laugh.

Cal hunches over his handlebars, his pink shirt plastered against his soft torso. He’s not terrible at this.

But then we did meet in hockey camp back in high school. He wasn’t terrible then either.

My neck prickles from the eighty-degree heat and salty spray. I push my jet ski faster. The engine roars.

After a few minutes, something seems different. The sound has changed. I only hear my engine. I turn and scan the waves, squinting against the sun’s glare.

Cal’s nowhere in sight.

Shit.

I cut the engine to half-speed and loop back, searching.

Did he fall off? Did he sink?

The Pacific stretches in all directions, the water shifting from turquoise to deep blue.

Then—finally—I spot him. His jet ski bobs uselessly in the waves. My pulse settles. It’ll be okay: I’ve got him.

Even from a distance, it’s obvious he’s panicking. He’s standing on the dead machine, waving both arms frantically above his head, his movements jerky and desperate. As I approach, I hear him shouting, his voice tight with something that sounds far too much like fear.

“Jason! JASON!”

“I’m coming!” I speed toward him, closing the distance faster.

His chest heaves, and his eyes are wide. His face is flushed deep red and sweat beads on his forehead.

“What happened?”

Cal’s hands shake. He gestures at his jet ski. “It—it died completely.” His voice catches. “I thought you weren’t coming back. I kept calling but you were too far ahead and—”

“You thought I wouldn’t come back?” I exclaim.

He averts his gaze, eyeing the vast expanse of water surrounding us. “I can’t even see the island anymore.”

I sigh. “Try the engine again.”

“It won’t work.” He presses the button.

The jet ski makes a pathetic gurgling sound followed by a series of choking, sputtering noises. I’m no water vehicle technician, but I’m sure they’re not supposed to groan and gasp, then stop making noises entirely.

I circle around him, inspecting the dead machine. “Do you know what happened?”

“Of course, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “I’ve never been—” He doesn’t finish, but the unspoken words hang between us: he’s never been in this situation before. And now we’re stranded in the ocean.

Great. Fucking great. I scan the horizon, trying to spot the familiar outline of our resort island.

Nothing but endless, dazzling blue in every direction like we’ve stepped into a sunscreen commercial.

Why did I get the idea to come here? Cal should be warm and dry in Boston, sipping overpriced coffee and writing sports reports.

“Hop on,” I say reluctantly, pulling my jet ski alongside his.

Cal hesitates, his fingers gripping the handlebars of his dead machine as if it might suddenly spring back to life. His throat works as he swallows, and he chews on his lower lip. His dark eyes flash, and something tightens around my chest.

“Unless you’d prefer to stay behind?” I ask.

His Adam’s apple moves. “I, um, don’t—”

My brow furrows. “You don’t swim?”

His face reddens.

He’s from Tennessee, but they have pools there, don’t they? Lakes?

But not everyone learns in childhood. He talked about his grandmother, a sister, and divorcing parents.

Worry etches over Cal’s face, and I want to smooth all his concern away.

“Hold on. Let me get closer to you.” I move my jet ski close to his, then pull off my shirt.

His eyes widen, but I hand him one end of my shirt. “Here. Grab it.”

He does so, then I cut the engine. Water laps against the jet ski, but the air is too quiet, the silence too loud. There aren’t even any birds around us. Does that mean there are no islands?

The jet skis drift apart, but the shirt holds us together.

“Climb onto the back of my jet ski.”

Cal hesitates. “Are you sure? Do you think I’ll, um...”

I sigh. “You’ll fit. Get on.” I slide in as far up as I can on the jet ski. “Three, two, one.”

His jaw sets with the same stubborn determination I remember from hockey camp, when we’d grind through board battle drills until Coach blew the whistle.

All of a sudden, the jet ski tilts. In the next moment it rights itself, as he straddles the jet ski. His chest is pressed against my back, and I pretend not to notice. He smells like salt and citrus and coconut—boring scents, really. Completely uninteresting.

His jet ski bobs away.

“I wonder if the rental insurance covers ‘abandoned in the Pacific Ocean’,” Cal says.

Despite everything, I snort. “Probably right under ‘Alien Abduction.’”

He gives a forced chuckle.

He hates me. I know that.

Openly gay journalists aren’t known for being wildly enthusiastic about athletes benched for being homophobic.

It doesn’t matter.

He rests his hands on my thighs, and I glance down. His fingers are longer than mine, his skin more tanned.

This is fine. Totally professional. I try not to notice how he wriggles to find a comfortable position, his clothes—wet from the ocean spray—sliding against mine, or the way I can feel his fingers against my waist, like he’d hold it for other sorts of activities.

The kind that would also leave us hot and breathless and rocking.

“Which way?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been sitting without moving.

I examine the waves before us, thankful he can’t see the heat on my cheeks. The azure ocean is amazing, and I remind myself to look at it, and not to think about the stupid sports reporter behind me.

“That way,” I say, feigning confidence I do not possess as I point to what I hope is the direction of our island. I hit the ignition, and the jet ski surges forward, forcing Cal to tighten his grip on my waist, his arms encircling me.

“Sorry,” he mutters, loosening his grasp.

“It’s fine,” I say stiffly, though my skin tingles.

We ride in silence for what feels like too long. Way too long. Where is this damn island?

“We should have seen it by now,” Cal says, voicing my thoughts, his tone tight and tense and terrible. “Are you sure this is the right direction?”

I slow the jet ski and pull out the resort info pack from the waterproof pouch. The colorful cartoon map of islands scattered around the hotel didn’t look daunting before, but a sour taste invades my throat as I try to make sense of our location.

“Maybe this isn’t drawn to scale,” I say.

Cal leans over to look, his shoulder pressing against mine. He points at a cartoon dolphin doing a backflip near one of the islands. “Is that supposed to be a landmark?”

“Obviously. All we need to do is find the giant, perpetually backflipping dolphin, ask him where the island is, and we’re saved.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. The sound does something to my chest I refuse to analyze.

“Maybe we’ll see some other boats soon.”

“For sure.” I try to sound reassuring. “You want to head back to the resort instead?”

Cal nods, his face pale in a way I don’t like. I haven’t seen him make that face since I told him I was leaving hockey camp early. He probably felt guilty for the prank.

My mouth is dry, and my muscles ache from the jet ski contortions and the tension of trying not to relax into Cal’s generous form, a sturdy refuge of comfortable padding and non-angular limbs I shouldn’t crave. “Let’s go back.”

He gives a relieved sigh, and I hate the way something in my chest aches at the sound.

“Since you’re too scared to go forward,” I add, unable to help myself.

His lower lip wobbles slightly. For a moment, my hand twitches, as if it wants to reach out and touch him, as if it thinks it’s my job to comfort him.

But that’s ridiculous.

Cal is here to get a story. He probably has some dream guy to whisper words of comfort for his every worry, who runs his fingers along Cal’s skin, who captures Cal’s lips with his own.

“Jason?” Cal’s voice cracks. “Are we lost?”

I swallow hard and scan the endless blue horizon, squinting against the sun’s glare as the jet ski vibrates uncomfortably beneath me. But there’s no island. No boat. No indication of civilization.

The Pacific stretches in every direction, and suddenly the sun is too hot, the sky too big, the silence too loud. The midday sun glares, and sweat trickles down my body.

“What do we do?” Cal asks.

I open my mouth. Then shut it.

Because the truth is, I don’t have an answer.

I have no idea how to find the island. Or fix my career.

Or what to do about the man clutching my waist like I’m the only thing keeping him afloat.

Three days ago, I strode into the locker room under a different kind of heat—one I’d brought on myself.