CHAPTER THIRTEEN
C al
The Pacific Ocean surrounds us, and everything is shades of azure and ivory, waves and their foamy crests, the latter so dazzlingly perfect that if they saw them, diamantaires would lay down their tools and shutter their jewel shops in shame.
I frown into the horizon. “I don’t see the island.”
“It’s here,” Jason says, but his words don’t come across as confident as I want them to be.
There’s no island in front of us.
No island behind us.
My brain gallops, sending terror through each nerve, but I force out a weak laugh. “Guess we’re on an adventure.”
Jason squints at the sun. “Isn’t there a way we can look at the sun to see which way to go?”
“That’s not a bad idea. Do you remember where the sun was when we headed out?”
“Fuck. No.”
“I don’t either. It might have been behind us.”
Jason unfolds the map, and I peer at it, pressing against his right shoulder blade. He sucks in some air, then squirms forward.
I blink rapidly.
For a moment I forgot he’s the most homophobic player in the country.
It doesn’t matter. I wish sixteen-year-old me hadn’t thought it was a good idea to kiss him. This would be a lot easier if he didn’t know I was once attracted to him. I’m pretty sure he can guess I still am.
He’s spent the last decade working out and having nutritionists determine his food. I’ve spent the last decade not having access to any gym and making suboptimal nutritional choices.
I force myself to focus on the map and not on Jason’s long fingers and uneven breath. “There are lots of islands. We’re bound to hit one eventually. In two minutes, we’ll be laughing.”
Unfortunately, in two minutes we are as removed from any islands as before. My muscles scream and shudder, lactic acid dousing each of them, my head woozy and spinning.
I force myself to concentrate. “Shouldn’t there be boats or something?”
“Yeah.”
And even though he doesn’t say so, I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing.
Maybe we’ve gone too far.
Maybe we’ve gone to a section where there aren’t islands, aren’t boats.
Maybe we’re lost.
In the Pacific Ocean.
I’m from the city. I’m not used to rural areas, and I’m definitely not used to rural areas where the primary landmark is water.
The sun is at fuller force, and I realize I’m parched.
This is not going well.
JASON
Cal is sitting right behind me. His thighs press against my thighs. His calves graze my calves. His feet—well, they’re right beside mine too.
I am surrounded by professional sports reporter. Professional sports reporter determined to destroy my career.
Something stirs in my swim trunks, and I slide further up. I hold myself awkwardly, willing myself not to relax into him, to not rest my back against his wide torso.
Because it’s way better to think about the discomfort of my position, and not the fact I’m right in front of him. Like we’re doing bedtime activities or something. Not that I would do bedtime activities with him.
I mean, he’s a guy. Why would I want him to put his dick in my ass? That would be totally gross.
I accelerate.
“Are you comfortable?” Cal asks. “You can lean back.”
“I’m not leaning back against you. You’re not my fucking boyfriend!”
Cal inhales harshly, and yeah, maybe I didn’t modulate my tone or use appropriate language.
This is what got me into this whole mess. But I’m a hockey player. My job is literally to be focused on a black puck and smack it into a net as many times as possible and smack any opposing player who comes too close to it.
It’s not exactly a career path that is famous for emotion regulation.
Cal’s face is against my neck, and I wonder what his skin would taste like if I turned and captured it with my mouth.
Gross, obviously.
This is the sort of position people get in when they sleep together.
Which I’m not thinking about, clearly.
If I’m thinking about it a bit, it’s because our situation is super dire, and it’s better to think about sex than dying.
You could say my cock is super intelligent and thoughtful.
My gaze skitters toward the ocean and its vast endless waves, the low horizon, and...
I square my shoulders.
Is that...?
A sliver of green pokes from the waves, and I lean forward, scanning the water, hoping I haven’t succumbed to conjuring mirages, hoping that’s actually—
“...don’t freak out, Jason,” Cal is saying. “I know you’re straight. It’s not like I’ll assault you on the jet ski.”
His voice rumbles along, because clearly, I should be listening, but my focus isn’t on him.
My focus is on the green.
I’m sure it’s not my imagination.
“Cal,” I say.
“Look. I don’t need an apology.”
“I’m not trying to apologize.”
“Uh—”
“Cal,” I repeat, deepening my tone.
“I’m trying to talk—”
“And I’m trying to tell you something.”
He halts.
“Look to your right.”
“Oh,” his voice rumbles. “Oh. Why didn’t you say anything? I was babbling on and on...”
“You don’t babble.”
He stills.
“You were talking.” I inhale. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to get your hopes up about the island.”
“Oh.” His shoulders ease, and I wonder how much pain he was holding in them. I contemplate the width of his shoulders before I force away my gaze.
Obviously, it’s only normal to consider shoulder width when someone is riding behind you on a jet ski.
I steer the jet ski toward the island. “I can’t wait to get off of this.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
A beach stretches before us, and slender palm trees blow in the breeze. I’ve never been so happy to see sand in my life.
Birds fly overhead, cawing to one another.
Fish swarm the water around us, and Cal loosens his grip on my waist, a fact I naturally only vaguely notice.
I reduce the speed of the jet ski, then cut the engine. We jump off, and when we land, the water doesn’t even reach our knees. We’re safe.