Against the Current (Carolina Current #2)

Prologue

. . .

WHITNEY

January

Logging on isn’t just about the game anymore.

I still tell myself it is—that I like the strategy, the teamwork, the way Sea of Thieves lets me shut my brain off after practice. But if the game was the only reason, I wouldn’t feel that small spike of anticipation when I see one particular username already in the lobby.

DreamBoat.

I hate that name.

I hate that I notice when he’s online before I even realize I’m looking.

And I hate that I associate it with easy laughter and competence and the way he never talks over me.

I shift the ice pack balanced on my shoulder and roll my neck, muscles still tight from my morning workout. Empty takeout containers crowd my desk—post-practice calories I barely remember consuming while skimming Econ slides and prepping for a quiz tomorrow.

Everything done.

Everything checked off.

So I can play tonight. With him.

It’s not a crush. That would be ridiculous.

He’s a voice through a headset. A stranger with good instincts and annoying confidence. Nothing more.

So why do I smile when I flip my mic on?

A soft click sounds in my headset.

“Drop sails,” I say, already leaning forward. “We’re burning daylight.”

His laugh comes through a half-second later, warm and unbothered. “Aye, aye, SailorGirl. Raising anchor. Hope you don’t mind a little speed.”

“I trust you with the helm,” I say, eyes scanning the horizon. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

He laughs low and easy. “I like the confidence.”

“Enemy sloop at two o’clock,” I say. “What’s the play?”

There’s no hesitation. “Hard turn. Cut across their bow. Chain-shot the mast. You on cannons?”

“Always,” I say. “You’re on boarding duty.”

“Obviously.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Hope you’re a good shot.”

I am. And the annoying thing is, he already knows that.

We move like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of a handful. He trusts my calls. I trust his timing. When I say fire, he fires. When he jumps ship, I cover him without being asked.

A third voice cuts in, amused. “Does anybody else feel like a third wheel with these two?”

I don’t look away from the screen. “Focus, Walrus,” I say. “Fire when ready.”

DreamBoat lets out a low chuckle. “That’s my favorite sentence.”

The enemy ship sinks in a satisfying explosion of wood and smoke. Ours follows shortly after—because apparently we’re excellent pirates and terrible at self-preservation.

“Well,” I say, as our ship slips beneath the waves, “that was actually fun.”

“Told you,” he says easily. “I’m a good time.”

I log off a few minutes later, the quiet of my dorm room settling back in around me.

I’m smiling.

I absolutely refuse to analyze that.

It’s just a game.

He’s just a voice.

Even if my shoulder aches, and I’m already looking forward to the next time he logs on.

February

By February, a routine has settled in.

Practice. Classes. Dinner eaten standing up in my dorm room’s tiny kitchenette. Recovery stretching and ice packs rotated like clockwork while I work through my class notes. Then my laptop, my headset, and Sea of Thieves loading on my screen while my muscles hum with exhaustion.

A soft beep sounds as I log in.

DreamBoat is already there waiting for me, and something in my chest eases. I absolutely don’t examine that.

“Finally,” DreamBoat says. “We were wondering if you were going to show.”

Walrus huffs into his mic. “Speak for yourself. I was enjoying the peace.”

“I was on time,” I say, settling in. “You’re just impatient.”

“Midnight is not on time,” Walrus replies. “It’s a cry for help.”

The ship cuts through the water as we leave port.

“Pirates don’t believe in bedtime,” I say, adjusting our heading. “Are you still playing,” I ask, “or are you about to tap out?”

“If you are, I am,” DreamBoat says. Then, lighter, “Can’t abandon my SailorGirl.”

My grip tightens on the controller. I know he used my gamer tag, but all I heard was my girl.

The words send a full-body tingle through me, but it feels silly to read into them. We make a good team, that’s all.

We take on another ship. It’s messy—missed shots, bad angles, Walrus yelling contradictory instructions while DreamBoat and I instinctively adjust around each other.

“Okay,” I say, breathless as our ship finally goes down, “that one was on me.”

“I don’t know,” DreamBoat says. “I kind of like your chaotic leadership style.”

“You would,” I tease.

“It keeps things interesting.”

Walrus groans. “You two always like this?”

“Focused?” DreamBoat says.

“In sync,” Walrus corrects. “And it’s exhausting.”

We respawn on a new ship, sails snapping into place.

Walrus yawns loudly into his mic. “All right, I’m out. Some of us have functional circadian rhythms.”

“It’s not even that late,” I say.

“It absolutely is,” he replies. “And also? I feel like I’m interrupting something.”

“Ignore him,” I say quickly.

“I’m serious,” Walrus continues. “We were playing for an hour before you logged on, and DreamBoat was half asleep.”

“That’s slander,” DreamBoat says, laughing.

“The second SailorGirl shows up,” Walrus goes on, “suddenly he’s sharper, faster, calling shots like he’s got something to live for now.”

I groan. “Oh my god.”

Walrus snorts. “The chemistry in here is so thick I could cut it with a cutlass.”

“You’re being dramatic,” DreamBoat says.

“Am I?” Walrus replies. “Because I feel like I just watched someone wake from the dead.” He pauses, then adds, “Try not to get married while I’m gone.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Wow. Rude.”

Before I can deflect, DreamBoat cuts in, easy and unapologetic. “Relax. I’d at least take her on a proper first date.”

My stomach flips, warmth rushing up my neck so fast I have to shift in my chair. I tell myself it’s just a joke, just banter—but my pulse doesn’t get the memo.

Walrus lets out a short laugh. “Okay, yeah. That’s my cue.”

His mic clicks off, and the only sound now is the ship creaking beneath us as the water laps against the hull.

I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of my own pulse. “So,” I say lightly, “just for the record—what does a proper pirate first date look like?”

DreamBoat laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. “You really want to know?”

“I feel like I should,” I say. “You’re setting the standard.”

“Well,” he says, thoughtful now, “definitely not dinner. Too many knives involved.”

I laugh. “Valid concern.”

“Maybe a drink,” he continues. “Somewhere loud enough that you don’t have to make small talk if you don’t want to.”

I smile despite myself. “And the piracy?”

“Optional,” he says. “But I make no promises.”

The tension eases, just enough.

Then his tone shifts—not heavy, just quieter.

“Hey,” he says. “Can I admit something?”

I glance at my mic as if I’ll be able to see his face through it. “Yeah.”

He lets out a soft exhale. “I’m not great at team stuff.”

I blink. “You? That’s hard to believe.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I work better solo. Or I used to.” A pause. “This feels different.”

Different how? I want to ask.

Instead, I say, “Different good, or different you’re about to regret saying that?”

A low laugh. “Different good.”

Something settles in my chest, warm and unfamiliar.

Before I can ask anything else, my door creaks open behind me.

“Are you still playing that pirate game?” Natalie, my roommate, asks, voice thick with sleep.

I mute my mic. “Yeah. I’ll be done soon.”

“It’s, like, midnight,” she says, squinting at my screen. “What, are you training for a tournament or something?”

“Something like that,” I say, reaching for my water bottle.

She shakes her head and shuffles away.

I unmute.

“Everything okay?” DreamBoat asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just roommates.”

He chuckles. “Ah. The joys of shared living.”

We play a little longer than we should.

When I finally log off, the headset is warm against my neck, and my heart is still buzzing.

This is fine, I tell myself as I shut down my laptop.

This is still just a game.

Even though I already know tomorrow night, I’ll be back.

And I hope he will be, too.

March

By March, my body feels like it’s running on borrowed time.

I should be resting. Stretching. Sleeping. Doing literally anything my coach would approve of this close to NCAA Championships.

Instead, I’m logging on.

My shoulders are tight, calves still humming with that deep, familiar ache—nothing sharp, nothing alarming. Just accumulation. Too many yards. Too many doubles. Too many days pretending I’m not counting down to the last NCAA championship of my career.

I’ve already done my band work, rolled my lats, and eaten half a container of pasta while standing at my desk. Recovery dinner. Glamorous. Sensible. Responsible.

And still, I pull my headset on.

The game loads and the ocean fills my screen. DreamBoat is there waiting.

“Hey,” DreamBoat says as my mic clicks live. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” I say, curling my fingers around the controller. “Let’s go.”

We don’t bother filling out a crew anymore. Somewhere along the way, it just became the two of us—slipping into motion without discussing it. Like this is what the game was always meant to be.

We load into a mission fast. No warm-up chatter. No easing in. My reactions are sharp, but when I swing too wide on a cannon, my shoulder tugs—and the shot goes wild.

“Nope,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not. That one doesn’t count.”

He laughs. “Since when do you miss?”

“Since someone thought taper week was the time to drop a surprise kick set.”

Silence.

Then slow, thoughtful, “Okay. That sentence alone tells me everything.”

I still, controller vibrating lightly in my hands.

“Tells you what?” I ask.

“That you’re not a normal human with hobbies.”

“Rude.”

“‘Taper.’ ‘Kick set.’ And that level of resentment?” He chuckles. “You swim.”

I exhale through my nose, annoyed he clocked me that easily.

“Maybe.”

“That’s not a denial.”

Before I can respond, a cannonball slams into our hull. Wood splinters, and the ship groans.

“We’re leaking,” I say, already moving. “Buckets. We can save it.”