Before the Bail (Saltwater Springs #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

ZALEA | HAWAII

The blindingly bright exam room I’m in smells overwhelmingly like antiseptic as I sit on the edge of the table, paper crinkling beneath me, feet swinging slightly because I don’t know what else to do with my body when I’m this nervous.

The doctor I’ve been seeing for the past few weeks sits across from me, scrolling through my chart as his glasses slip down his nose.

He’s a short middle eastern man with curly hair.

I would’ve preferred a woman, for comfort reasons, but it seems like every female doctor on this island has a full patient list.

“Okay,” he says gently. “We’ve finally got your bloodwork and ultrasound results back.”

I twist my fingers together in my lap and nod, even though my chest already feels tight.

Random bleeding outside of my regular period can’t be a good sign, I’m sure of it.

Gabriel was in Hawaii three months ago, and I stupidly caved and had sex with him.

And if this is what I think it is, I might lose my mi—

“The pregnancy test is negative.”

Relief hits me first, followed by guilt.

But if I’m being honest, I am in no position to have a child at this time in my life.

In fact, the timing couldn’t be any worse.

I’m one competition away from qualifying for my first World Championship Tour.

I’ve secured wildcard spots on legs of previous tours over the years, but I’ve worked towards earning a place on the full year-long tour my entire career, and it’s just three days away from becoming my reality.

“But,” he continues, and I hate the word immediately, “the ultrasound showed multiple small cysts on your ovaries.”

My stomach drops as I blink back at him. “Cysts?” The panic builds as my mind races with what that could mean.

“Yes.” He swivels his stool so that he’s facing me fully, forearm resting on the side of his desk. “They’re small, fluid-filled follicles and they’re very common, especially in women with irregular cycles.”

“But my cycles have been regular up until this month.”

He shrugs, giving me a sheepish grin. “The body works in weird ways.”

That sounds like a lazy cop out answer, but I’m not about to argue with a doctor.

I swallow. “Are they dangerous? Is my life at risk?”

“No,” he answers quickly, shaking his head. “Not dangerous. They’re not cancerous, and they don’t require surgery or anything like that.”

I nod trying to come off calmer than I feel, but my heart is currently ricocheting around my rib cage.

“This pattern,” he continues, tapping the screen beside him, “along with your hormone levels and the symptoms you described previously, point toward something called polycystic ovary syndrome. Otherwise known as PCOS.”

I stare at him. “And that means?”

“It’s a hormonal condition,” he explains. “Your body produces and responds to hormones a little differently, which can affect ovulation. That’s what’s leading to your irregular or frequent periods, breakthrough bleeding, things like what you’ve been experiencing lately.”

“So, basically you’re saying my body’s malfunctioning?” It was meant to come across as a joke, a way to lighten this heavy mood, but my voice cracks and I know he sees right through it.

He smiles softly. “Not malfunctioning, Zalea. Your body is just wired a bit differently.”

I press my hands flat against the paper on the exam table to try and ground myself as a wave of nausea hits me.

“And you said this is…common?” I ask, closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing.

“Very,” he replies. “The intense physical training and stress that you experience as a professional athlete can make symptoms more noticeable, but PCOS exists independent of lifestyle.”

My throat tightens. “And it can be treated?” I ask.

“It can be managed,” he says carefully. “Some people use medication to regulate cycles, while others manage it with lifestyle adjustments. It really depends on symptoms and your goals.”

“My goals? What do you mean?”

He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “I mean your fertility goals. Do you have any children?”

The question echoes in my head, loudly. I feel like I’m underwater, where sounds are distorted, and pressure is building. I try not to think about it most days, not after everything that happened all those years ago, but now it feels like I have no choice but to think about it.

I shake my head weakly, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Well, PCOS can make ovulation less predictable, which sometimes makes conception more challenging.”

“Challenging?” I echo.

“Sometimes,” he adds quickly, studying the range of emotions that must be showing on my face, “people with PCOS conceive naturally without any issues at all. Others need support. There’s a wide range of outcomes.”

I nod, but I feel hollow inside.

I do not want to be having this conversation right now.

“So…” My voice comes out quiet. “What does this mean for me exactly?”

He meets my eyes. “It means we continue to monitor your cycles and we’ll begin to manage your symptoms as they come. And if you decide you want children one day, there are options, Zalea. Medical support has come a long way.”

I nod again, even though my hands have started shaking. “Okay,” I say, because it feels like the only word I’m capable of forming right now.

I want to thank him as I climb off the table and grab my belongings.

But instead, I take the information pamphlet that he offers me and nod when he tells me the front desk will call me to schedule my follow-up.

I walk out of his office as if I haven’t just been handed a diagnosis that rearranged my future.

Stepping outside, the hot Hawaiian sun beams down on me as I rush into my car. Out of instinct, I pull up the directions to the beach I’m supposed to be training at in forty minutes. I need every last bit of practice that I can get.

However, before I’m even halfway out of the parking lot, I turn the wheel in the direction that leads me home. There’s no way I can practice today, not with how out of it I feel. I smack the power button on my radio, choosing the silence, but the doctor’s voice replays in my head as I drive.

I feel bile crawling up my throat, but I make it to my home without spilling out the contents of my stomach.

Pulling into the driveway and straight into my garage, I shut off the car while the garage doors slide closed behind me with a hollow thud, and a scream tears out of my chest before I can stop it.

It’s a loud, raw, and ugly sound that bounces off the concrete walls and makes my throat burn while tears streak down my cheeks, but I don’t care.

I scream again, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to Earth, because right now I’m not thinking about the cysts, or the ultrasounds, or the vagueness of my future options.

I’m thinking about the first time.

Years ago, when I held a stick with two lines, and my hands shook so badly I had to sit down on the dirty bathroom floor of the only convenience store in Saltwater Springs. About Gabriel’s panic and worry, and the way neither of us knew how to be careful with anything back then.

About a future that had appeared without permission and disappeared just as fast.

What if that was it?

What if that was my only chance?

The thought makes my chest ache because I’ve spent my entire life assuming motherhood was something I could choose later. After another surf season, or after my big win, or after I figured everything else out.

Now, later feels like a question mark.

A maybe.

And what’s worse…I’m not even sure what I want the answer to be.

Do I want to be a mom?

The question sits there, unanswered.

Do I want this life? The endless travel, the pressure, the way my body is always something to be pushed, optimized, broken down and rebuilt?

That question scares me more.

Surfing has always been my constant. The one thing I never questioned. It’s made every sacrifice feel worth it. So if I let that go—if I even think about letting it go—what does that leave me with?

A girl from Saltwater Springs, with no hobbies or interests outside of work, who runs from everything that feels too real.

Wow.

Do I even know myself? Like really know myself?

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I don’t have to look at it to know it’s my trainer calling to find out where I am. My life is one big schedule that revolves around everything to do with surfing.

“I don’t know what I want,” I whisper into the empty garage.

Saying it out loud feels like admitting failure. I turn my head, slumping back in my seat, and stare at the surfboards mounted on the wall. Once upon a time, they meant everything to me.

My plan.

My identity.

My escape.

Plan A was to surf on The Saltwater Shredders team next to Gabriel, and when that didn’t work out I turned to Plan B—solo surfing until I reach the peak of my career and my body gives out…

but maybe my body is already trying to tell me something.

I take a deep breath and wipe my tear streaked face with the back of my hand.

“It’s time for Plan C,” I whisper into the dark of the garage.