9. Archer
ARCHER
“This is so unfair,” Weston groans as he pulls his wetsuit up his legs.
“We’re in off-season, buddy. It’s your time to shine.” Zander laughs, rubbing sunscreen into his chest before plopping down on the towel spread beneath him in the sand, working the lotion into his tattooed leg next.
“The difference is, I can’t just show up at your practices and watch you.”
“Well, that’s why I play an indoor sport.” Z lowers his sunglasses to his nose, winking.
Wes rolls his eyes, turning around so Willow can zip up his suit.
He spins back, head whipping to the staircase at the entrance of the cove—I assume to check if Leo’s coming down yet, because the moment he realizes the coast is clear, he grips Willow’s ass as he tugs her against him and presses his mouth to hers.
“Aye, man. Watch your fucking hands. That’s my cousin,” Z scoffs as he finishes with the sunscreen and passes it off to Allie, who sits beside me.
Willow looks back at us, a flush running up her cheeks as she hides a smile. Weston peeks around her, eyes on Zander as he smacks Willow’s backside, shit-eating grin wide on his face.
“Get out of here.” Willow laughs, shoving him toward the water.
He winks, plucking his board from the sand as he jogs into the waves.
On a rare day when my brother, Allie, and Willow all happen to be off work from the boardwalk, we make plans to spend the afternoon at the beach together. I’ve seen Allie nearly every day since she’s been back from Pacific Palisades but admittedly haven’t made enough time for my brother and cousin.
In my defense, Willow spends every spare moment locked inside the guesthouse with Weston, and if he wasn’t obligated to train with her father right now, they’d probably choose to stay in bed over hanging out with us.
Even though it is technically off-season for both Z and me, we train every day, and his afternoon sessions conflict with my morning ones, so we’ve only really seen each other when we both happen to be home at the same time.
“Archer,” Allie says, pulling my attention to her. She flips over on the blanket beside me, offering a perfect view of her flawless ass in the high-cut pink one-piece she’s wearing as she extends a bottle of sunscreen toward me. “Can you rub me out?”
Zander snorts. “Ruthless, Allie Cat.”
“What?” she pouts, shading her eyes with her hand as she peers up at me through long lashes.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” I murmur, hiding a smile.
I snatch the bottle from her hand, pop the lid, and squirt a generous amount into my palm before I straddle the backs of her thighs and begin rubbing it into the center of her back.
I’m slammed with the memory of the last time I had her in this position.
It was last autumn when she and Willow came to see one of my games.
They booked a hotel near the stadium, but when Willow went to sleep that night, Allie snuck out and came to my apartment.
We fucked until the sun was rising outside my bedroom window, and I can still recall the way the emerging light filtered across her spine as I took her from behind.
I drag my knuckle over her skin, and she exhales a soft sigh.
The same noise she makes after we’ve finished and I’ve left her boneless, sated, and full of me.
A deep ache gnaws inside the pit of my body, the kind of yearning that’s so impenetrable, I’m unable to escape it even when I’m touching her.
I finish lathering her back, shoulders, and legs before I lift off and flop onto my towel—stomach down because I’m fucking hard and that’s embarrassing as hell.
“Thanks,” Allie murmurs, planting her lips against my shoulder before she mimics my earlier position and coats me in sunscreen too—only causing me to grow harder. “What are we doing tonight?” she asks none of us in particular.
“We should go to the harbor,” Willow says. “I want the good crab dip from the lighthouse restaurant, and there is supposed to be a decent swell near the jetty this evening. We could sunset surf?”
“I can’t surf,” Allie whines.
Allie may not have grown up in Pacific Shores, spending almost every weekend on a board here at the cove like the rest of us, but she’s had every opportunity to learn to surf. Hell, her dad surfs in Malibu weekly, and she spent enough summers here to learn.
I’ve seen her try a few times, but I don’t think she’s ever stood up for more than a couple of seconds.
“It’s fine, Allie Cat. I can’t surf either.”
Willow turns her head from where she now lies on the other side of Allie. “What do you mean?”
“Coaches advise against it.” I shrug. “Risk of injury.”
“Lame,” she scoffs.
“My coaches advise against it too,” Zander adds. “But I don’t give a shit.”
“You guys should go,” I say. “Allie and I can watch from the shore or check out the harbor shops.”
Willow pops a brow, but it’s not aimed at me. It’s for Allie. Some kind of unspoken, best friend telepathy passes between them because Allie nods once and Willow places her sunglasses back over her eyes, facing the sky again.
“Are you actually not supposed to be surfing, or did you just say that so I wouldn’t have to be alone?” Allie asks as we stroll hand-in-hand through the harbor.
“Both,” I admit. “I could surf, but it’s not worth the risk going into my final season, and I’d rather hang out with you, anyway.”
“Me too,” she murmurs. “I can’t believe you already have to go back next week.”
“I know.” I sigh. “But it’s just one more year.”
“No it’s not,” Allie scoffs, unlacing our fingers as she steps ahead of me, through the narrow walkway separating the docks and the shops. “You’ll get drafted, and you’ll probably move even farther away.”
She’s right. There is no telling where I’ll be in a year from now if I’m drafted.
“Maybe I’ll end up here in California,” I say, my tone elevating to match the hope expanding in my chest.
She hums, the sound contemplative and unconvinced.
That hope deflates.
After Allie and I navigate through the crowd, I step back up beside her and grasp her hand again.
She tenses, glancing down at where our skin brushes before her eyes flit up to my face, brows drawn, gaze reluctant.
Finally, she sighs and twines her fingers with mine as we begin making our way back toward the beach where the rest of our family is still surfing.
Knowing her better than anyone in the world, I understand her hesitancy toward the casual affection.
We’ve had one too many close encounters over the last two weeks.
The dinner in her apartment—our seclusion so enticing.
The near kiss in my car. A hundred other lingering looks, secret touches, heated glances.
It’s impossible to be around Allie and not crave her—and our friendship has always been the ultimate edge. She’s just close enough to hold, but always too far to have.
It’s a fucked-up reality—the need to be with her all the time, the knowledge that she’s the foundation of all my best parts, and yet it’s excruciatingly painful to be within her vicinity. She’s my oldest friend, my confidant, my biggest fan—but she’s never mine.
Allie and I reach the sand just as the blazing sun finishes its descent into the Pacific.
Willow, Weston, and my brother dot the waves beyond us, and seagulls soar through the cotton-candy clouds.
We sit back against a piece of driftwood, and I wrap my arm around Allie as she drapes her head against my shoulder, breath steady against my neck.
The moment is flawless. A perfect day, a perfect person, a perfect picture. A life I could easily sink into, a life I often long for. A life that could’ve been had I stayed in California those years ago.
I chose differently, though. I’ll leave Pacific Shores in a week, and that’s a gut-punching reminder of why the heated glances and longing looks can’t go farther with Allie and me.
I already broke her heart once, and she shattered mine too.
If we allow the fragile walls we’ve built around our friendship to crumble once again, we may not survive the destruction a second time.