Page 1 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

CHAPTER ONE

Somewhere 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.