Page 2 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

The jet ski makes a pathetic gurgling sound followed by a series of choking, sputtering noises. I’m no water vehicle technician, but I’m sure they’re not supposed to groan and gasp, then stop making noises entirely.

I circle around him, inspecting the dead machine. “Do you know what happened?”

“Of course, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “I’ve never been—” He doesn’t finish, but the unspoken words hang between us: he’s never been in this situation before. And now we’re stranded in the ocean.

Great. Fucking great. I scan the horizon, trying to spot the familiar outline of our resort island. Nothing but endless, dazzling blue in every direction like we’ve stepped into a sunscreen commercial. Why did I get the idea to come here? Cal should be warm and dry in Boston, sipping overpriced coffee and writing sports reports.

“Hop on,” I say reluctantly, pulling my jet ski alongside his.

Cal hesitates, his fingers gripping the handlebars of his dead machine as if it might suddenly spring back to life. His throat works as he swallows, and he chews on his lower lip. His dark eyes flash, and something tightens around my chest.

“Unless you’d prefer to stay behind?” I ask.

His Adam’s apple moves. “I, um, don’t—”

My brow furrows. “You don’t swim?”

His face reddens.

He’s from Tennessee, but they have pools there, don’t they? Lakes?

But not everyone learns in childhood. He talked about his grandmother, a sister, and divorcing parents.

Worry etches over Cal’s face, and I want to smooth all his concern away.

“Hold on. Let me get closer to you.” I move my jet ski close to his, then pull off my shirt.

His eyes widen, but I hand him one end of my shirt. “Here. Grab it.”

He does so, then I cut the engine. Water laps against the jet ski, but the air is too quiet, the silence too loud. There aren’t even any birds around us. Does that mean there are no islands?

The jet skis drift apart, but the shirt holds us together.

“Climb onto the back of my jet ski.”

Cal hesitates. “Are you sure? Do you think I’ll, um...”

I sigh. “You’ll fit. Get on.” I slide in as far up as I can on the jet ski. “Three, two, one.”

His jaw sets with the same stubborn determination I remember from hockey camp, when we’d grind through board battle drills until Coach blew the whistle.

All of a sudden, the jet ski tilts. In the next moment it rights itself, as he straddles the jet ski. His chest is pressed against my back, and I pretend not to notice. He smells like salt and citrus and coconut—boring scents, really. Completely uninteresting.

His jet ski bobs away.

“I wonder if the rental insurance covers ‘abandoned in the Pacific Ocean’,” Cal says.

Despite everything, I snort. “Probably right under ‘Alien Abduction.’”

He gives a forced chuckle.

He hates me. I know that.

Openly gay journalists aren’t known for being wildly enthusiastic about athletes benched for being homophobic.

It doesn’t matter.

He rests his hands on my thighs, and I glance down. His fingers are longer than mine, his skin more tanned.