Page 3 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

This is fine. Totally professional. I try not to notice how he wriggles to find a comfortable position, his clothes—wet from the ocean spray—sliding against mine, or the way I can feel his fingers against my waist, like he’d hold it for other sorts of activities.

The kind that would also leave us hot and breathless and rocking.

“Which way?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been sitting without moving.

I examine the waves before us, thankful he can’t see the heat on my cheeks. The azure ocean is amazing, and I remind myself to look at it, and not to think about the stupid sports reporter behind me.

“That way,” I say, feigning confidence I do not possess as I point to what I hope is the direction of our island. I hit the ignition, and the jet ski surges forward, forcing Cal to tighten his grip on my waist, his arms encircling me.

“Sorry,” he mutters, loosening his grasp.

“It’s fine,” I say stiffly, though my skin tingles.

We ride in silence for what feels like too long. Way too long. Where is this damn island?

“We should have seen it by now,” Cal says, voicing my thoughts, his tone tight and tense and terrible. “Are you sure this is the right direction?”

I slow the jet ski and pull out the resort info pack from the waterproof pouch. The colorful cartoon map of islands scattered around the hotel didn’t look daunting before, but a sour taste invades my throat as I try to make sense of our location.

“Maybe this isn’t drawn to scale,” I say.

Cal leans over to look, his shoulder pressing against mine. He points at a cartoon dolphin doing a backflip near one of the islands. “Is that supposed to be a landmark?”

“Obviously. All we need to do is find the giant, perpetually backflipping dolphin, ask him where the island is, and we’re saved.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. The sound does something to my chest I refuse to analyze.

“Maybe we’ll see some other boats soon.”

“For sure.” I try to sound reassuring. “You want to head back to the resort instead?”

Cal nods, his face pale in a way I don’t like. I haven’t seen him make that face since I told him I was leaving hockey camp early. He probably felt guilty for the prank.

My mouth is dry, and my muscles ache from the jet ski contortions and the tension of trying not to relax into Cal’s generous form, a sturdy refuge of comfortable padding and non-angular limbs I shouldn’t crave. “Let’s go back.”

He gives a relieved sigh, and I hate the way something in my chest aches at the sound.

“Since you’re too scared to go forward,” I add, unable to help myself.

His lower lip wobbles slightly. For a moment, my hand twitches, as if it wants to reach out and touch him, as if it thinks it’s my job to comfort him.

But that’s ridiculous.

Cal is here to get a story. He probably has some dream guy to whisper words of comfort for his every worry, who runs his fingers along Cal’s skin, who captures Cal’s lips with his own.

“Jason?” Cal’s voice cracks. “Are we lost?”

I swallow hard and scan the endless blue horizon, squinting against the sun’s glare as the jet ski vibrates uncomfortably beneath me. But there’s no island. No boat. No indication of civilization.

The Pacific stretches in every direction, and suddenly the sun is too hot, the sky too big, the silence too loud. The midday sun glares, and sweat trickles down my body.

“What do we do?” Cal asks.

I open my mouth. Then shut it.

Because the truth is, I don’t have an answer.

I have no idea how to find the island. Or fix my career.