Page 35 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Maybe we’ve gone too far.

Maybe we’ve gone to a section where there aren’t islands, aren’t boats.

Maybe we’re lost.

In the Pacific Ocean.

I’m from the city. I’m not used to rural areas, and I’m definitely not used to rural areas where the primary landmark is water.

The sun is at fuller force, and I realize I’m parched.

This is not going well.

JASON

Cal is sitting right behind me. His thighs press against my thighs. His calves graze my calves. His feet—well, they’re right beside mine too.

I am surrounded by professional sports reporter. Professional sports reporter determined to destroy my career.

Something stirs in my swim trunks, and I slide further up. I hold myself awkwardly, willing myself not to relax into him, to not rest my back against his wide torso.

Because it’s way better to think about the discomfort of my position, and not the fact I’m right in front of him. Like we’re doing bedtime activities or something. Not that I would do bedtime activities with him.

I mean, he’s a guy. Why would I want him to put his dick in my ass? That would be totally gross.

I accelerate.

“Are you comfortable?” Cal asks. “You can lean back.”

“I’m not leaning back against you. You’re not my fucking boyfriend!”

Cal inhales harshly, and yeah, maybe I didn’t modulate my tone or use appropriate language.

This is what got me into this whole mess. But I’m a hockey player. My job is literally to be focused on a black puck and smack it into a net as many times as possible and smack any opposing player who comes too close to it.

It’s not exactly a career path that is famous for emotion regulation.

Cal’s face is against my neck, and I wonder what his skin would taste like if I turned and captured it with my mouth.

Gross, obviously.

This is the sort of position people get in when they sleep together.

Which I’m not thinking about, clearly.

If I’m thinking about it a bit, it’s because our situation is super dire, and it’s better to think about sex than dying.

You could say my cock is super intelligent and thoughtful.

My gaze skitters toward the ocean and its vast endless waves, the low horizon, and...

I square my shoulders.

Is that...?

A sliver of green pokes from the waves, and I lean forward, scanning the water, hoping I haven’t succumbed to conjuring mirages, hoping that’s actually—

“...don’t freak out, Jason,” Cal is saying. “I know you’re straight. It’s not like I’ll assault you on the jet ski.”