Page 39 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

“There’s nothing?” I ask.

“Looks like it.”

I stare at the ocean. “I don’t want to be here.”

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“I wish your morals extended to other things too.”

His face pales. “I’m sorry, Cal.”

“We have bigger problems,” I say, and he nods at the horizon, because I’m totally right.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jason

Something unmasculine and definitely undignified coils through my chest. I stare at the ocean, as if I can will a boat to appear to take us back.

No boat appears.

“The hotel knows we’re gone,” Cal says. “They’ll send someone to find us.”

I nod, but my stomach twists at the thought that newspaper headlines will talk about “Joyride Gone Wrong” or “Bad Boy Larvik Gets Lost.”

“The papers will probably say I was hungover.”

“You weren’t.”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

Jesus Christ. Cal’s probably going to write the article himself: “Stranded with the Irresponsible Player.” Or something more awful.

Cal collapses onto the sand, his face flushed.

I don’t linger my gaze on him, because there’s nothing interesting there. “You take this side of the island, I’ll take the other. Then we can greet the rescue boat when it arrives.”

“Smart.”

I jerk my head into some semblance of a nod, then hurry back through the jungle. The palm trees and vines tear at my clothes, as if they’re angry at me too.

I scowl, then find the other beach.

I keep my gaze on the water, but nothing happens. No plane flies overhead. No search boat. No jet skis.

Nothing... mechanical

I stand to get a full view of the water. I try to calculate how long we’ve been gone, when the jet ski person will notice we’re absent, when they’ll send someone after us.

Fuck.

I pace the beach, because I’m being ridiculous. The jet ski journey was long enough for Cal’s jet ski to run out of gas, though I suspect his fuel tank wasn’t full anyway. The person we signed from seemed new, and my chest makes that funny squeeze again.

My legs go wobbly, like I’m one of those beginner skaters on Frog Pond, all flailing limbs.

I refuse to slide to the sand in defeat. Instead, I pace. My pulse surges into last half minute of a tied last period mode, but it’s fine. My breath puffs and pants like I’m trying to remind myself I have lungs, but it’s fine. My feet ache like I’ve squeezed myself into too tight skates, then tried to play Montreal, but it’s fine.

I peer at the ocean like the best sailor. I might not have a telescope, but I have my eyes, and I’m going to fucking notice when a boat comes. I can always take the jet ski out and reach it.