Page 55 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

I’d told myself all those things—sometimes frantically.

Because I didn’t want to announce I was... that way. I’d still wanted to play hockey professionally at that point, and I’d looked it up: there weren’t any out players in professional hockey.

Being gay was something great for the drama kids, and unconcerning for the nerdy professions. But in professional hockey? No. No way.

I didn’t want to announce something about myself that wasn’t true. I didn’t want to change my life for something that might have been wrong.

For all I knew, kissing men would have been as mechanical and awkward as kissing women.

Perhaps the whole concept of kissing and romance was something invented for the screen, something some people enjoyed, but not everyone.

Perhaps I was really asexual and more comfortable with guys than girls, because I was a guy.

All those questions were answered when I kissed Jason.

Because God, I had no idea lips together could feel so good. I had no idea the swirl of my tongue against another could send tingles through my body. I had no idea the most alive I would ever feel would be in a quiet alley.

I don’t want to think about that night. I don’t want to think that a moment that was so special for me, was clearly something he so despised.

Because the next day, it was clear he hated me. His eyes were hard, his lips that had felt so soft the night before were in a constant scowl.

And before I could figure out a time to talk to him in private, to apologize, he’d left camp early.

My mouth is dry, and I reach for water, but there’s none.

Because this isn’t where I’m supposed to be. This is not the fancy beach of some five-star property. There’s no waiter about to appear at any moment, armed with a cocktail menu and our choice of high-end water, the sort that comes in glass bottles.

This is a mistake.

One I might not get out of.

I sigh and rise from the beach. I look toward the jungle. Jason is somewhere there.

He doesn’t want to spend time with me, so I head for the ocean. I move along the beach until the sand becomes more packed, and until water laps around my ankles, then my calves. I can’t swim, so I hover at the edges. The sea surges around me, sending froth-trimmed waves toward me again and again and again. The ocean and sky merge into a cerulean haze, one that would make postcard creators cheer, yet still, my pulse cannot calm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jason

Cal rises from the sand, and my breath catches. The sunlight glints over his dark hair and sun-kissed skin. My skin is of the fish-belly variety, though it’s now hot to the touch. I’m so going to burn.

I watch Cal move toward the ocean, then my breath catches when he moves his hands over the front of his pants.

I shouldn’t be watching. He doesn’t know I can see him.

But Cal is standing in the middle of the wide-open beach, and I can’t tell my brain to focus on the jungle around me. I can’t.

My eyes drink him in, drifting from the soft curve of his belly to the roundness of his ass to the extra weight on his back. He doesn’t resemble the sculpted teammates I’ve spent years avoiding locker room eye contact with. Cal’s built like someone who’d keep you warm and protected.

He fiddles more with the front of his khakis, then they fall completely.

My mouth goes dry, and my head is woozy, probably from too many coconuts.

He’s still dressed, of course.

He’s not completely naked.

But my veins skitter, my pulse leaps, and my heart does a weird pounding thing it normally does when I’ve been on the treadmill for half an hour.