Page 59 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Maybe I didn’t actually become an athlete, not like I hoped I would when I was in high school, not like I dreamed I would be. Maybe all the times I threw myself into practice, the times I woke up early and worked out late and said no to parties and fun didn’t result in the fame and fortune I thought my efforts would lead to.

There was no miraculous scholarship waiting for me when my parents divorced and could no longer pay for hockey. Maybe another player would have tried harder, won some scholarship. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. When I was in college, there were no out players in the NHL.

Maybe I would have stuck with it if I’d known Evan McAllister, Captain of the Boston Blizzards, would declare his love for his linemate. I would have stuck with it if I’d known Finn Carrington, star right winger, would marry his teammate. Luke Hawthorne and Dmitri Volvov have also ended up with men, something I never imagined I would ever see.

That’s why my stomach sank when I first heard Jason’s comments. All the good, all the openness in the NHL and professional sports in general, seemed on the verge of being stifled.

I look around the beach.

I want to contribute.

Not thinking about Jason... that way. Not wondering if he’s thinking about me, when obviously he isn’t. The man is straight. He’s already kissed a guy, after all. I was that guy.

I stack rocks into a ring, like I’ve seen in movies. I drop kindling in the middle and crouch with a stick and a rock.

Nothing.

I try again. Faster.

Still nothing.

It’s fine. Fire was one of the biggest discoveries in human history. I can’t expect to recreate it on the first try.

But the sky starts to dim, and I’m bleeding from my splintered hands, and I still don’t have anything but damp wood and bruised pride.

It’s ridiculous. But what else should I do?

I don’t know how to start a fire, but we desperately need one.

I’ll figure it out.

I must.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Jason

I avoid Cal and work on the shelter. I strip vines and snap branches from trees. I lay them down, weaving them together like I’m on my grandmother’s oversized loom. Naked floors are frowned upon in Minnesota.

After I’ve completed a six-by-six slab, I move away. My construction quality is somewhere between tent and sofa cushion fort, and I hope Cal won’t be disappointed. Maybe I should construct him his own space, but for some reason the idea offends me, and I scowl at the jungle and its abundance of disaster shelter material.

When the sky turns tangerine, I go to find Cal. There’s no sign of him at first.

But I hear an odd thud over and over again, and when I look, I find him hunched on the far side of the beach, facing a defeated pile of rocks and twigs.

He’s hunched over. I frown and hurry toward him.

“Cal?” I ask.

“Yes?” His voice is softer than I like and more uncertain.

I quicken my pace. Sand makes my footing weird, but I’ve always preferred hard surfaces. That’s literally how I make a living.

I crouch beside him. His shoulders are slumped. His hands are scraped.

“You’re trying to start a fire,” I say gently.

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”