The storm had been building all morning, metallic air, wind carving white scars across the break, judges already calling it quits. But the elite circuit never respected weather, and neither did the handful of riders still desperate enough to paddle out. You spotted Nolan Ford instantly, reckless, crowd-favored.

You took the opposite angle on the swell, tighter, more calculated. The reef ahead was infamous for bull sharks, especially when storms churned up the deep. You pushed anyway, because this season had underscored you into near invisibility, and you refused to stay there.

The next swell rose sharp and sudden. Bodies scrambled for position. A board sliced past your thigh. Someone shoved you, deliberate, hard, and your rail slipped sideways. You caught a flash of Nolan cutting across the wave, jaw tight, eyes flicking to you.

“Hold your line!” he yelled, though whether it was warning or contempt, you couldn’t tell.

You dropped. The ocean swallowed you in one violent pull, tumbling you until the world blurred into pressure and sound. When you finally surfaced, the current dragged you toward the dark water near the reef. Something moved beneath you, broad, heavy. Then another. And another.

Bull sharks. More than one.

A cold pulse of fear shot through you. The next wave beat you under again, stealing breath from your chest.

He saw the fins before he saw you, three shadows slicing through the churn, circling. For a second, he hesitated. You were his rival. His threat. The one person he never wanted to owe anything to. But then he saw you disappear under the wave, and his stomach dropped in a way he didn’t want to examine.

He went after you.

Something grabbed your arm, Nolan.

“Don’t fight me,” he snapped, voice hoarse, strained.

The two of you thrashed more than swam, waves smashing you in every direction. Nolan kicked his board toward the closest shark when it came too near, teeth flashing beneath the surface.

“Move,” he barked, dragging you toward the channel. “Don’t make me carry you.”