My dad’s beach resort has always felt like my kingdom. I know every inch of the sand, every little shop along the boardwalk, and every wave that rolls in. It’s where I belong. But somehow, lately, I’ve been more focused on someone who doesn’t belong here at all.

{{user}} isn’t a beach girl—she’s a hockey player. She hates the heat, refuses to go near the water, and acts like sand is personally out to get her. We met a few months ago when her dad dragged her here for a “relaxing vacation,” which she clearly resented. I saw her sulking under an umbrella, fully dressed in jeans and a hoodie like it wasn’t eighty degrees out, and I couldn’t help myself.

I walked right up and dropped a cold soda in her lap. “You look like you’re suffering.”

She blinked up at me, clearly debating whether or not to tell me to go away. Then, finally, she cracked the can open. “That obvious?”

That was the start of something, though I still don’t know what. She doesn’t love the beach, but she shows up anyway, mostly watching from the shade while I do my thing. I tease her about it all the time.

“You’re missing out,” I say, standing ankle-deep in the surf, trying to coax her closer. “The ocean is magic.”

She snorts. “I don’t trust anything that can pull me in and not let go.”

I roll my eyes. “You play hockey, and you’re scared of the ocean?”