Page 22 of Reckless Hearts

Chuckling, I drop my forehead to rest on her shoulder. “Yeah, that,” I murmur. “But seriously, I promise you don’t have anything to worry about with me. I’m clean and I’m not like sleeping around or whatever, and I don’t just…” I pause, blowing out a breath as I lift my head and try to find the words. “I don’t just randomly hook up with people.”

She lifts a brow, an amused look on her face as she says, “You randomly hooked up with me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re something else, beautiful. I didn’t really stand a chance.”

She smiles at that, her head tilting to the side as she says, “So, to summarize, we’re both clean and we’re both not sleeping around and I have an IUD, so we?—”

“We shouldn’t do this again,” I say.

“WHAT?” Alana practically yells. “Why the hell not?”

Groaning, I flop back onto the bed, scrubbing a hand down my face as I reach for my phone charging on the nightstand. Alana is still sitting on my hips, her stare intense as she watches me type away before finally turning the phone around to her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Just read it,” I say, watching as she takes the phone from me, her eyes scrolling over the old articles. Her eyes widen as she does, occasionally flicking to me before returning to the screen, her finger scrolling through the hundreds of search results that show up just from Googling my name.

“Holy fuck, you’re a professional surfer?” she whispers, looking at me again.

I shake my head. “I was, but not anymore.”

“Wait, why?” she asks, her gaze moving to the phone again. “You were like world champ at seventeen, you were…shit, you were really good.”

“I was,” I tell her, tucking a hand back behind my head. “Until my accident.” Alana looks at me quizzically, and I nod toward the phone in her hand. “Google my name and surf accident.”

She does, her eyes scanning the screen again as she undoubtedly gets an endless supply of articles about the surf accident that left me unconscious and with a dislocated shoulder. How it happened during the Rip Curl Finals in California when I was going for a sixth straight World Championship. How everyone expected me to win, but instead I was taken out by a huge wave, my board catching me on the head before I came down hard.

I don’t even remember it, mostly because I was knocked out cold, but also because I’ve spent the past few years trying really hard to forget it. To block out what happened after when I tried to surf competitively again.

“Holy shit,” she breathes out. “I think I remember reading about this. Wait, it was…how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five,” I tell her. “It happened when I was twenty-two.”

“Wow,” she says, her eyes moving back to the phone screen. “So, wait, you don’t surf competitively anymore?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“Why not?” she asks, looking back at the screen. When I don’t say anything, Alana’s gaze flicks back to mine, a knowing look on her face as she says, “You tried.”

It’s said as a statement rather than a question, and all I can do is nod in response.

“What happened?” she asks, her hand moving to rest on mine as it sits on her thigh.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I tell her.

Alana drops my phone onto the bed, her focus on me as she leans in and drops a soft kiss on my lips. “You still surf though. I mean, we’ve surfed together, so it’s not like youcan’tsurf.”

I nod, curling my hand around the back of her neck, knowing we are getting closer and closer to the truth and why this thing between us can’t continue.

“I do surf,” I tell her. “Just not competitively.”

“But why?” she asks, sitting back up.

“Why did you stop when your coach died?” I ask, turning her question back around.

She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I told you. It was too hard, and I was?—”

“Afraid of letting everyone down? Of failing?” I say, reminding her of the exact words she said to me only hours ago. Alana nods, her eyes locked with mine. “Yeah,” I say with a wry smile. “Well, same with me.”

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