Page 58 of Pucking Wild

Lauren smirks. “I can’t wait to see you as a girl dad someday. You’ll be worse than Jean-Luc.”

I groan, dropping my phone in the cupholder as I crank the tunes back up. I was already in a shitty mood because of the weirdness with Tess earlier and Shelby’s warning. Now it’s a hundred times worse. But it’s nothing a little “Hakuna Matata” can’t fix.

22

Mars and I pull up at an all-but-empty beach parking lot. He parks the truck in the front row and we open our doors at the same time. A sloping sand dune cuts off my view of the beach, but I can feel the sea air and smell the salt on the breeze.

A young man waves us down, jogging over in a pair of board shorts and a half-zip pullover. “Hey, there he is! Mars Attack, lookin’ good, man.”

I glance over at Ilmari. “Mars Attack?”

“Do not encourage him,” he says as he slips out of the truck.

I can’t suppress my smile as I hop down too. Mars quickly steps around the front of the truck and comes to stand by my door.

The young man swaggers up to us in bare feet. His hair still looks wet and sticky with salt from his morning surf. He’s maybe in his mid-twenties, his face already deeply lined and weathered by the sun. Behind him, a beat-up, yellow Jeep sits stuffed with several surfboards.

“How’s it goin’, Mars Mission?” He says, offering out his hand to Ilmari. “Whoa, who’s the duchess?” he says, looking at me.

“Your new boss,” Mars replies, shaking the surfer’s hand.

“Awesome,” Surfer Joe replies, nodding like a bobblehead.

“Mars Attack?” I say with a smile. “Mars Mission? Are those his nicknames?”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Surfer Joe replies.

“May I ask why?”

Surfer Joe slings an arm around Ilmari’s broad shoulders as he flips the sunglasses on his head down onto his face and says, “‘Cause this guy is out of this world.”

The pained look of tolerance on Ilmari’s face is giving me life. Surfer Joe may just be my new favorite person. “You know, I’d have to agree,” I tease, flashing Ilmari a grin.

“I said don’t encourage him,” Mars mutters.

“Oh, come on now, Rocketman, where’s the fun in that?”

Mars gives me a look clearly meant to convey sentiments of deep hate and loathing. Then he gestures at me. “Tess Owens, this is Joey Ford. He’s the current head of the organization.”

Surfer Joe’s name is Joey? I nearly choke holding back my laugh as I eagerly shake his hand. “Joey, nice to meet you.” His hand is rough as sandpaper and his grip hard as iron.

“The king is dead, long live the queen, eh, duchess?” Joey says with a grin. “I don’t know the first thing about running a nonprofit. I’m just here to give the turtles a fighting chance.”

“And behind you are Cheryl and Nancy Lemming,” says Ilmari at my side.

I turn to see a pair of smiling older ladies walking up to us holding hands. They, too, look like they just came from the beach. Their bare toes are sandy, and their cheeks are flushed from the wind.

“Hi,” I say with a wave.

“Oh, Nance, she is so pretty,” coos the one who must be Cheryl. She’s tall and willowy with kinky grey curls. Meanwhile, her partner is shorter and more pear-shaped, with dark hair and eyes. “Honey, you are just the prettiest thing.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a smile.

They close the distance and shake my hand, then Ilmari’s.

“We’re so excited to meet you,” says Nancy. “Mars said you were a wizard with nonprofits.”

“I’ll admit, we’re new to this game,” chimes Cheryl. “But what’s the proper sports vernacular? Put us in, coach,” she says, and they both laugh.

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