She gritted her teeth and reached, but the damn knee buckled. The marshal pulled her onto the sled with careful motions. “Don’t move it,” he said. The Ski roared, accelerating toward shore. Every vibration rattled her bones.
Flags waved merrily. The crowd was a blur of color and noise. Rowan tried to keep her face calm since there was always a camera.
She’d seen it before—the moment a surfer’s career cracked open mid-heat. Friends had torn things and returned different. One had cried when the doctor showed her the X-ray. Rowan told herself that wouldn’t be her. She wasn’t just careful, but lucky.
Today, luck had run out.
Leilani paddled through the impact zone. Their eyes met for half a second. Rowan saw the horror, then the gleam of emotion; a fierce, sisterly love that had nothing to do with medals.
Rowan shoved down the burn. Lifted her chin. And mouthed,Go.
Lea gave a tight nod, turned, and paddled into the next set with purpose.
By the time they reached shore, hands were already lifting her onto a stretcher. The medic’s fingers probed her knee, and his expression said everything. “Could be ACL,” he said. “Meniscus, too. We’ll know after scans. I’m sorry.”
Rowan turned her face away. The medic wrapped until the tape made a white exoskeleton. The ice bled cold into her skin, and the pain dug in to stay.
She lay there and pictured what was ahead: the surgeries, endless PT, the slow, small victories, the nights awake with ache and questions.The pity of everyone around her. The sponsors’ sympathetic excuses for pulling out and seeing how things went. She thought of her father, who was supposed to be watching from above in protection, but had gone quiet and eerily absent.
Her world narrowed to the lagoon-green water glinting just beyond the tent. She could still see the peaks breaking, the crowd cheering as Leilani flew down another perfect face.
The horn blared. The heat ended.
Her career was over, and her father was gone.
Chapter One
Rowan Delaney watched the girl on the beach from the open door of the surf shop.
She walked up and down the shoreline, dragging her toe in the sand. Dressed in a white crochet bikini top, shredded denim shorts, and a fancy lace cover-up, she gave off tourist vibes. The sunglasses screamed designer—looked like Michael Kors. Her sandals were Birkenstock. The nude beach bag was Prada. Her wrists were stacked with Pura Vida bracelets in beachy colors.
The girl stared out at the group of surfers paddling into the waves. Shouts of laughter echoed with the roar of the ocean and carried in the breeze. Rowan watched as each of them caught a swell and rode in. One made it. The other two got caught and tumbled into the water. All of them emerged grinning, joy stamped on their tanned faces as they high-fived and began again.
The pain in her knee was now a dull throb rather than a vicious slice. Rowan was glad. In another few years, she’d be numb enough not to care.
The girl on the beach kept her gaze on the surfers, features hidden beneath the oversize lenses. She was utterly still, as if seeing something for the very first time, then she ducked her head and went back to making random lines in the white sand.
Rowan pegged her as a wandering guest from a fancy hotel trying to escape her parents. It was doubtful she even went into the water inthat getup. Surfing wasn’t glamorous, though when done right, it was the most beautiful dance in the world.
Rowan turned away from the scene and began organizing the new inventory of sun products. Why did Tino mix up the brands? They were all cluttered on the shelves in random heaps of oil, block, and aftercare even though she’d instituted an organized spreadsheet. Probably working on a custom board and couldn’t care less about the store. Holding back a sigh, she took her time methodically fixing the mess while Jimmy Buffett sang over the speakers about paradise.
“Hi.”
Rowan spun around at the intrusion. The girl stood behind her, sunglasses now perched on top of her head. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Up close, Rowan realized she was younger than she thought—barely a teen. A sprinkling of acne dusted her forehead. Ash-blond hair fell to her shoulders in straight strands. Her eyes were big and blue and dominated her angular face. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Um, do you have water?”
Rowan pointed to the cooler. “In there.”
“Oh. Well, I have this water bottle.” She lifted a Stanley cup in rose gold. “I wasn’t sure if you had a place I can refill it?”
“Sorry, we just sell bottled water.”
The girl nodded and bit her lip. Rowan caught the bright blue inserts of her braces. “I don’t like to buy plastic bottles because of the environment. I guess I can wait. Thanks.”
She turned but Rowan stopped her. “I’ll fill it up for you in the back. As long as you don’t mind tap.”
The girl brightened like she’d been given a gift. “Oh, that’d be awesome! Thanks so much.”
