Out in the Surf (Out in College 9)

I didn’t think he cared if anyone knew about us, though. We were too busy to worry about perception. Cal had been heads-down preparing for the big competition tomorrow and working on the boards he needed to deliver before the holidays. He didn’t share exact numbers, but I had a feeling he was closing in on the sum he needed for the surf shop. With any luck, by the end of January, he’d be a proud business owner.

And me?

I had finals, a few job interviews, and a plane ticket to travel home to see my family next week. I was on the short list for a promising opportunity with a venture capital firm in LA. My parents would freaking love it if I ended up working for a “real” company like that one. It paid well for an entry-level position….However, it sounded like a real yawner.

There was one other option that looked pretty damn good too. Honestly, I wanted to find something local and put the job search behind me. I spent way too much time worrying about it. I couldn’t even enjoy hanging out at the rink, ’cause my mind was doing laps faster than I could skate.

I grabbed a stack of cones and dropped them on the blue line on the ice, nodding a greeting to Cody as he skated in a circle around me.

“I hear congratulations are in order, man,” Colby enthused, smacking me on the back.

I glanced over at my sort-of boss and raised my brows. Technically, I didn’t report to anyone. I volunteered a couple of times a week during team practices and occasionally for the youth squad.

What had started out as a desperate means of connecting to my biggest passion had morphed into a savvy way to make contacts. I’d heard that it was a matter of who you knew, not what you knew, that launched careers. But I’d still considered my effort to ingratiate myself to Coach Beltram and Colby as more of a lark than anything. I didn’t think anything was likely to come of the Sharks interview, and I didn’t really care. I enjoyed hanging out here. It was the best form of therapy…and cheaper by far than a session with my shrink.

“Congratulations? For what?”

Colby widened his eyes comically. “Oh, oops. Spoke too soon.”

“About?”

He skidded to a stop at my side, shredding the ice like a pro. “I can’t tell you now. This kind of news needs beer. What are you doing after this?”

“Meeting my—” I caught myself before I finished the sentence. “Friend. Why?”

“Tell her…or him to meet us at The Brewery. I’ll be done here in fifteen minutes. I just have to lock up.” Colby’s hair fell into his eyes as he pumped his fists in the air, skating backward to the gate. “Check your email, Luca. I bet it’s there.”

I left the cones where they were and followed Colby, pulling my cell from my pocket when I reached the rails. I had a missed call from a Michael Bergman and a slew of unread emails. I opted to listen to the voice message rather than tackle email.

“Hi, Luca. We’re excited to invite you to join our team. The Sharks are pleased to offer you a position…”

I froze with my phone glued to my ear.

Whoa.

This was good. No, it was great. I’d have to listen to the details again later, but…wow. I hadn’t expected this.

My parents would be happy, my friends would be stoked. Geez, my buddies on my old team would be jealous, and Cal…

I dialed his number and left a quick message before stepping onto the rubber mat.

Two beers and a plate of nachos later, I slapped a final round of high fives with Colby and the other assistant coaches he’d insisted join us at The Brewery. Oh, yeah…and his boyfriend, Sky. Zoe was right. He might have been the most classically handsome man on the planet. Tall, dark blond, blue eyes, and muscular with the chiseled features of a model. He and Colby were a hot couple, I mused, parking on the street in front of the surf shop.

I strode purposefully to the side entrance and let myself in with the key Cal had given me, smiling at the wall of sound coming from the garage area. Cal usually got so involved in his work that he didn’t notice when the satellite station chose some funky shit he’d never listen to if he were paying attention.

I waved a greeting, shamelessly eye-fucking him as I adjusted the volume on the music. He looked hotter than hell in ripped Levi’s and an ancient Mammoth Lakes sweatshirt liberally stained with paint and resin.

“Hey, where’ve you been?” he asked, setting a putty knife down before greeting me with a sloppy kiss.

“The Brewery. I texted you.” I hiked my thumb at his phone sitting next to the Bluetooth speaker.