Page 72 of The Route to You

“Oh, fuck you.” Kyle followed, then swung wide to pass him, the engine’s pitch climbing as he leaned into the turn. The world narrowed to white glare and blue water and the solid, satisfying pull of acceleration.

He won by a nose.

“You wanker.” Tomas laughed.

“Skill,” Kyle called back. “Pure, devastating skill.”

He slowed, circled Tomas once, then drifted to his side, engine idling, the water rocking them gently. Kyle’s pulse thrummed, his arms pleasantly sore, his chest light.

Tomas gave him a knowing, pleased look. “See? You’re almost human again.”

Almost. But not quite. Still, he felt more like the Kyle who had bumbled his way into a cactus in the Mojave than the idiot who’d driven his ex-girlfriend into Wyoming and been arrested for it.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Kyle said. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

He took off again, not racing this time, just cutting across open water, letting speed do what speed always did and scrape the edges off his thoughts. Out here, it was easier to put Sloan behind him. All the things that had been chewing on him—the metal handcuffs cutting into his wrists, the thought of Evan finding a way to “win,” the way Sloan looked in his shirt—faded to the background of wind and clean horizon.

Another wake rolled through ahead of him, bigger than the last one. Taller, steeper, the kind that made the Jet Ski rise and fall in a more noticeable way.

Gun it.

He told himself he was just going to skim it. Just enough to feel the lift.

Tomas lifted one hand, not quite a warning, not quite a dare. “Don’t get cocky,” he shouted over the roar.

Kyle practically rolled his eyes.

He lined himself up without really thinking about it, muscle memory taking over. The engine’s note crept higher. The Jet Ski surged forward, the hull growing lighter over the water.

The rise, the brief weightless float, the clean slap back down.

Perfection.

His holler came out wild and surprised.

“Okay, okay,” Tomas called, catching up to him. “Show-off.”

Kyle grinned and circled back, feeling loose now, warmed up, and confident. The water ahead of them was busier here, cut with overlapping paths from boats and other riders. The surface wasn’t as predictable, but it didn’t look dangerous either. Just . . . more interesting. More of a challenge.

A larger wake farther out, longer and steeper, beckoned him. That would give a better lift if he hit it right.

He didn’t tell Tomas he was aiming for it.

He pushed the throttle, feeling the engine climb—the vibration deepen under him. The Jet Ski answered like it logically should—eagerly. The wind tore at his face, and his eyes watered behind his sunglasses.

And as he neared, Sloan’s voice roared into his head. “You don’t have to keep proving you’re alive.”

He shoved the thought away.

I have this. I’m not trying to prove anything.

The wake rushed up faster than he expected.

He adjusted his angle, a small correction, then another. The nose lifted—higher this time. Higher than it should have .

For a split second, a familiar, floating quiet filled his head, the one that always came with airtime. The horizon dropped away. The world tilted.

Oh fuck.