The Rip
“Saturday—paintball first. Then tower, then stingers. Bring vinegar, bring balls!”
Dean slammed his palm to Nick’s, splashing the circle. “Done.”
A set rolled in, bigger, darker. They scattered to catch it, boys vanishing and reappearing in the glittering smash.
Back on the beach
Nick rode a fat, happy wave all the way in, stepped off in knee-deep water, and jogged up the sand toward the towels, board under his arm. The sand burned; he didn’t care. He dropped next to Rachel, chest heaving, salt lines drying on his skin.
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