Prologue
This season, Jia had everything mapped out perfectly: soak up love, seize every moment with her boyfriend Shawn, and kick-start their careers in the post-graduation real world.
But summer had other plans.
When trust issues turn her solid plans into shaky grounds, she jets off to a tropical island paradise, trading predictability for the thrill of spontaneity—and perhaps a little heart-healing.
Enter the Strikers: a crew of happy-go-lucky globetrotting basketball players with a knack for making nights unforgettable.
Among them, she finds herself torn between two captivating forces: Matthew, the adventurous, no-strings-attached flirt whose charm is as unpredictable as the waves, and Skyler, the team captain—intense, controlling, and everything she didn’t think she wanted.
But secrets are like tides, and they’re poised to shake her getaway like a tsunami.
With 60 summer nights and a series of reckless escapades, the question isn’t what could happen—it’s what won’t happen?
Prologue
☼ Night 22, Before Daylight
⚲ Siargao, PH
When your perfectly planned life hits rock bottom, there’s only one way: up. And what better launching pad than a sun-drenched island where inhibitions melt faster than ice in piña coladas?
Here, you can claw your way back while letting loose, one reckless thrill at a time. Nothing’s off-limits—freedom, fun, finding yourself.
But let’s be clear: I’m not here to find myself—fuck that cliche.
I know exactly who I am. And this trip is about reclaiming her.
The Jia Lee who danced on tables, kissed strangers, and never apologized for wanting it all.
The girl who lived on her own damn terms, before she wrapped her whole world around her dream guy named Shawn...who turned into a cheating nightmare.
Which leads me here, one week into Siargao Island, already partying my ass off to forget all that shit.
But this nausea from last night’s drinks was a different kind of torture.
A splitting headache dragged me into consciousness at ass o’clock, yet underneath was this weird calm. Like I’d been resurrected as some sort of a goddess—Aphrodite with a killer hangover, wrapped in a...wait, what am I wearing?
My hands ran over unfamiliar fabric—thick but breathable, with long sleeves exceeding my fingers.
This is definitely not my sundress.
Hold up.
Consciousness kicked in, and I realized I was swaddled in a polo shirt beside the Adonis—I mean, Matthew, the island’s finest gift to my broken heart. The guy with the perfect undercut and a body molded from Olympus. The gargantuan basketball player I’d been hooking up with since I arrived here. The perfect rebound.
I could feel the warmth of Matthew’s back brushing against my left arm, and…and…oh, no.
No. No. No.
Did we fuck, drunk?!
Mental note: Where’s that Hookup Handbook from your eighteen-year-old self? Rule #3: never do it drunk!
Come on, younger Jia would’ve handled this better. At twenty two, this is tragic. This isn’t how I roll, not even in my wildest, post-breakup liberation phase.
But panic’s off the menu when your body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. Best to wake him up and suggest a graceful exit.
“Matthew, wake up. I told you we can’t do it while drunk—”
I turned my head sideways to face him and what I saw gave me a rush of goosebumps.
That doesn’t look like Matthew’s back.
He was not Matthew at all.
Who.
The.
Actual.
Fuck?!
Breathe, Jia. No one’s dead, you’re not in a ditch, and this guy looks about as dangerous as a sleepy labrador.
Next step: check who’s the lucky guy.
I inched closer, catching a whiff of his scent—a little fruity with a hint of smoke, like some fancy mix of berries and tobacco. That perfume must be expensive as hell. Did I fuck a son of a politician?
I squinted my eyes, checking out this person who looked like a Renaissance painting while sleeping.
His hair, shiny and raven, could give the night sky a run for its money.
Skin so pale, it made the white sheet and pillowcases look dirty.
And is that an olive tree tattoo sprawled across his lower nape? It’s got the branches, roots, and all the deets. Yeah, that’s not your average bad decision tattoo.
You’re already a work of art, Sir. Not bad, Jia. Not bad at all.
I’m also seeing some junk in the trunk. This guy’s squats and deadlifts are definitely paying off and—okay, stop checking out his ass. Moving on.
The half-naked, half-asleep masterpiece slowly turned until his face finally met mine.
I braced myself for the moment of truth.
What the h—
“Skyler?!” I slapped a hand over my mouth.
Let me take back all the things I said earlier.
Why the fuck, of all people?! This was supposed to be Matthew—the Summit Strikers Basketball Team’s tall, dark, and delicious center, and not their obnoxious, brooding captain, Skyler.
Great job, Jia. Go big or go home, right?
His doe eyes finally fluttered open, focusing on me, and suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of how close we are. I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Seriously, universe? You’re gonna give this guy super long lashes while I’m here with glued falsies?
“You’re awake,” he grimaced, his breath fanning against my nose.
“Obviously,” I sat up, ignoring how his morning voice felt like a shot of espresso—scalding, bitter, and way too intense for this early.
I glanced down on the Ralph Lauren polo shirt I was wearing. Skyler’s shirt. Did we…did we cross a line last night?! The mere thought sent a blush flaming across my cheeks.
“Before you freak out, nothing happened,” he swung off the bed, his back muscles rippling under the mood lights I forgot to turn off.
“You wish,” I hissed back.
“I’d appreciate a thank you, Skyler. You’re right when you told me that captain’s duties don’t stop even off the court, but this isn’t part of it,” he side-eyed me before going to the bathroom, scouring for something to cover his bare upper body.
“Yeah, right, yapper. Thanks?” I got up, took a fresh rolled towel from my cabinet. I aimed to throw it at his face, but of course, without even glancing, he caught it mid-air. Typical baller reflexes.
He washed his face really quick, dried it with the towel, and draped it over those rocky shoulders.
Finally, some decency.
“So…” I retreated to my bed, pulling the blanket over my legs. “How did you end up here again?”
“Because someone got too reckless. And it’s not from my team. Guess who.”
“Come on. I’m in your clothes, clearly something happened.”
“If you can’t remember then you shouldn’t be out there drinking irresponsibly. And don’t try matching my alcohol tolerance.”
Okay, it is fucking on.
“Fine. Thank you very much for your babysitting service.” I huffed. “But you have no idea why I did what I did.”
“Actually, I do,” his chin tilted up slightly. “No one else was coherent around you, so you grabbed onto me—”
“Okay, shut up now! I know. I remember bits.”
“There she is. So, you do remember things, even when drunk. Some special talent, huh?” That triangle, upturned smile appeared. Funny.
My temples protested every thought. “All the Strikers were at the Rooftop. You had to herd their drunk asses back, last was Matthew.”
Yeah. Skyler, at maybe five-foot-ten, just casually herded twelve wasted basketball players, including a six-foot-three Matthew, across the bar. I can’t imagine.
“Right, big guy drank himself under the table. By the time I got back, you were also dead. See, that’s what I’m talking about. If you can’t handle yourself—”
“I know. Stop lecturing. My legs just…they stopped working, alright?” I sank deeper into the bed, annoyed. And embarrassed.
“Whole bottle of Bacardi tends to do that,” he said, bluntly.
Which leads to my main concern…
“Is that why I’m not in my dress? Did I throw up—”
“You did. In the hallway.” He adjusted his towel, reminding me why he was still half-naked. My fault.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” I whispered, burying my face in my hands. This was beyond salvaging.
Fine, he’s got a point. I shouldn’t have been irresponsible last night.
Was it my fault I trusted Matthew to look after me, only for him to also get wasted? Uh, yes. Definitely.
“Don’t mind,” he softened slightly. “You came through for the guys last night. Consider us even.”
His broad shoulders squared up like he was about to deliver a game recap. “Which member do I start with? You calmed down a crying Henry with your tiger keychain—”
“Ah yes, my university mascot! I knew that overpriced merch would come in handy.”
“Then you saved Theo when he picked a fight with a barstool—”
“In his defense, that barstool was shifty.”
“—resurrected Vernon from dehydration. My point guard thinks Sprite counts as water.” His lips did that triangle thing again. “Nice work with the electrolytes.”
Damn, Drunk Jia, you overachieving bitch. That eldest daughter, ex-cheer captain energy really never shuts off, huh?
Skyler wasn’t responsible for me either. But here he is, playing shepherd to the girl he just met.
“Then we ended up here, in your room,” he exhaled.
“Because I…I asked you to stay.”
“Yes. And I stayed.”
He was all chill about all this, no judging or anything. For a moment, silence filled the space. He clenched his jaw, debating whether to speak.
Then, as if reminding himself of the conversation we’d had, he chuckled lightly. “You know, you were the real yapper last night. You kept talking about everything and nothing, even with your eyes closed. Non-stop. Then we both crashed.”
Shit. That memory hit. I’d asked him to stay until I fell asleep. And he actually did. Might not like him, but... credit where it’s due.
“Not before you told me the most unoriginal bedtime story,” I retorted, crossing my arms and leaning back against the headboard. “And you were so close to singing.”
For a brief moment, we were almost comfortable. “Anyway, your friends are probably looking for you. Feel free to get the fuck out.”
He took a step back, hands still in his pockets, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. His lips twitched like he was holding back a smirk.
“Before I go,” he pulled something shiny from his pocket.
Oh, gosh.
Were those...condoms?!
He started walking back towards me. My eyes darted between his impassive, deadpan face and those strawberry-flavored protection in his grip. The closer he got, the more fight or flight kicked in, but my body refused to move. I could see his biceps flex and his knees sink on the mattress as he bent down.
Then he lifted the foils on my face.
“Electrolytes. You gave your stash to Vernon. Stay hydrated.”
I exhaled. Sharply.
Fuck. Off. Skyler.
“What are you, a walking pharmacy?” I snatched them from his surprisingly soft hands. Maybe I was just used to Shawn’s calloused grip. “Thanks. I’ll get your shirt cleaned.”
“No rush. You’re rocking my brand,” he got up from the bed. “And thanks, again, for keeping my guys in check last night. See you down at the beachfront.”
“Yeah, someone had to stop them from redecorating the bar floor,” I sat straighter. “See you around.”
Was that an invitation? And did I just say yes?
These electrolytes better work because suddenly I’m getting déjà vu—another perfectly composed guy with carefully chosen words.
Shawn.
The original alpha male blueprint. The swimmer who drowned in his own thoughts. The reason I impulsively jetted off to this island, hiding behind emotional walls.
So, Skyler, nice hero act, but these walls stay up. (But I’ll keep the shirt. Might come in handy. Totally not because it smells comforting or anything. Nope.)
