Elliot’s jaw tightened, an expression I rarely saw from him. Elliot was aggressively laid-back. He was the quintessential California surfer—seeing him tense was like seeing a golden retriever growl. Always technically possible, but deeply unsettling when it happened.
“It’s RipTide.”
“RipTide the energy drink?”
“RipTide the energy drink…and their guy. Their whole comeback tour thing.”
He saidcomeback tourlike most people saidtax audit.
“Chase Perez.”
The name didn’t mean anything to me, which was apparently highly offensive to Elliot.
“El Tiburón? You seriously don’t—he’s been all over everything for like five years. Big-wave surfer. Total showboat. You know the type—more Instagram followers than actual talent.” He scoffed. “Okay, that’s not fair. He’s got talent. I hate that he’s got talent, but he does,” he grumbled, shaking his head.
“You sound a little obsessed with him,” I teased, but he didn’t hit me with a return volley, which worried me. “So what’s the problem?”
Elliot’s fingers drummed harder on the counter.
“Three years ago, there was a storm swell off the coast of Portugal. World-record stuff the big-wave guys live for. But the government had the whole stretch shut down because conditions were genuinely dangerous. Well, more dangerous than normal.
“Perez decides he’s going to surf it anyway. But not just surf it—film it. The whole thing was supposed to be this viral moment, right? Him and his crew, charging a closed beach during a storm, conquering nature, whatever garbage sells energy drinks to teenagers. He convinced his whole team to go. Including this guy, Marcus Webb. His best friend. They’d come up together, competed together, the whole deal.”
I leaned against the counter. I didn’t know where this was going, but I knew the tightness in Elliot’s voice. He was talking about the ocean being disrespected, which, for a guy who’d dedicated his career to cleaning up the damage humans did to marine life, was about as personal as it got.
“The footage was apparently insane. Massive swells, forty-foot faces, footage that would break the internet. And it did break the internet,just not how Perez planned.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, getting little water droplets everywhere.
“Marcus took a wave wrong. Got dragged across the bottom. Shattered his collarbone, punctured a lung, nearly drowned before he got pulled out. The rescue was on every news channel by morning.”
“Jesus.”
“Marcus survived. Spent three months in intensive care. Never surfed competitively again.”
Elliot’s voice was flat now, which only happened when he was furious, something I only saw when he pulled a seabird out of a six-pack ring or cut fishing line from a seal’s fin. It was a quiet fury at people who treated the ocean as if it existed for their entertainment.
“And Perez? Perez walked away with a world record and not a scratch on him. Lost some sponsors, laid low for a bit, did the whole ‘I’ve learned from my mistakes’ press tour. And now he’s back, bigger than ever, with a sponsor who loves his ‘bad boy’ image.”
He made air quotes around “bad boy” with an impressive amount of aggression.
“Because apparently nearly getting your best friend killed is just branding now.”
I was quiet for a moment. Outside, people were drifting onto my beach, too many towels and not enough sunscreen in hand.
“And that’s who’s coming here,” I said.
“That’s who your mom invited here.”
I don’t think Elliot knew how much that statement upset me.
“The thing that gets me,” Elliot continued, lower now, turning his empty smoothie cup in slow circles on the counter, “is that the whole thing happened because one guy decided the rules didn’t apply to him. That the ocean was his playground. That likes mattered more than people.” He met my gaze. “And now he’s coming here with a corporate sponsor to take over our beach. For content.”
Our beach.
He’d saidour.
Because it was.
