“You talk to me like it’s my first day surfing.” Ilias smirked.
“Just focus. Steven’s a piece of shit, and you need to destroy him,” Amira muttered under her breath.
“It will be done.”
As the announcer called him out to the beach, he made his way through the crowd. Steven was already there, a blond mop of hair plastered back from the wind, failing to hide that high hairline he so desperately tried to pretend wasn’t there.
“Ríos,” Steven acknowledged him, smile wide.
“Asshole.”
Steven rolled his eyes. “Still bitter about your sister? We were done. No hard feelings.”
“For you, maybe,” Ilias shot back, before launching his board into the surf and hopping on, paddling toward the jet ski that would take them past the impact zone.
Usually, Ilias was a good sport. He loved healthy competition. But Steven had broken Amira’s heart. And that was unforgivable.
Sure, maybe Ilias had broken a few hearts in the past. But he’d grown out of that. Steven? Still a walking red flag. A couple years younger, and somehow even more immature.
At the lineup, Ilias paddled a few meters away from Steven. He needed space, room to breathe, room to read the ocean, to anticipate what it might throw at him. He dipped his hand in the water, feeling the chill and the pull of the current. Every wave was a puzzle, and every swell a potential mistake or triumph.
The horn blared. The countdown was on. Thirty minutes to impress, thirty minutes to make it count.
He scanned the horizon, eyes trained on the swell. A clean wave was forming, its shape perfect, a rolling wall of water that promised speed and flow. He angled his board, paddled hard, muscles burning, arms cutting through the water like knives. The wave caught him.
As Coach had predicted, no barrels this time. Just smooth carves, edges kissing the wave as he traced it perfectly. He felt the rhythm, felt the ocean’s heartbeat syncing with his own. And then, the moment: a flawless air flip. Time seemed to slow. He rotated midair, eyes locked on the water below, and landed clean.
A rush of satisfaction hit him, the kind that didn’t need a crowd, a score, or approval. It was just him, the board, the wave, and the pure, electric joy of knowing he’d done it right.
Paddling back to the lineup, he spotted Steven dropping into the next wave. One lazy maneuver near the end. The crowd on the beach erupted, but from Ilias’s angle, it looked sloppy, hesitant, lacking conviction.
He flexed his shoulders, feeling the burn, but smiled internally. This was his element. This was his game.
Scores rolled in.
8.4 for Ilias.
7.6 for Steven.
Good.
“You stole my wave earlier,” Steven accused, voice sharp over the roar of the ocean.
Ilias ignored him, paddling away, eyes scanning the horizon. Waves rolled and curled like living creatures. Fifteen minutes in, he hadn’t moved much, waiting, reading, anticipating. Patience was part of the game. Every second counted.
And then the perfect wave came.
He angled his board, paddled hard, feeling the power of the swell lift him. A clean sequence of carves, smooth and precise, each turn echoing his years on the water. Then, he launched into a flawless 360. Time stretched; the wind cut past his ears, water spray stung his face, and when he landed, he felt the surge of the wave beneath him.
Surfacing, the grin on his face was feral. This heat? It was his.
Score: 9.0.
Steven dropped into the next wave and failed spectacularly. Faceplanted, his board slicing through the whitewater.
The ocean had made its choice.
Score: 4.0.
