“Great,” Sofia said as she turned back to her gear. “And you’re paying.”
The trio blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then nodded after sharing glances, trying to hide their surprise.
If they wanted answers, the least they could do was buy her dinner. Her Ligurian blood proudly acknowledged her saving money.
40
ILIAS
Soldi - Mahmood
Not havingSofia around had made him miserable. As much as he wanted to focus on Trestles, to train, to win, his mind kept drifting back to her. To how it finally felt to hug her, kiss her, and call her his for real. It had taken her time, almost enough to make him lose his shit and his self-control, but he was glad he’d respected her timeline. Glad he’d waited.
As he walked into the Athlete Zone for a last training session before the tour started the next day, his phone rang. His mother. They hadn’t spoken in a long time.
He answered with a smile. “Salam, Mama.”
And the first thing she said was, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend? Had to hear it from Mariloli?”
“Who’s Mariloli?” he asked, grinning, fully aware she was about to get annoyed.
“Ilias Ríos El Idrissi, don’t make fun of me.” Fast, sharp, irritated. He knew exactly where he got that part of his personality.
“I’m not, Mama,” he said, still smiling. “So… what do you want to know?”
“Who is she? Where is she from? You know I don’t have social media. I can’t check these things. Your sister told me to ask you. She wasn’t going to snitch.”
His mother sounded pissed, understandably. He hadn’t told her about Sofia because she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Now that Sofia was truly his girlfriend, he could tell her without guilt. He was a terrible liar. His mother was the best lie detector he had ever met.
“Her name is Sofia. We met in Ericeira a couple months ago. She’s a marine biologist, very smart, and runs her own business. She’s funny, hot, and my girlfriend since then.”
“Where is she from?”
“She’s Italian and Spanish.”
“Ah,” his mother said, unexpectedly thoughtful. “So she’s culturally mixed like you. It’s good for you. Someone who understands.”
“Not feeling at home anywhere? Too Spanish to be Moroccan, too Moroccan to be Spanish? Yeah… she gets it.”
He could feel her scrunching her nose through the phone. “You say it like it’s something bad, being a citizen of the world.”
“I love it, Mama. But you know it wasn’t easy growing up as the Moroccan kid in a Spanish school. And down in Morocco, they call me the Spanish kiddo. So yeah…”
Having two passports, two cultures, two identities… it had never been simple. Kids had mocked him for being African, even though he felt as European as they were. Later, choosing which country to represent in competition had nearly broken him, until Amira and his mother reminded him that Spain hadn’t taughthim to surf. Morocco had. Azul had. So he’d chosen the country that shaped his journey.
“So, she’s good for you?” his mother asked, shifting the topic as she always did when he veered toward self-pity. His mother never indulged in it. She either shoved him out of it or sidestepped entirely.
“She’s very good for me,” he said. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Did you call just to gossip about my love life?”
“A mother can’t call her son?” she demanded, offended.
“Yes, she can. But you, Mama, you tend to ignore us when we’re on tour.”
“You make me sound like a terrible mother.”
