“I’ll try my best,” Amira beamed, then wiggled her eyebrows. “Did you see Mr. Superman?”
Alejandra groaned.
“Even though he cut his hair... does he still qualify for the title?” Amira asked, mock serious.
“Did everyone know he was coming?” Alejandra muttered, grabbing a beer the bartender at the Athlete Zone handed her.
“Except you? Yep,” Amira grinned. “Did you talk to him, then?”
“Yeah. We’re meeting after this.” She tried to sound chill, like it was not the most exciting thing that had happened to her in months.
Her heart was still hammering from earlier. The way his blue eyes had locked with hers had sent all kinds of signals through her body—most of them illegal in public.
Amira clapped. “Ilias! Did you hear Ale?”
Alejandra rolled her eyes as Ilias walked over, fresh from the water. His dark curls clung to his forehead, dripping wet.
“What?”
“She’s going on a date with Callum!” Amira squealed.
“Yeah!” Ilias pumped his fist. “Team Cale is back in action!”
“¿Qué?” Alejandra scowled. “Teamwhatnow?”
“Team Cale. Callum and Ale,” Ilias said proudly. “I came up with it.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Alejandra groaned. “And we’re not going on a date. We’re just meeting. Catching up.”
“Sure,” the Ríos El Idrissi siblings said in unison, sharing a look.
She shook her head in disbelief—and maybe a little annoyance—when someone called her name.
Mick “Frosty” Turner. The surfing legend, in his fifties now, approached her with a kind smile. She’d met him a few times over the years, and he’d always been a steady, encouraging presence in the surf community.
“I’m glad to see you recovered,” Mick said, his British accent still crisp after years of traveling the world.
She’d once heard that people who kept their accents after living abroad were more rooted to who they were. People who lost theirs were, apparently, shedding pieces of themselves. And since hers still carried the Andalusian melody, she somehow believed home was still in that corner of the world where surf had first met her. And Mick Turner, looking like the stereotypical surfer in his fifties still wearing baggy pants and sweaters, still carried that posh British accent that somehow clashed with his appearance.
“That wipeout was brutal,” he continued.
“Yeah.”
“You’re alive. That’s what matters,” he said, patting her right shoulder gently.
She nodded. Because what else was there to say?
“What did the doctors say?”
In the surf community, he was a legend. Since he had retired, he had kept training some surfers. Edward, her ex, was one of them. But somehow, even though the competition required distance, Mick always looked out for the younger surfers. Everyone respected him.
“Up to a year,” she said. “It was worse than they expected.”
“You’ll come back from it, Ale. You’re tough. You’re meant to be in the ocean,” he said with a soft smile, wrinkles forming at the corner of his blue eyes.
She clenched her jaw. “Yeah. I’ll come back.”
“You’ve been lucky until now to not have had any big injury. It’s how you face this one that will prove how strong you really are, Alejandra,” Mick reminded her. “Take this time as a way to prepare mentally for your comeback.”
