Tides of Love

Chapter 4 - Must Remember: Never Give Up

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***

Then

This is it. This is my wave.

It's the women's final in California; against everyone's expectations, I've made it all the way into the top three. I'm bobbing up and down on the navy blue waves that I grew up surfing, on a brilliantly sunny day in front of a home crowd. I don't really do 'happy' – but this is about as good as it gets.

My two competitors are floating on either side of me. Petra is from Portugal, with olive skin and bronde hair. Marcy is surfing royalty, a longtime women's champion nearing retirement. Her long braids dangle around her shoulders as she monitors the waves.

Right now, the points are tied up, with Marcy ahead by the smallest margin. It's anyone's victory – which means that it's my victory. I can achieve anything I put my mind to. The win is there for the taking.

I have priority; I get to choose the next wave I want to ride, and the other two girls have to let me have it. I'm watching the clock – I don't want to run out of time, but I don't want to rush. I need to be smart. I am smart.

Then, I see it. It's perfect, a strong build, great lines. I know these breaks so well, I can tell this barrel will be flawless, a shining stage for me to dance upon. A thrill courses through me, electrifying my limbs. I see it already, at least a nine point wave, thrusting me into first place, untouchable, perfect.

I begin to paddle, my arms powering through the glossy surface of the water. I line my board up, feel the tipping point, leap to my feet and get ready to blow everyone away – even my family, who haven't even bothered to come down and watch me.

And then...

The wave buckles and vanishes, dumping me in white froth. And even before I swim to the surface, I know that it's all over.

I opt out of the awards ceremony – no trophies for third place, and I'll be dammed if I'm going to stand there and watch the others smile in triumphant joy, basking what should have been my victory. Instead, I go back to the hotel and head for the private gym.

No one uses this place. Surfing is a brutal full body workout, even on the best of days. People might hit the gym during the tour breaks, but right now, the studio is empty – just the way I like it. I crank angry music in my ears and get to work.

I run on the treadmill until my legs shake, then switch the rowing machine, yanking viciously on the handlebars. Still not enough. There's a punching bag hanging from the ceiling; I pull on a pair of gloves from the rack, trying not to think about how many strangers have sweated into their canvas depths. I raise my hands to my chin, eye the bag carefully, then let loose.

It. Feels. Amazing. Pure rage and disappointment pour out of me and into the bag. All the angst, the frustration at everything I couldn't control, it flickers along my arms like electricity, and I allow it to crackle and burn as I strike the bag again and again. I time my punches with the frenetic beat of the music in my ears, and the world falls away. Jab, cross, jab. Cross, jab, cross. Roundhouse. Roundhouse. Repeat.

As I throw my entire weight into my next punch, movement catches my eyes. I whip around to find Win leaning against the door frame, open lust on his face. "Hey, sis – what are you doing?"