Ripped

by Cassia Leo

  “I don’t care if you smoked a hundred joints, you’re taking this dog for a walk. I have to go to work.”

  She drops the leash onto Yuri’s chest and he sits bolt upright as she marches toward me. I’m standing near the front door, chancing glances at both of them as I pretend to be interested in the pictures on the wall, black frames displaying a montage of photos from when Yuri and Lena went to Japan last year to visit Yuri’s grandparents. Lena thought they were finally going to get married in Japan, like she always dreamed of, but Yuri changed his mind at the last minute, claiming he wanted to get married at home on a North Carolina beach instead.

  I don’t know what his problem is. Yuri and Lena are going on twelve years together. With all the arguing they’ve been doing lately, I think Yuri needs to man-up or Lena’s going to kick his ass to the curb.

  “Dude! Take him with you to the beach,” Yuri insists, holding out the leash to me.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I reply. “I don’t have time to walk your dog and pick up his shit. I’ve got a fucking competition to train for.”

  “Dude,” he says, putting his hands together. “I’m so stoned. I ate two fucking cannabis candy bars. That cannabis oil is no joke.”

  Lena narrows her eyes at him, then she snatches the leash out of his hands and clips it onto the dog’s collar without saying a word. Then she snatches her beach bag off the hat stand where it hangs.

  “Thank you, baby,” Yuri says, reaching for her waist, but she pushes him away.

  “Let’s go, Adam,” she says as she opens the door to their two-bedroom bungalow, letting in a soft summer breeze that holds the tiniest promise of brininess even though we’re three blocks from the ocean.

  “See you later, bro,” I say, nodding at Yuri.

  His eyebrows scrunch together over his bloodshot eyes. “Later, bro.”

  Lena is already out the fence and in front of the neighbor’s house by the time I close the front door behind me. I catch up to her on the corner and we stand there while Dioji pees on a stop sign.

  “He was supposed to close the shop today,” she says, her voice bitter as she runs her hand through her dark-brown hair. “Now I’m going to have to do it again. This is the third day in a row he’s been too stoned to do anything. I don’t know if I’m more worried or pissed.”

  “He’s probably just feeling a little down about not qualifying this year. I’m sure he’ll get over it soon,” I assure her as we head back to get in my truck.

  “He’d better get over it soon, or… I don’t know. I’m just anxious. I’ll call Frida and tell her to close the shop today. It will be fine.” She glances at me nervously, as if she’s said too much. “Enough about my stupid problems. How are you feeling after Tahiti? Did Edie loosen you up? How’s the hip? I watched the replays about a thousand times and it didn’t look like it was affecting you out there.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I say, opening the passenger door for her and the dog to get in, then I round the front of the truck and climb inside. “And I’m almost four thousand points ahead of Carlos Ferreira in the CT rankings now. Did you see that?”

  “Yeah, my phone’s been ringing off the hook with interview requests. Every time I’m in the shop, I’ve got kooks on me, asking how many lessons they have to buy to be as good as Adam Parker.” The huge grin on her face as I drive off toward the beach tells me she doesn’t mind the added attention a single bit.

  Lena began training me in January, almost nine months ago, when my old trainer, Remy Dufrense, up and moved to Florida without notice. He and his ex-wife got remarried and moved back in together. Lena was supposed to be my interim trainer until I found someone more qualified. Not that Lena isn’t qualified.

  She’s been surfing seventeen years and she and Yuri own a surf shop in Carolina Beach, where they also offer surf lessons. She’s been Yuri’s trainer ever since they’ve been together, and he’s made it to every World Surf League qualifying series for the past eleven years. But this year, he didn’t even qualify for that. Everyone knows that once you don’t qualify for a qualifier, you’re pretty much done. Like me, Yuri probably doesn’t want to consider the possibility that his surf career may be over at thirty-two years old.

  Once we find a parking spot, Lena grabs my Firewire and I grab my Channel Islands short board. When we’re on the beach, Dioji lies down on the warm sand and watches as Lena and I do some yoga and calisthenics before I head out on the water. When we’re done, she calls the shop to ask Frida to close up, but Yuri answers the phone, surprising both of us.

  “I thought you were too stoned to do anything,” Lena says, flashing a look of disgust in the direction of the phone in her hand, then she rolls her eyes and holds the phone out to me. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I take the phone and sigh because I know exactly what Yuri’s going to say. “What do you want?”

  He chuckles. “Hey, don’t take that tone with me. Just because you’re number one in the league doesn’t mean you can treat us little people like the turds we are.”

  “No. The answer is no.”

  “Ah, man. You didn’t even let me ask the question and you’re already shooting me down?”

  For the past few years, ever since Yuri and Lena opened up the surf shop, Yuri has been begging me to give him my first surfboard. It’s a custom board my uncle Mark made for me when I was eleven. I thought it looked cool, but I didn’t think I’d like surfing that much, until the first time I stood up on that board in the water. There was no feeling quite like it. Three years later, I entered my first surfing competition. Except for the two years I took off during college, I’ve been competing for sixteen years. That may seem like a lot to some, but it feels like a heartbeat to me.

  “I told you I’m not giving it to you,” I reply. “You can beg all you want, but when I’m old and gray and it’s time for Lindsay to start pushing me around in a wheelchair, I’m gonna turn Ripped into a hoverboard so I can ride around the nursing home in style.”

  Ripped is the name of my first surfboard. I named it that because Myles, my best friend who died at his first surfing competition, used to always say, “You ripped that shit up!” whenever I came back to shore after a good session. It’s the only surfboard I own that has a name.

  “You’re so full of shit, man,” Yuri replies, not buying my senior-citizen hoverboard story. “Come on! It’s just standing there in your workshop collecting dust. I’ll shine it up nice and put it up on the wall in the shop. It will attract a ton of visitors and it will be admired long after you retire.”

  “Who told you I’m retiring?”

  “You gotta retire at some point.”

  I sigh and hand the phone back to Lena. “I’m not talking about that board with him anymore.”

  She rolls her eyes. “He just won’t let it go,” she says, bringing the phone to her ear.

  She and Yuri talk for a few minutes about the shop, then Lena and I sit down to discuss the Tahiti event.

  “What was it like out there?” she asks, tucking the phone into her bright coral beach bag.

  Lena has a strong preference for the color coral. Maybe it’s because the name hearkens to coral reefs, which are the driving force behind some of the sweetest barreling reef waves in the world, like the ones at Pipeline, better known to most as the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. Whatever the reason, she’s usually wearing a coral shirt or shoes or swimsuit, which complement her golden tanned skin nicely.

  “I tried to land a backside air reverse on my first wave, in the first fucking round, and landed in the flats. Got spit right out the backside. Next ride, I snapped my board on a closeout beach break. But I didn’t let it rattle me. After that, I came out swinging from a really tight tube. I was completely blinded by the spit on that one. Hung in there on the closeout breaks, then I caught a couple of sweet barrels in the third round. Carved the shit out of that baby and ended the quarterfinal with that rodeo flip they replayed a billion times. No one could stop me after t
hat.”

  I try not to look too proud of myself, but I can’t help but smile as I talk about that ride. It was only my second time landing a rodeo flip in a competition. The roar from the crowd was righteous. But the adrenaline high that carried me through the rest of the heat, and on to win the final, made it all the more clear that I have to keep kicking ass and holding my ground as top seed. I can’t let anything stand in the way of clinching my first world championship.

  “No one’s going to stop you this year,” Lena assures me with a sparkling smile. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  I head out into the water to work on paddling for a while. Then I’ll take a break before I start working on the smaller breaks. The big barreling waves are definitely my strength, and the swell is about thirteen to sixteen feet right now at Carolina Beach, so it’s not bad. Early September is hurricane season on the East Coast, so the choppy water is bringing in some smaller waves mixed in with the bigger ones.

  I could have cleared even more points on those small breaks in Tahiti if I’d practiced a bit more on the smaller waves, instead of letting those pass by while waiting for the bigger ones. It would shock the hell out of everyone if I landed a 540 on a gnarly beach break, but that’s not going to happen.

  Four hours later, I trudge out of the water and head toward Lena. She stands up as I approach and hands me my towel. She holds my Rip Curl T-shirt as she waits for me to dry off.

  “You’re not coming up on the lip soon enough when you’re carving that 360. You need to get far down to the base of the wave and come up on that lip just a bit sooner,” she says, exchanging my T-shirt for the towel I just used to dry off.

  I pull on the shirt and shake my head. “I felt sluggish out there today. Maybe I need to change my diet.”

  “What did you eat today?” she says, reaching for my arm.

  I flinch a little and she laughs as she pulls a piece of grass off my arm. “I had cucumber salad and some yogurt with chia, but I think I’ll add a small smoothie with some almond butter or coconut oil next time to get me through. I’m fucking starving.”

  She bends over and digs around in her beach bag, coming up with an organic recovery bar loaded with carbs.

  I stuff it in my mouth, gobbling it down as if I’m in a race. “Still hungry.”

  “Wanna go to Surf House?”

  Surf House is by far my favorite restaurant in Carolina Beach. They have a ton of healthy seafood dishes, and they really strive for the farm-to-table approach, which suits my training diet of at least 95% whole foods and at least 60% raw. Plus, it’s nice when the chef loves you. Chef Rainier will make just about anything for me.

  I get a pang of guilt as I think of going to Surf House without Lindsay. Lena and I have gone out to eat plenty of times to get a quick bite—some sashimi with brown rice or my favorite paleo tacos at the new Asian fusion hole-in-the-wall down the street—but we’ve never gone to a nice restaurant like Surf House without Lindsay and Yuri. I’m not sure what prompted her to ask me to go there, but I’m sure it was probably just the first restaurant that popped into her head. She knows how much I love that place.

  I nod as I pick up both boards and she grabs Dioji’s leash so we can start heading back to the truck. “Yeah, let’s do Surf House.” I glance down at my sand-covered feet. “They’ll make us sit out on the patio, but that’s fine by me.”

  “The weather’s perfect for outside dining,” Lena says, taking the words out of my mouth.

  Once my surfboards are in the back of the truck and I’ve brushed as much sand as I can off my feet, I hop into the driver’s seat. My phone begins to vibrate in my hand as I’m about to put it in the cup holder. I look at the screen and my heart races a little when I see the caller ID: BAE-BAE.

  “What’s up, baby?” I say, glancing at Lena, but she’s staring out the passenger window.

  “Where are you? You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago to meet the electrician. I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Fuck!” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. It totally slipped my mind. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re still at the beach?”

  “We’re just leaving,” I reply. I don’t dare admit that I was about to go to dinner with Lena. “I have to drop Lena off and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  She sighs. “I’ll try to keep him here, but he’s already super annoyed.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “You’d think he’d be honored just to be standing in Adam Fucking Parker’s house.”

  I laugh, but just the way she says this makes my stomach flip. “I love you, bae.”

  “Love you more. Now hurry up and get your butt over here. If this guy doesn’t fix the wiring issue in Mila’s room, she’ll have to sleep with us again tonight. And I’m in the mood, if you know what I mean.”

  I can just imagine her wiggling her eyebrows. God, I love that woman.

  I want to talk dirty to her, to get her even more in the mood, but I can’t do that in front of Lena. “I’ll be there soon.”

  I end the call feeling both excited and a bit guilty that I was about to miss the electrician and possibly hurt Lindsay’s feelings by having dinner with Lena at Surf House. It’s not as if there’s anything between Lena and me, but there are subtle rules and blurry lines that can be crossed in a marriage. Now that I’ve spoken to Lindsay, I’m pretty certain she just saved me from crossing that line.

  Four

  I wake with my heart racing. This hasn’t happened to me in a long time, and I know exactly what brought it on: the prospect of having my last win taken away from me by the judges rescoring the Tahiti semifinal. Even the sight of Mila and Lindsay snuggled peacefully in the bed next to me does nothing to calm my nerves. I brush the hair away from Mila’s face and kiss her forehead, but it’s Lindsay who opens her eyes.

  “You have a text message,” she says groggily. “I heard your phone go off a few minutes ago.”

  She wraps her arm around Mila and closes her eyes, seemingly falling back to sleep within seconds. I turn over and retrieve the phone from the top of the bedside table, only to find it’s 6:23 a.m. and I have six new text messages. This has to be about the Tahiti scores.

  I tiptoe into the bathroom to take my morning piss while I check the messages. One is from Lena and the other five are from Hank Langley, one of the five judges at the Tahiti event. I check Hank’s messages first, starting with his fifth text, and my heart sinks like a stone.

  Hank: Sorry about the adjustment. I strongly believe you’ll still pull this one out.

  I don’t have to read the other four messages from Hank to know what they’re about. I read Lena’s message next and I actually manage a smile.

  Lena: Fuck Hank. Fuck Carlos. Fuck them all. You’re still #1 and no one can stop you. See you at 8.

  Judging by both of those text messages, I guess that Carlos Ferreira moved within striking distance of me in the CT rankings, but I’m still the number-one seed. That means I’ll have to work even harder than ever to make sure he doesn’t gain on me at the Trestles event in nine days. I can do this.

  By the time I’m dressed in my board shorts and rash guard and have my chia pudding ready to go, Lindsay and Mila join me downstairs in the kitchen. I scoop Mila up and set her down on the kitchen counter as I offer her a spoonful of pudding.

  She turns up her nose. “Yuck. It’s slimy.”

  I shake my head as I finish my banana almond butter chia concoction and set my bowl in the sink. “You want to go to the beach with me today, baby?” I ask Mila and she beams as she nods at me.

  “Don’t get her hopes up like that,” Lindsay says, grabbing Mila off the counter and setting her down on the floor. “I have stuff to do around the house. We can’t go to the beach today.”

  “Why not?” I argue. “What do you have to do that’s so important you can’t come to the beach and support your old man?”

  Lindsay hands Mila a slice of apple as she starts preparing some apple cinnamon oatmea
l. “Kaia and I are going school shopping. And don’t forget you have to be home in time for Kaia’s orientation night at her new school. It starts at six, so make sure you give yourself time to shower first.”

  I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist as I nuzzle my face in her neck. “Are you saying I stink when I come home from the beach?” I murmur in her ear and she smiles as she squirms in my arms.

  “If you think seaweed smells good, then by all means, please go straight from the beach to the school.”

  I rub my hand over her swollen belly. “You know I love the smell of seaweed, but I’ll be home in time to take a shower.” I skim the tip of my nose along the shell of her ear. “They recalculated the scores for Tahiti and Carlos Ferreira is just 500 points under me now.”

  She dumps the oatmeal and diced apples into the pot of hot coconut milk on the stove, twisting out of my grasp so she can reach into the cupboard for some bowls. “Adam, you’ll be fine. Carlos is just a poser.”

  My mouth drops at this reply. “You can’t seriously believe that. Carlos has consistently ranked in the top ten for the past six years. I’ve only been top ten for two of the last three years. He deserves to be up there as much as I do.”

  “Whatever,” she replies as she spins around to grab a wooden spoon out of the drawer. “Can you wake Kaia up on your way out?”

  I sigh as I realize she’s too distracted to take this conversation seriously. “Yeah, I’ll see you later. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” she replies automatically as she begins stirring the oatmeal in the pot.

  I knock on Kaia’s door to wake her before I leave for the beach, but she doesn’t answer.

  “I’m in here, Dad!” she shouts through the closed bathroom door across the hall.

  “Go downstairs and have breakfast. I’ll be back later, baby.”

  “Bye, Dad!” she calls back to me.

  I leave the house in a bit of a daze, wondering if my anxiety over possibly being overtaken by Carlos at Trestles is warranted. Everyone seems to have complete faith that I’m going to pull out this victory, but there are four events left in this tour. This is still anyone’s game, especially now that the scores have been recalculated and Carlos is just 500 points away from unseating me.