“Oooh, somebody sees something appealing down there. Which one?” Amber leans in to look over my shoulder.
“I used to … date … the guy in the red shorts.” I point down at Dave.
“Oh, Mr. Davis Fox. Gawd, that’s an apt name.” Amber gives a low growl. “Nice. Too bad about the ‘used to’ bit.”
“Yeah.” Too fucking bad.
“I think I prefer the guy in the checkered shorts.” She points at one of the other riders, a guy with long hair and a goatee. “I always had a thing for facial hair.”
“Yeah, that can be nice,” I agree. “If you don’t mind a little beard burn on your ass.”
“Dammit, Ben, that’s way too much information.” Tina slaps me across the back of my head. “Besides, women get beard rash on the thighs, usually.”
“Oh no, you want to ‘girl talk’ with this gay guy, you get to hear about rimming. Sorry, babe. You want to stick to kisses and ogling six-packs, you find yourself another pet homosexual.”
“Lesbians don’t have pet homosexuals.”
Their voices are like motherfucking stereo.
I look at Amber, who shrugs. “Technically bisexual, but whatever. You old people are so black and white.”
I’m gawking, because she’s just echoed Dave. Am I too black and white?
“Earth to Ben,” Amber intoned. “You still with us?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“They’re taking the first boat out. You and I are up.”
I take one last peek down at the competition area and see Dave looking at the booth. He gives me a tight nod and that lump in my throat is about to take over the world. I wave, just once, and he turns away.
And the tournament begins. I’ve actually done this kind of gig before, especially right after the accident, when there was still hope I’d ride again. Eddie tried to get me hooked up with a regular job with the Extreme Sports Channel, but they’re European and I’m … well, I needed the support close to home.
So there’s a sense of déjà vu as Amber and I introduce ourselves to the crowd. She gives a brief history of the event, and then I explain to those watching how the rules work: each rider rides the length of the competition area three times, performing appropriate tricks for their entry class. The judges give points for style and skill, and deduct points for falls. There are obstacles available to trick off of in the advanced and professional classes, but not for beginners or intermediates.
I’m thankful for that. I’d probably have a heart attack if I had to watch Dave slide the length of a rail.
The first rider in the boat is the guy in the checkered shorts. He does a few simple tricks, some nice grabs, and he gets a decent score from the judges. A solid show for a beginner.
Dave goes next, and watching him, I feel like my heart is too big for my chest. I run briefly through his bio for the audience, including the fact that he began riding just two months ago.
If you get up in the next sixteen pulls, I’ll take you out for dinner.
Dave’s first trick is a heelside three sixty, probably the toughest trick in his arsenal—he sure as hell hadn’t been doing it a month ago. He doesn’t grab it, but could have. Playing it a little safe, he does a few wake-to-wake jumps with grabs, which we’d been working on when he fired me —broke up with me. While I’m describing the tricks and the difficulty to the audience, Amber interjects comments and I try not to burst with pride.
The boat goes to make its first turn, and I see him cutting hard to catch the double-up.
My knuckles are white around the microphone. I try to loosen my grip, but it’s Dave out there riding toward that monster wake as if it owes him something.
He’s launched into the air, and I don’t know what I expect, but it ain’t a Tantrum. Eddie and Ridley really have been coaching him. And, as I give the audience a brief history of the trick, I have to admit they’ve coached him better. I would have made him play it safer. And I wouldn’t have taught him any inverts. A Tantrum is the only invert the judges will allow in the beginner class, and lucky for him, he lands it solidly. He’s had two big tricks now, which is pretty damned impressive.
Then Dave falls on a simple wake-to-wake with a nose grab. The crowd gasps at the drama, but Dave gives a wave to let them know he’s all right. He glances up at me, and I see a mix of emotions on his face: excitement and joy, for sure. Maybe a little wistfulness.
I remind the crowd that points are deducted for falls and his face hardens with determination. Attaboy.
Back upright, he attacks his next jumps, adding more style to his grabs and turning a one eighty.
The crowd is cheering for him loudly now: the fall made him an underdog in their eyes.
The boat begins its second turn, and Dave cuts at the wake in switch position—his nondominant foot forward.
I explain riding in switch to the crowd, how it makes the trick more difficult, but since he landed in switch after the one eighty, he has no choice but to perform his next trick in this position.
The crowd quiets.
Dave hits the double-up and it launches him into the air. He grabs the board, tweaks it hard, turns it, and lands a gorgeous one eighty.
My voice is on autopilot, naming the grab, describing the perfection of his landing, and predicting a stand on the podium for Dave. Amber interjects there are still three riders left in the beginner class, and not to count them out just yet. But as Dave climbs back into the boat to hugs and backslaps from the other riders, I know no one on that boat can compare to him.
Amber titters next to me.
Did I say that out loud?
Amber takes over the commentary. “Well, Davis Fox is certainly a crowd favorite, and even our tournament legend, Ben Warren, seems quite taken with his performance. Congratulations, Davis, on an excellent ride.”
He looks up at me and grins. It’s fleeting—he turns away as quickly as he turned toward me, but I see it, a flash of dimples in a flushed, freckled face.
In the end, one rider does overtake Dave—by doing most of the same tricks and not falling—but Dave remained the crowd favorite when the boat returned to drop the beginner-class riders back on dry land.
While the intermediate class gets ready, I turn off my mic.
“Your boy did great,” Tina observes. “Good job coaching the kid from nothing to a three sixty in two months. Damned impressive, Ben.”
“Thanks, Tina.”
“You should go congratulate him. You have time.” Amber pointed at her watch.
I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“That look he gave you when you said no one else on the boat compared to him? Oh, he wants to talk all right.”
Damn, I apparently did say it out loud.
The intermediate class competition is a little more of everything: more riders, more risks, more drama, more falls. More air, more rotations, bigger inverts. One kid even does an Air Raley. I explain to the crowd that the Raley is one of the bigger tricks allowed in the intermediate competition.
To no one’s surprise, the kid who pulled the Raley wins the class.
The main difference between the advanced amateur competition and the professional competition is money. The pros are sponsored, and they are eligible to win the prize purse for the event. The amateurs are simply eligible to be noticed by the sponsors.
The advanced competition is the smallest class, only three riders, so it’s known from the beginning all three will stand on the podium. It’s just a question of who will stand in which position. I introduce the riders and the audience gasps and applauds in the appropriate places, but I get the feeling they’re as eager as I am to see the pros ride. In the end, the riders take the podium in the order they rode.
The professional class is the biggest. Lots of out-of-towners competing, including big names from Orlando. Two of them were up-and-comers when I was still on the circuit, and now they’re the last old guard, retirements announced at the end of the season. Amber conv
eys the town of Lake Lovelace’s best wishes.
And then there’s Ridley. I start to give his introduction but come up short. A couple of lines have been added. Holy shit. Eddie’s poking a hornet’s nest with this one. How the hell did he even …? I glance at the stands where Rodney Romeo and his wife—I can’t think of her as Dave’s mom—are sitting. I clear my throat and look back down at my cue card.
“Thirteen-year-old Ridley Romeo, in addition to being a local competitor, is also the youngest pro competing today, sponsored by Russell Marina and Legend Wakeboards.”
Ridley waves to the crowd, who roar in enthusiastic response. With the exception of two. I can’t help it; I risk another glance at the Romeos in the stands. Rodney has his phone out and is glaring at it as he dials, and Mrs. Romeo is clutching his arm and saying something right into his ear.
I hear a brief commotion behind me as I move on to the next introduction, Elvis whining and Tina taking him out of the booth with a hurried “I’ll call you tomorrow, Ben.”
As I finish giving the bios, Amber starts her commentary, nodding her head to indicate I look behind me.
Dave.
I switch off my mic.
“What are you doing?” I don’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but he flinches as if I slapped him.
“Do you mind if I watch Ridley ride from here? I won’t get in your way.” He glances at his size twelves. “But I understand if …”
“Sit.” I wave at the seat Tina just vacated. A wave of emotion rolls over me. I have no idea where to start.
Amber rolls her eyes at me and gives an encouraging nod.
“Congratulations, Dave,” I manage to squeak out.
“Thanks.” He flashes his dimples. Christ, what this guy does to me. That smile still makes me want him.
“Now I just gotta hold it together for the double-up contest. I’m going to attempt a Raley.”
“You’re what?” My heart pounds in my chest.
“You know, the Superman move? Ridley taught me. I landed one last week.”
“I know what a Raley is.”
He just grins. Bastard.
I’m not his coach, and I’m not his boyfriend. Damn. A sharp, tight pain flares across my chest, and I scrub a hand over my eyes. It’s not my place to judge his choices. I take a deep breath, and the tightness subsides. “Well, good luck.”
“Thank you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I feel antsy to keep the conversation going.
“I gotta know … how did Eddie get your mom and stepdad to sign the sponsorship papers? Ridley’s a minor; he can’t enter into that contract himself.”
“Mom signed them because Ridley handed them to her and told her he needed a signature. He knew she wouldn’t actually read them. She never did.”
“I bet Rodney’s pissed.”
“Considering he didn’t find out until just now, I imagine so.” Dimples flash in his cheeks, and then he gets serious. “Ben, Eddie told me about your appointment last week. I’m really glad to hear you’re thinking about the surgery.”
But not like it makes any difference, right?
“It would have been better if I’d done it ten years ago.” I pinch the skin at the top of my nose. I can’t believe I’m telling him this, but now that it’s over between us, there’s no point in keeping it to myself. “The risks for permanent nerve damage, loss of mobility, they’re higher. I haven’t decided if it’s worth it.”
“What are your other options?”
“The surgeon was pretty adamant I give up this.” I wave at the lake below us. “No wakeboarding. No more flying. I guess even Peter Pan has to grow up sometime.”
“I’m sorry, Ben.”
I glance up to meet his eyes, and I’m surprised to see him biting his lip like he’s trying to keep it from trembling. He sniffs and looks away just as Amber gestures for me to switch my mic back on, and she begins the intro as the boat heads to the start line.
“The three favorites to place today are Colby Elkins from Orlando, Florida; Garrett Schafly of Marietta, Georgia; and our own hometown sensation, Ridley Romeo.”
The crowd roars and chants Ridley’s name. Dave’s pride shines out of him like brotherly sunshine.
“Ben, can you tell us a bit about each rider’s strengths? As an X Games silver medalist, you’re no stranger to competition. What do they need to do to land on that podium?”
“First, Amber, they need to land on the water. Colby lives in Orlando, where there’s a cable park, and he’s a master at rail tricks—he’s going to be able to do stunts on the obstacles that no one else in this group can manage. His big air moves are a little weaker. He’ll plan to use the rails to rack up points.
“Meanwhile, Garrett is a solid, experienced rider. He gets big air and consistently nails his landings. He’s not the flashiest rider on the circuit, but he can spin like few others. Rumor has it, we might see a seven twenty or even nine hundred out of him today. It’s worth noting that no one has ever landed a nine hundred in competition on Lake Lovelace.
“Lastly, we have Ridley Romeo, the hometown boy and crowd favorite. He’s got a unique style and a flair for drama, but he doesn’t over risk—make no mistake, Ridley Romeo lands his jumps. If I had to give Ridley one advantage over the others, it would be the hometown support. Ridley has family and friends here to cheer him on, and knowing you’re loved can make any man fly.”
“Thank you, Ben, that was very poetic.” Amber winks at me and pats my knee. “Well, it looks like the first rider is about to take the rope. Good luck to all the pros today.”
The air crackles with competitive energy. As we watch the first rider pulling on his vest and helmet, my nerves twinge in empathy.
The first three riders are all solid pros and they deliver fine, if slightly dry, performances. Ridley rides fourth. When Amber says his name, the crowd goes balls-out crazy.
Ridley’s first trick is a huge five forty, grabbed and tweaked before and after the handle pass.
“Romeo is showing his dramatic style right off the dock. You’ll notice his riding is really clean and controlled.”
As the boat makes its first turn, he cuts toward the double-up.
“He’s doing a Whirlybird here,” Dave whispers behind me. I feel him right at my back, looking over my shoulder.
Ridley throws himself into the trick, a combination of an invert and a spin, with utter abandon.
“What makes the Whirlybird so beautiful is the way the handle is held overhead through the rotation rather than passed behind the back. Now Ridley just took it a half rotation farther to make it a five forty. I think he’s throwing down the gauntlet to Garrett Schafly.”
I laugh—I can’t help it. His plans are the same as mine would have been if I’d been riding first among my rivals—throw them off their game by attacking their strong spots.
Ridley approaches the rail with his back to it, ollies up, sliding on his toeside edge, his butt sticking out toward the boat. He’s quite literally showing his ass to Colby Elkins. Halfway down the length of the rail, he switches his position so he’s sliding on the tail of his board, then he ollies down.
“That’s why you wanted me to learn a backside slide,” Dave mutters behind me. I grin over my shoulder. It’s a useful fucking skill.
The boat goes into the second turn, Ridley’s second double-up.
He launches into the air and starts to twist his body, hands behind his back, passing the handle. I count rotations—one, two, half, and landed.
“Nine hundred degrees. The kid is thirteen years old and just landed it like it was nothing. Ladies and gentlemen, Ridley Romeo has made Lake Lovelace Tournament history by landing the first nine hundred degree rotation in this tournament.”
The crowd in the stands are on their feet and screaming.
Tears sting my eyes as Ridley waves to the crowd. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest with pride. Behind me, Dave shouts his brother’s name and pumps his
fists in the air. Ridley waves up at us. He’s losing precious time by not doing more tricks, but he’s made his point. He’s made history.
As he climbs into the boat, the other guys clap him on the back and hug him. Professional jealousy aside, his ride was a thing of beauty and everyone can appreciate that.
In the end, Colby takes second and Garrett takes third after crashing his own attempt at a nine hundred.
Amber and I switch off our mics, and I turn to Dave.
“Time for you to go back down there for the double-up contest,” I nudge.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Can I talk to you for a minute, alone?”
I have time, so I follow him out of the booth, crossing my arms over my chest so he can’t see my hands shaking. “What’s up?”
“Two things. The surgery—am I any part of your reason for considering it?”
Is he? I shake my head. “No. If I do it, I’m going to do it for myself.”
He smiles at me then. “What you said back there, about Ridley. When you said knowing he’s loved can make any man fly? Did you mean it?”
“Yeah.” I blush and look down. It was a really fucking dramatic speech from me. But I meant it. That was how he’d made me feel, before.
He tilts my chin up with one hand, like a lover would, forcing me to meet his gaze. It’s such a dominant, claiming gesture; it brings tears to my eyes.
“Am I?” His brown eyes are intense, staring right into mine.
“Are you what?” I whisper.
“Loved?”
Even prickling with embarrassment at being put on the spot, I can’t lie. In the past weeks, I’ve gone from heartbroken to angry to resigned, but I didn’t for one minute stop wanting him or loving him.
I nod. “Yeah.”
His lips come down on mine hard and rough, but his hands on my face are gentle. He angles my head and his tongue steals inside my mouth to tangle with my own in an elating rush of give and take. My insides turn soft and wanting, and I gasp into his mouth.
He pulls back. “You are too. I’m sorry, Ben. I fucked up. I need to go fly. Be here when I get back, okay? Because even if you never ride a board again, you deserve to fly too.”
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