Page 4 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Happy to.
I’ve only met Stella once, but Britta, I haven’t stopped thinking about since the day I walked into her coffee shop.
“What’s put a smile on your dial?” Archie asks.
“Nothin’, mate.” I try to pull back my grin, but can’t. Not while I’m picturing Britta’s full, pouty lips, her blonde hair pulled back with a few locks falling in gentle waves to her jaw, and her eyes the turquoise color of the water around Whitsunday Islands. She’s going to be across the hall for the next six weeks. How about that?
It’s been three months since I spent a week in Paradise, Idaho, flirting with the local barista. It was fun, and I was careful not to let it get out of hand. Georgia had told me back then that she thought it was a good idea for Britta to take a long vacation herein LA, once the summer season ended in Paradise—if she could talk Britta into it.
I didn’t let myself think too much about the possibility because I sort of loved the brief flirtation we’d had being exactly that. I should have remembered that Georgia generally makes happen whatever she wants. As to what “keeping an eye on Britta” will actually look like, I’m going to have to sort that out later.
“Brekkie here?” I ask, waving toward our favorite spot for breakfast that’s coming up on the left.
“You’ll order the egg whites and veggie option?” Archie’s already turning into the car park, though, so he knows the answer. I’m rigid about nutrition during competition season, but he likes to boss me, anyway. “And we have to get it take away or we’ll be late.”
No sooner do we get in line than someone recognizes me, and Britta is pushed out of my mind completely. People are already arriving in San Clemente for the world title event next week, and I’m asked for more autographs than usual. I’m alright signing them, but Archie knows the attention is a distraction for me. People’s expectations get in my head, and I can’t afford to let that happen so close to competition.
Plus, I’ve got the photoshoot to do for a new wetsuit ad—hence why I’m headed back north toward LA to hit a different wave in Huntington Beach. I hate that modeling gear is part of my contract with my sponsor, but at least I’m actually getting paid. That wasn’t the case even ten years ago for young surfers coming up, including me. We got cut out of a lot of earnings.
The real money in surfing is in sponsorships. I’ve been surfing professionally since my teens, and in the early days I couldn’t cover entry fees or equipment and travel costs without a sponsor. Now that I get paid for wearing their brands, I can actually make a living, even without the prize money that comes from winning events.
But staying on the Championship Tour is key to keeping the big sponsors. On Tour, there are ten events per year—including the World Title event—but only thirty-six spots for men and eighteen for women. Halfway through the season, that number gets cut to twenty-four men and twelve women, based on the number of points each surfer has earned at the first five events. Doesn’t matter if you won the World Title Cup the year before. High points are the only thing that keeps you from being cut. And the five men and five women with the highest points at the end of the season compete in the final event for the World Title.
If you’re not winning, you’re not earning from events or sponsors. I’ve learned this from experience. I’ve made it to, then fallen off, the Championship Tour twice and been dropped by sponsors because of it. That, and my attitude. The only reason I’m on the Tour now is because I earned enough points last year from winning events in the Challenger Series to qualify to get bumped up to the 2024 Championship Tour.
People think surfing is all about being chill and riding waves, but at this level, there’s intense pressure to perform. I feel that pressure every day. So even though I’m smiling on the wave during my photoshoot, and even enjoying myself, there’s always a voice in my head making an old steam engine sound, chuggingkeep your focusover and over and over again.
It’s close to dinner by the time the photoshoot ends, and Archie and I get back to the van. I’m knackered and hungry, and neither of us is up for preparing a meal at home. We stop long enough to eat high protein salads at Organic Greens.
Between surfing for practice and getting back in the ocean as part of the photoshoot, I’ve spent most of the day in the water. My lips are chapped, my skin is pickled from the salt water and it’s the best feeling in the world. The only thing that could make it better is a stubby, but I’ve committed to stay away fromalcohol before events. And there’s always an event in surfing. I’ll have a celebratory beer after I win, but that’s it.
Archie, though, hasn’t given up beer. Since he’s had a few to wash down the salad I guilted him into eating, I drive back to our unit. As I pull into my parking spot, I notice a car with Idaho plates parked in Georgia’s old spot, and I can’t stop the grin that creeps across my face.
Britta’s here.
In my town this time. I wonder if she’d like to get a coffee.
“Is Georgia back?” Archie asks as he takes notice of the unfamiliar car in the spot that’s been empty for most of the year.
“It’s a relly of hers—her sister-in-law, Britta,” I say as casually as I can manage. “I met her when I visited Paradise. She’s the girl who made the ripper flat white.” I leave out the part that I left her with a Hollywood-worthy kiss any director would’ve been proud of.
“Ah, right. I’ve heard you mention her. What’s she doing here?”
“Finishing out Georgia’s lease.” Again, I’m super casual about this. But Archie sees right through it.
He peers at me once I’m parked in my spot. “You can’t afford to get distracted right now.” His voice is stern and paternal, and my glare tells him exactly what I think about his tone. He puts his hands up as though in surrender, but he’s not backing down. “Sorry, you’re paying me to coach you. I’m just doing my job. No grog. No girls. Those are your rules, mate.
I stare at Britta’s car as I consider his advice. “It’s not like that,” I finally say, because it isn’t. “We’re not even friends, really, just acquaintances.” Although, that doesn’t sound quite right. “She’s probably as exhausted as I am if she’s been driving all day,” I add, more for myself than for Archie.
I don’t miss Archie’s sigh of relief. “Let’s get the boards put away and I’ll get your yoga video set up. Then meditation and bed.Alone.”
“Got it, boss!” I salute Archie, who salutes me back with his middle finger. “Won’t hurt to take her some coffee in the morning, do ya think? Just to be neighborly,” I say as he shuts his door. I’m goading him, but also, I did promise I’d keep an eye on her.
Archie shakes his head while walking to our apartment. But he doesn’t say no. Wouldn’t matter if he did. He knows he can’t keep me away from Britta Thomsen if I decide I want to pursue something with her—whatever that might be. He’s my mate and my coach, but he’s not my keeper.
He also knows I’m not letting anything get in the way of winning the world title in a few days. Not even the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since the day I met her.
Chapter three
