Authors: Anna Cruise
THREE
Heath Williams was waiting for me.
I'd pushed past the throngs of spectators, several thrusting pen and paper at me, asking for an autograph. I ignored them, focusing instead on crossing the sand as quickly as possible. I was anxious to get done whatever I needed to do. Not because I wanted to get back in the water or mingle with fans and the press, but because I didn't want any shit hanging over me. Not then, when the adrenaline from the heat was gone and the uneasiness settled back in, the uneasiness and restlessness I'd lived with for months.
The tent was positioned twenty or so yards up the beach. Reporters and film crew milled out front, along with more hotties in skimpy bikinis than I could count. They smiled at me, shouted my name. I ignored them, too, keeping my eyes down. A security guard was stationed at the entrance, checking passes. He nodded at me and stepped aside to let me in.
Heath smiled at me from inside the tent, an over-bright smile that instantly had me wary. As my manager, it was his job to represent me, to look out for my best interests. Sometimes, though, he seemed to forget who he was working for.
He slapped me on my back, hugging me to his side. The smell of his aftershave clogged my nostrils and I nudged him away a little.
“Great job out there, man,” he gushed. His sandy hair was styled and gelled and I got a whiff of that, too. “You really sliced up those waves.”
I just stared at him. He was my manager/agent but it didn't mean he understood shit about surfing. The other guys out there? They'd hired friends, old washed-up surfers to help manage their careers. Me? I'd gone for a real agent. What Heath didn't know about surfing he made up for in scoring endorsements. Big ones. He knew how to spin me, knew how to wring the most money out of the companies salivating for a piece of me. He'd had his minions do the grunt work—scouring magazines for my picture to send in to my sponsors, shit like that—when I was just drifting along as a mid-level surfer. He'd spent his time figuring out tours and finding ways to milk more money for himself. And me. Because that's what I'd hired him to do. Make me money. Period.
And it had paid off. When I hit it big, he hit it big with me.
“What's going on?” I asked, glancing around. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, just people going about their jobs, making sure the competition went off as smoothly as it could. This was where the real action was, where people worked to make the event seem smooth and seamless when it was anything but.
He motioned to a corner of the tent. A couple of suits stood near one of the tables, papers and brochures spread out in front of them. I eyed them. No one I knew.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about a new sponsorship,” he said, lowering his voice. He tried to step closer but I moved away.
I was pissed. “That's why you called me in here?”
The semis were later that afternoon and the last thing I wanted to deal with was sponsorships. Hell, if I was being honest with myself, the last thing I wanted to do was compete, but at least that had me in the water.
“Well, yeah—“
“I'm not interested.” I had enough endorsements to keep me comfortable. Surfboard company, wet suit company, surf wax company. Sunglasses, sunscreen. All of my bases were covered.
“Wait, Kellen.” He tugged nervously on the collar of his navy blue polo. “I think you'll want to hear this one.”
I shook my head and droplets of water sprayed his face. To his credit, he didn't wince. “Not. Interested.” I turned to go.
“Not interested in half a million dollars a year for the next three years?”
When I didn't move, he chuckled. “Yeah, that's what I thought. Money talks, man. Even when you're Kellen Handler.”
I brushed my hair off my forehead and sighed, hating that he was right. Slowly, I turned back around to face him. I folded my arms across my chest and stared at him. “Two minutes.”
He nodded, a satisfied grin on his face. “OK. This isn't a surfing company, alright? Something new. Something different. This company wants to spice up their image a little. Appeal to the younger crowd. They have their sights set on you, dude. Putty. They're literally putty in our hands.”
I waited.
“Okay, okay,” he said, his voice coming out in a rush. “Here's the deal. And you're gonna love it. I know you are. Just Juice.”
I froze. “What?”
“Just Juice. The natural juice company? They want you, Kellen.”
The words buzzed in my ear. Just Juice. The images rushed in and I couldn't stop them. The long drive up the coast. Jay next to me in the pickup. Anxiety over the massive waves waiting for us at Maverick's. Stopping at a gas station for food and drinks. Making fun of him for getting what he always got. The same damn drink every time. Orange mango. Just Juice. Giving him shit over it as we parked the truck. Him throwing the empty plastic bottle at me as we suited up.
And then...
“No.” My voice sounded hollow, tinny, to my own ears. I shook my head. “No.”
Heath gaped at me. “What are you talking about? Just Juice—they're...they're great! Solid company, man. Their first quarter earnings blew last year's out of the water. They have a shit ton of money to spend. They want print ads. Maybe a commercial. It'll take a day. Maybe two. And it's half a million fucking dollars a year.”
They could've offered me five million dollars and I still would have said no.
I shook my head again. “No. No deal.”
His astonishment morphed into anger. He reached for my arm and his fingers dug into my skin. “What the hell is wrong with you? Their reps are here,” he hissed. He nodded his head to the suits parked in the corner. They were watching our exchange with unabashed interest. “This is a fucking no-brainer, Kellen. And I told them it was a done deal.”
I looked down at his hand on my arm, then at him. His eyes widened a little at the expression on my face. His fingers relaxed and his hand fell away from my arm. I stared at him for a moment longer, a silent warning to not put his hands on me ever again.
“I don't care what you told them,” I said slowly, making sure he heard and understood. “That's your problem. But you can let them know there is no deal.”
FOUR
People closed in around me as soon as I stepped back on to the beach. A sea of faces, a crush of bodies. But all I could see was Jay. Not the Jay I knew, the Jay who was whispering words of encouragement to me out on the water just an hour earlier. No. This Jay was different. The Jay I last saw, the Jay that haunted my memory every fucking chance it got.
A lifeless, motionless Jay, limp as a rag doll, as I dragged him to shore.
Fucking juice.
Steve Winslow, a reporter for Surfer, approached me. Decent guy, someone I'd talked to at length plenty of times. “Kellen, do you have a few minutes?”
I brushed past him.
An all too familiar blond hottie wearing her camera face, microphone in hand, approached me. “You looked great out there, Kellen. Congrats on the semifinals. Tell us how you're going to prepare.”
I just stared at her. I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I kept walking, my legs wobbly.
“Kellen,” the reporter called, her voice sharp. To someone else, she said, “Cut the damn camera.” To me, louder, “Kellen Handler. We have an interview. We're scheduled to go live in five minutes.”
I didn't stop.
Winslow jogged up to me, a hesitant smile on his face. “Dude. Lindsay is talking to you.”
I knew who she was. Reporter for ESPN. I'd almost slept with her two years earlier. But I hadn't. Because Jay had been there to intervene before I could cross that line.
And he wasn't here anymore.
Because of me.
“I don't wanna talk.” My voice was a whisper.
His smile disappeared and I couldn't tell what replaced it. A frown? A worried look? “You're the man, dude. You're the reason everyone is here. She needs to talk to you. Hell,
I
need to talk to you. But I'll give you a pass for the moment if you need it.” He glanced back at her. “She won't, though, and you know she'll go complain. You don't wanna deal with that crap right now, do you?”
I didn't care. I couldn't plaster a smile on my face and talk nonsense shit about the tour, about how the water was, about what my strategy would be for the next round of competition. I couldn't talk about my competitors, about what I expected or wanted from the tour. But, more than anything, I couldn't talk about Jay Torres.
Jay Torres. The guy I'd surfed with since I was just a grommet on the waves, unsteady and uncertain on the massive fiberglass board floating beneath me. Jay Torres, the guy I'd spent every day out on the water with. Skipping school and blowing off girlfriends for wicked swells and epic waves. Jay Torres who rose to the top with me—the only guy I could talk to and joke with when we were placed in the same heat, bobbing up and down on the water as we waited for the perfect set. Jay Torres, the dude who knew me better than I knew myself, both in the water and out of it.
Jay Torres. The guy who I'd let down, who I let drown six months ago..
**end of sample**
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I took a deep, steadying breath. I knew I wanted to be a dad...some day. I didn't think we were ready, but I'd meant it when I said I'd support whatever she wanted to do. If some day was now, then I'd be ready. I wasn't going to blow that. After the way my relationship had blown up with my dad, I wouldn't fuck it up with my kid. No way. I could live without baseball.
I couldn't live with being a shitty parent.