Chapter 6
ILIAS
The Ancient Art of Always Fucking Up – Lewis Capaldi
Ilias had made his way to the final without too many problems. The only obstacle left was the one man he’d rather not face: Steven Dubois.
He usually enjoyed talking with and facing the other contestants.
Over the years, they’d become like a family.
Sharing downtime between heats, traveling together from one tournament to the next, celebrating wins and drowning losses in cheap beer.
But as he cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders loose, Ilias wasn’t thinking about camaraderie.
He was ready to destroy Steven in their final heat.
Sofia was there. And beside avenging his sister’s honor, he wanted to show her exactly how good he was.
He doubted winning the Ericeira Pro Event would magically change her opinion of him, but it couldn’t hurt.
He hadn’t had the chance to ask Alejandra much about her; she’d only hinted that Sofia was healing from a breakup.
He knew he should stay away, give her space, but every time she was near, his entire body reacted, like something inside him recognized her before his mind did.
She was like a siren, calling to him from across the water, and he was stupid enough to want to be dragged under, devoured whole, just to feel her pull again.
He’d spotted her earlier. Her long brown waves tumbled down her back, contrasting beautifully with the chunky knit cropped sweater she wore, striped in wide, vibrant bands of green, purple, red, and yellow.
She was wrapped in high-waisted white wide-leg pants, snug at the waist and hips, then flowing loose down her legs.
The fit had sent Ilias’ brain spiraling, imagining how good it would feel to wrap his hands around that perfect, round ass. She was gorgeous, and utterly uninterested in him. His new favorite type of woman, apparently.
Her brown eyes locked on his. And, again, like some cosmic joke, as if distance made her a better person, she mouthed, “Suerte.”
He was fucking done. He grinned wider, blew a kiss her way, then turned his back, sure she had just scowled at him in return.
“Gosh, you’re so smitten it hurts to watch,” Amira said, arriving at his side with Coach.
“Just focus on the damn final, Ilias,” Coach warned, blue eyes steady on him.
Coach was a sturdy Dutchman, one of the best surfers Ilias had ever known. He’d taken Ilias under his wing when he was just twelve with the help of his wife Gretchen, their PT. After twenty-one years, Coach and Gretchen were basically family.
“We’ve got a long right-hand point break today. Smooth walls, occasional hollow sections. It’s perfect for maneuvers and long rides. North-West swell. High tide. No barrels. Just long carves. Multiple critical sections. Got it?”
“You talk to me like it’s my first day surfing.” Ilias smirked.
“Just focus. Steven’s a piece of shit, and you need to destroy him,” Amira muttered under her breath.
“It will be done.”
As the announcer called him out to the beach, he made his way through the crowd. Steven was already there, a blond mop of hair plastered back from the wind, failing to hide that high hairline he so desperately tried to pretend wasn’t there.
“Ríos,” Steven acknowledged him, smile wide.
“Asshole.”
Steven rolled his eyes. “Still bitter about your sister? We were done. No hard feelings.”
“For you, maybe,” Ilias shot back, before launching his board into the surf and hopping on, paddling toward the jet ski that would take them past the impact zone.
Usually, Ilias was a good sport. He loved healthy competition. But Steven had broken Amira’s heart. And that was unforgivable.
Sure, maybe Ilias had broken a few hearts in the past. But he’d grown out of that. Steven? Still a walking red flag. A couple years younger, and somehow even more immature.
At the lineup, Ilias paddled a few meters away from Steven.
He needed space, room to breathe, room to read the ocean, to anticipate what it might throw at him.
He dipped his hand in the water, feeling the chill and the pull of the current.
Every wave was a puzzle, and every swell a potential mistake or triumph.
The horn blared. The countdown was on. Thirty minutes to impress, thirty minutes to make it count.
He scanned the horizon, eyes trained on the swell. A clean wave was forming, its shape perfect, a rolling wall of water that promised speed and flow. He angled his board, paddled hard, muscles burning, arms cutting through the water like knives. The wave caught him.
As Coach had predicted, no barrels this time.
Just smooth carves, edges kissing the wave as he traced it perfectly.
He felt the rhythm, felt the ocean’s heartbeat syncing with his own.
And then, the moment: a flawless air flip.
Time seemed to slow. He rotated midair, eyes locked on the water below, and landed clean.
A rush of satisfaction hit him, the kind that didn’t need a crowd, a score, or approval. It was just him, the board, the wave, and the pure, electric joy of knowing he’d done it right.
Paddling back to the lineup, he spotted Steven dropping into the next wave. One lazy maneuver near the end. The crowd on the beach erupted, but from Ilias’s angle, it looked sloppy, hesitant, lacking conviction.
He flexed his shoulders, feeling the burn, but smiled internally. This was his element. This was his game.
Scores rolled in.
8.4 for Ilias.
7.6 for Steven.
Good.
“You stole my wave earlier,” Steven accused, voice sharp over the roar of the ocean.
Ilias ignored him, paddling away, eyes scanning the horizon. Waves rolled and curled like living creatures. Fifteen minutes in, he hadn’t moved much, waiting, reading, anticipating. Patience was part of the game. Every second counted.
And then the perfect wave came.
He angled his board, paddled hard, feeling the power of the swell lift him.
A clean sequence of carves, smooth and precise, each turn echoing his years on the water.
Then, he launched into a flawless 360. Time stretched; the wind cut past his ears, water spray stung his face, and when he landed, he felt the surge of the wave beneath him.
Surfacing, the grin on his face was feral. This heat? It was his.
Score: 9.0.
Steven dropped into the next wave and failed spectacularly. Faceplanted, his board slicing through the whitewater.
The ocean had made its choice.
Score: 4.0.
Perfect.
Ilias paddled back to the lineup, chest heaving, every muscle singing, adrenaline and satisfaction mingling. The water still roared around him, the horizon endless, and he felt untouchable. Every wave, every maneuver, every risk had led to this.
“I’m going to win,” Steven snapped. “I’ll remind you why I’ve been number one for the past two years.”
“Because I was on a break?” Ilias lifted an eyebrow.
Steven’s nostrils flared.
Ilias had priority now, and Steven knew it. He tried to push anyway, got penalized, and botched an aerial attempt, slamming face-first into the water.
Even the best failed. And this was not Steven’s day.
When the horn finally blared, Ilias let out a deep breath, adrenaline still high as he headed back to shore.
He'd done it. Again.
Sofia had been a damn good lucky charm. Maybe he would kidnap her and drag her to every tournament. She’d hate him, but little by little, he’d get through that armor. Okay, maybe that was too much.
On shore, his friends and team rushed him. Amira hugged him tightly, practically shaking with pride.
Another event win. One step closer to his third world title.
“Congrats,” Steven said in French, walking over and offering a handshake. “At least you’re still good at something. Honestly, after all that self-pity and depression, I thought you’d never come back.”
Ilias snarled, his knuckles flexing.
“I was glad you were gone. Meant I could fuck your sister wherever I wanted, without your judging eyes around. Not that she was even that good.”
Ilias’s vision blurred, jaw clenched, fists trembling. He knew Steven was baiting him. He knew he shouldn’t react.
“Might go for that brunette now. Alejandra’s friend. The marine chick you keep eye fucking. I bet her cunt would feel amazing on my big co—”
Ilias punched him square in the face. Steven dropped like a sack of bricks. Gasps echoed around him. And just like that, Ilias knew. He’d fucked up. Royally.