Chapter 40
ILIAS
Soldi - Mahmood
Not having Sofia around had made him miserable.
As much as he wanted to focus on Trestles, to train, to win, his mind kept drifting back to her.
To how it finally felt to hug her, kiss her, and call her his for real.
It had taken her time, almost enough to make him lose his shit and his self-control, but he was glad he’d respected her timeline. Glad he’d waited.
As he walked into the Athlete Zone for a last training session before the tour started the next day, his phone rang. His mother. They hadn’t spoken in a long time.
He answered with a smile. “Salam, Mama.”
And the first thing she said was, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend? Had to hear it from Mariloli?”
“Who’s Mariloli?” he asked, grinning, fully aware she was about to get annoyed.
“Ilias Ríos El Idrissi, don’t make fun of me.” Fast, sharp, irritated. He knew exactly where he got that part of his personality.
“I’m not, Mama,” he said, still smiling. “So… what do you want to know?”
“Who is she? Where is she from? You know I don’t have social media. I can’t check these things. Your sister told me to ask you. She wasn’t going to snitch.”
His mother sounded pissed, understandably. He hadn’t told her about Sofia because she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Now that Sofia was truly his girlfriend, he could tell her without guilt. He was a terrible liar. His mother was the best lie detector he had ever met.
“Her name is Sofia. We met in Ericeira a couple months ago. She’s a marine biologist, very smart, and runs her own business. She’s funny, hot, and my girlfriend since then.”
“Where is she from?”
“She’s Italian and Spanish.”
“Ah,” his mother said, unexpectedly thoughtful. “So she’s culturally mixed like you. It’s good for you. Someone who understands.”
“Not feeling at home anywhere? Too Spanish to be Moroccan, too Moroccan to be Spanish? Yeah… she gets it.”
He could feel her scrunching her nose through the phone. “You say it like it’s something bad, being a citizen of the world.”
“I love it, Mama. But you know it wasn’t easy growing up as the Moroccan kid in a Spanish school. And down in Morocco, they call me the Spanish kiddo. So yeah…”
Having two passports, two cultures, two identities…
it had never been simple. Kids had mocked him for being African, even though he felt as European as they were.
Later, choosing which country to represent in competition had nearly broken him, until Amira and his mother reminded him that Spain hadn’t taught him to surf.
Morocco had. Azul had. So he’d chosen the country that shaped his journey.
“So, she’s good for you?” his mother asked, shifting the topic as she always did when he veered toward self-pity. His mother never indulged in it. She either shoved him out of it or sidestepped entirely.
“She’s very good for me,” he said. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Did you call just to gossip about my love life?”
“A mother can’t call her son?” she demanded, offended.
“Yes, she can. But you, Mama, you tend to ignore us when we’re on tour.”
“You make me sound like a terrible mother.”
Ilias laughed. “You’re not.” He hesitated. “The two years are almost up.”
Silence. Heavy. Revealing. Whenever Azul or his father came up, she shut down, just like Sofia did when something hurt too much.
“And?” she finally asked.
“Don’t you want to know what we’re going to do about it?”
“Please tell me you’re going to close it.”
“No.” His voice softened. “We’re turning it into an international surf retreat. Using Amira’s and my name. Ghita will run everything.”
“Do you care so much about him?” she asked, her voice cracking with judgment and old wounds. “Did therapy make you forgive him?”
“It’s not about him anymore,” he said quietly. “It’s about Ghita. She’s poured her soul into Azul. Taking it from her? It doesn’t feel right.”
“What about the money you need to start a family with Sofia? Kids, a house? There are better things to invest in than the legacy your father destroyed himself over.”
“The way Papá ran Azul was money-draining. Ghita’s plan isn’t. It’ll make money. We could turn something that broke our family into something good. Profitable. Ours.” He paused. “For you too.”
He stared at the ocean, letting the horizon steady him.
“I don’t want his money,” she whispered.
“It’s ours now. He’s gone.”
“Yet, I feel he never left.”
He swallowed hard. “Mama… have you gone to therapy?”
Silence stretched thin as thread.
“I know you think talking about Papá won’t solve anything,” he said softly. “But therapy helped me. Really helped me. If I can process all this now, it’s because of that. It helped me close a chapter.”
“I don’t believe in it.”
“Believe in me, then,” he murmured.
She sighed. A wounded, exhausted sound.
“I’m not trying to pressure you, Mama. I just… I care about you. And all this hate, all this pain, it’s not healthy. You’re ignoring Ghita, and she’s your niece. She loves you. And you’ve cut off the whole family in Morocco because of what Papá did.”
“They all knew,” she hissed, and he heard the tears.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I just want you to be happy again.”
“I’m happy,” she sniffled, lying to both of them.
“Alright.” He exhaled. “I’ll let you go. See you soon, okay?”
“Yes. Come home when you can. I want to meet Sofia.” Her tone changed abruptly, her classic signal that the conversation was over.
“I’ll bring her. I love you, Mamá.”
“I love you, wldi, my son.”
When he hung up, he let his head fall forward, massaging his temples. He needed the ocean. He needed a wave big enough to take all this weight and drown it out.