8. Luca
"I always chuckle to myself and think 'only in America' when I see that." Travis points toward the Santa Monica Pier.
"You mean the Ferris wheel?"
He takes my hand as we continue making our way down the beach. "Yeah. Trust bloody Americans to whack an amusement park right on top of a beach."
"Is it an American thing?"
"Can you think of any other countries that have it?"
"Not off the top of my head, no." I take in the wheel and the bustling shops around it. "I like it. It gives the place a lively atmosphere."
"Mate." Travis stops walking. "That's your atmosphere right there," he says, pointing at the ocean. "All the rest of it is…too much."
"Says the king of too much."
He gives my fingers a playful squeeze. "You weren't complaining about me being too much in bed this morning."
"Travis." My eyes dart around. "There are people around us. Someone might overhear."
"Guess how many fucks I give? People shouldn't be eavesdropping on other people's conversations. But if they do, they'll quickly learn that I've got the most amazing boyfriend in the world, and I can make him come so hard his eyes roll into the back of his head."
I shouldn't be smiling. "You're encourageable."
"You mean incorrigible."
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
"En-courageable and in-corrigible. There's a slight difference."
"Very slight difference. English is impossible sometimes."
"At least it's better than Portuguese. Why would someone create a language with words that are impossible for humans to pronounce?"
I smile as we reach the cool water.
Travis put in a solid effort learning Portuguese using one of those language learning apps a few years ago. He's got a good grounding of the basics, which Dad always appreciates, but he's right, he struggles a bit with the pronunciation. I don't mind. I simply appreciate the time and effort he puts into it.
"What time is your meeting?" I ask.
"Not until three."
It's quarter to twelve now. "Cool. So we can have lunch together."
He flashes me that big happy smile of his that I'm a total sucker for. "We sure can, baby."
We finish our walk and wind up in a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place one block away from the beach. The whole time, we're talking and laughing, and things are just perfect.
Maybe it's a honeymoon phase, but something about this time feels different. I can't explain it.
And even though we're only in LA for a day so that Travis can meet with the network, I feel like I'm on vacation. I'm relaxed. My mind isn't racing. And most importantly, I'm not taking anything.
I have a contact here. Heck, I have a contact everywhere I go, which, shit, makes me sound pretty bad, huh?
But I haven't called her. And I don't intend to.
Even when Travis goes in for his meeting, I'll stay put in the hotel and chill out. I'm serious about this whole moderation thing.
I'm just really enjoying being present.
We've gone back to how we were at the very start of the first time we got together. We can't keep our hands off each other. We make each other laugh. Conversation flows easily. We're like two pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.
I want to be here for it.
So much of my relationship with Travis feels like it's trapped behind a foggy window, my memories clouded by an opiate mist. I don't want to be numb to this.
For the moment, my fears and doubts and insecurities haven't crept in, so until they do, I'll be fine.
Besides, I know I can get stuff when we get to Hawaii. Which, also, makes me sound worse than I'd like it to.
Travis takes his meeting.
I catch up on a few episodes of a Disney+ sci-fi show he has no interest in.
He returns with a bounce in his step.
I pause the show on my laptop, take off my headphones, and close the lid. "Things went well?"
"Very fucking well." Excitement shines in his eyes as he sits on the bed and kicks off his shoes. "They've agreed to a massive pay increase next season."
He climbs in next to me. "It'll be enough."
I instantly know what he's talking about. "For your Big Dream?"
"Uh-huh. Fuck." He swipes his hand through his hair, his eyes darting around, and I can see his mind racing with possibilities. "I didn't think they'd agree to the figure I wanted. But I thought, nah, fuck it. They make millions out of us, I'm going to milk those bastards for everything. Even if they’d countered, which I fully expected them to, we'd have still landed on a very good number. To my surprise, there was no going back and forth. They accepted what I put down."
"That's amazing. I'm so happy for you."
"For us, baby." Travis pulls me into his body and kisses the top of my head. "This is going to be so good for us."
This can't last.
That's the last thought I have before catching a gust of wind to get ready for my round.
The conditions are pretty damn perfect. They always are on the north shore of Maui. Clear skies, warm water, and steady winds ranging from 15 to 25 knots.
I need to get out of my head.
The flight from LA to Hawaii wasn't great. We had a late departure time, and knowing I'd be competing in an early round today, I'd planned on knocking myself out. Only problem was I lost my damn sleeping pills. No way I can get any shut eye without those, so I was fucked.
The eye mask didn't help. Neither did the white noise sleep app. Or knocking back five drinks, back-to-back.
I'm tired.
I'm lethargic.
And I feel like whatever bubble Travis and I have been living in these past few weeks is about to burst.
But I have to push all that out of my mind and focus on what's right in front of me.
I have to compete.
I have to win.
I've never made it this far in the competition before. Each round is a knockout round between two kitesurfers. Whoever gets the highest score advances. For the loser, it's the end of their season.
With the way the draw has panned out, Travis and I won't face off against each other unless we win all our rounds, setting us up for an epic grand final.
But before that can take place—I need to win today.
The siren blares, and a loud cheer rises from the crowd lining the beach.
I close my eyes and get into my body. I tune myself into the frequency of the elements, the sun, the wind, the water. Thinking goes, replaced by intuitive knowing.
Harnessing the power of a gust of wind, I use the crest of a massive wave as a launching pad, soaring into a back loop rotation high above the water. My body twists midair, and I extend a hand toward the sky in a stylish tweak.
As I descend back toward the water, I transition into a board-off maneuver, kicking the board out from under my feet before catching it again as I land, pulling the high-scoring move off with finesse and grace.
I let out a powerful roar. All right, bitches, I am fucking in this.
I follow that up with a series of back-to-back rotations, spinning through the air with precision while controlling my kite above.
I unleash one of my favorite maneuvers—a handle pass where I transfer the control bar from one hand to the other while soaring above the waves. The crowd always loves that one.
And I top it all off with a massive aerial, soaring into the air on a front roll. Just when it seems I've reached the peak, I unleash a kite loop, sending the kite spinning overhead as I land smoothly back on the water.
By the time the end-of-round siren blows, I know I'm going to score high. The question is, will it be higher than Martinson, the Swede who's also had an excellent season this year.
I hit the beach and tournament officials help me out of my gear. "They'd like to interview you," one of them says.
"It's not my turn," I reply, unhooking my feet straps.
There's a rotating schedule for when surfers have to get interviewed after a round for the official WKC YouTube channel. Today Martinson is up. Not me.
"They have a surprise for you," the official persists.
I stop. "What's Travis up to now?"
"It's not Travis."
"But—"
"No buts." He grabs me by the arm. "Come on, hurry."
Fucker's lucky I'm still riding my adrenaline high, otherwise I'd be more resistant. I suppose one interview can't hurt.
When I approach Michael Paige and the cameraman, the first thing I grunt out is, "This better be good."
"My, my. What an angry tone coming from kitesurfing's golden wunderkind."
"I'm doing you a favor," I remind him. "I'm not scheduled to be interviewed today."
Michael ignores me, adjusting his hair in the monitor. "Trouble in paradise already?"
"Excuse me?"
He looks me up and down and smirks. "Heard you and Travis are back together."
If I ever forget how small, incestuous, and downright gossipy the kitesurfing community is, this reminds me. Nothing stays secret on tour.
"That's none of your business, and as you know, I will not talk about my romantic life on camera."
"Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever." He finishes getting ready and scoops up his microphone from the cameraman. "Just remember," he hisses out the corner of his mouth. "I had him first."
The cameraman counts him in. "And three, two, one…"
I'm fuming, but what the fuck can I do? We're rolling.
I hate this world. Hate everything about it.
I just want to kitesurf without any of this bullshit attention. None of it's real. I'm no more of a golden child than Travis is a fuckboy, but if they repeat it often enough, the story sticks, people believe it, and suddenly, who you are isn't who you are anymore. You’re what someone else called you and decided would be your narrative.
Current case in point.
"I'm joined by current world number eight, the Brazilian golden boy of kitesurfing, Luca Silva. Luca, congratulations on a fantastic round. How are you feeling?"
I plaster on a smile and comb my hand through my hair. "I'm feeling amazing after that round, Michael. I'm keen to see the judge's scores because I think I nailed everything I did. And of course, I'm excited to be in Hawaii."
I turn to the camera. "Aloha to all my Hawaiian fans. Thank you so much for coming out here today and supporting me."
I refocus on Michael. "As you know, this is my first time advancing so far in the tournament, and I’m excited to take it all the way."
"Speaking of taking it all the way, I had a look at the draw earlier, and if you do make it to the grand final, there's a chance you could meet someone you know very well there."
The motherfucker.
"You mean Kyle Hunt?" I say, knowing full well he's not referring to the American number six I'm slated to compete against in the next round. "He's a great guy and a fierce competitor."
"Right."
Michael looks like he wasn't expecting me to throw him off his course so fast. English may not be my first language, but I'm no dummy.
He grabs his earpiece and turns to face the camera.
Round one goes to me.
"As we all know, Luca's story is one that inspires young people everywhere. After lifting himself up from poverty…"
What the fuck? Where is he going with this?
"He's climbed to the highest ranks of pro kitesurfing, on the verge of progressing through the final rounds to the grand final, so we thought it only fitting to give him a surprise."
He shoves the mic in front of me.
What the hell am I meant to say to that? I blink. "A surprise?"
"Indeed. There's someone very special who's come to see you."
My mind instantly conjures up an image of Travis even though I was told he's not involved with this.
Michael takes a step back, and they were right, it's not Travis.
"Pai!"
"Luca!"
We embrace even though I'm still wet.
"Estou t?o orgulhoso de você."
Warmth seeps through me the way it always does when he tells me he's proud of me.
"What are you doing here?"
I ask Dad, but Michael steps back in to respond. "The WKC flew him out so he could see his son perform."
He turns to Dad and throws a few softball questions at him.
I'm happy he's here. I am. But part of me hates the low-key implications of what's going on. If Dad wanted to be here, I could have paid for his ticket. And his accommodation. I may not be making reality TV money, but I could have covered it.
I don't need a handout from an organization that views me as some freak of nature from a developing country.
And there it goes.
The next splinter in the glass…
We finish the interview, and I go back to the player's tent with Dad…but I can't stop thinking about my next chance to sneak away and score.