Page 87 of Britta & the Beach Boy
“You wanna get on with it and tell me what’s wrong, or you wanna keep messing around?” Archie’s got me by half a head, and he uses those inches to hover over me.
“You were a tool to my wife.” I don’t back away. I’ve taken him in a brawl before. I can do it again if that’s what it comes to.
Archie pulls back, looking genuinely surprised. “When?”
His scoffing tone riles me even more. How can he know everything except when he’s being a jerk?
“You told her she’s only good for getting me to the Olympics.” I throw out my hands, challenging him.
Archie blinks hard, like I’ve slapped him. “No. I remindedyouthat you married her to get to the Olympics.”
I shake my head for lack of anything better to say. I hate it when he uses facts to win an argument. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t a jerk the way you said it.”
Archie’s eyes go wider, like he has no idea what he’s done. “Mate, I wasn’t saying it to her. She’s got way more on the line here than you do. I’m trying to protect her fromyou.”
“Protect her? That’s my job. She’smywife.” I move closer so our chests are inches apart, both of us puffed up and ready to go.
“Yeah?” His face turns a darker red than his hair. “Have you thought about what happens if you don’t make it to the Olympics because you lose focus and fall off Tour or get injured again?”
I stare at him, beginning to think I may have it wrong about who’s being a jerk. “I don’t make the team,” I say finally.
“Right.” He pokes me in the chest. “In the meantime, Britta’s gone quarter of-a-mill in debt to you, given up falling in love with any other blokes, and risked going to jail for you. I see what’s happening between you guys and it’s going to lead to disaster, mate. You’re going to lose your head, same as you did the first time you fell off Tour, and she’s going to end up with a broken heart. This is supposed to be a business arrangement, but that’s not what’s happening, right?”
Archie emphasizes his right with another poke to my chest. I brush his hand away, but not with any anger. That’s beenwashed away with the realization that I, in fact, am the tool. “I hear what you’re saying,” I mumble.
“Then pull your head out of your backside and decide whether you can really be in a relationship and stay at the top of your game—based on what I’ve seen since we got here, you can’t,” Archie’s face is bright red now, and he’s absorbed all the anger I’ve shed. “If I’m right, then don’t toy with Britta. You mess up this relationship, it hurts her more than you, but you’ll have to live with that. Got it?”
I drop my head. “Got it.”
Archie turns and stalks down the hall, leaving me behind. I glance at the bars on my phone—still there—before I tuck it away and jog to catch Archie.
He’s fast and is on the elevator before I can get there, so I take the stairs. I’m standing in front of the elevator doors when they slide open. Archie’s face is back to his normal color, but he still meets me with a glare.
“Thanks, mate,” I say. “You’re right. I appreciate you looking out for Britta.”
He nods, and his mouth pulls into a half-smile.
There’s something neither one of us has thought of, though, but his worry about me getting hurt again made me think of it and take what he’s said even more to heart. It’s a legitimate worry, getting hurt. Surfing is a dangerous sport. I haven’t met any pro who hasn’t had a concussion—or half-a-dozen. Most have had other serious injuries, too.
“I need you to do something else for me,” I say as Archie and I walk toward the car.
“What?” Archie keeps walking, only half paying attention, so I grab his arm to stop him.
“If I get injured again—something like last time, or worse—” At this, Archie raises his eyebrows.
My back injury took nearly six months to heal. There aren’t many worse injuries. At least not the kind you can recover from.
“I don’t want Britta taking care of me,” I tell him. “She may feel obligated, but she’s not. She’s not giving up anymore of her life. At least not for me… Will you make sure she’s not left responsible for me?”
Archie nods with his whole body.
The rest of the day, I work hard to push thoughts of Britta out of my mind every time she breaks in—which is a lot. She responds to my text by midafternoon for her, but late for me. I don’t respond.
We’ve been in the Azores for four days and I haven’t caught a single decent wave. It’s not Britta’s fault, it’s mine, but it’s tied to thoughts of her—that’s obvious now. By the next morning, I’m feeling clearer, and my focus is better. I want the Olympics, which means I need to win at Pipe in January.
Once I focus on what I should be, I catch my first good wave that afternoon and I don’t wipe out again in the Azores.
Chapter thirty-three
