The crowd on the shore erupts again, and just for a second, I feel unstoppable. Like maybe today is finally different from what I’ve known. Like maybe this is the competition where the hours, bruises, comments, and even the pressure all amount to something even the judges can’t deny me—a win.
I look toward the scoreboard, hopeful. But when the announcer reads out my score, and I see it reflected on the board, my stomach drops so violently it feels like I’ve been punched. I stop walking altogether, saltwater dripping from my wetsuit as I stare up at the numbers, certain I heard and read them wrong.
Four out of five judges gave me perfect scores, but the one that didn’t scored me so low that it doesn’t even make sense. The sounds around me become dull, as if someone shoved my head underwater, and I slowly drag my gaze from the board to the judges’ table, my eyes locking on the only other pair of eyes staring back at me.
The same judge from every season prior, Stephen Kozak. His silver hair is slicked back neatly, and his sunglasses are perched low on his nose despite the shade of the canopy. His lips are faintly downturned, the skin tightening around his mouth, and his expression shouts what I’ve felt a million times before.
You do not belong here.
His disgust is palpable, despite being polished into something resembling professional. My chest tightens, and heatfloods my face. For one stupid, fleeting moment, I actually let myself believe this time would be different.
The horn blows again, but I can’t move. I can barely breathe. And I can’t stop staring at the stupid 4.7 score he gave me out of ten, because I was right—perfect still isn’t enough for someone that looks like me.
I swallow hard and square my shoulder as I return to my team tent. Gabriel stands near the front, deep in conversation with a man in a short sleeve button-up and mirrored sunglasses. They’re both smiling, nodding, and shaking hands as if nothing just happened out there. I bet he hasn’t even looked at the scoreboard yet.
I get under the tent cover, but the shade does little to cool the heat crawling under my skin. My eyes land on Colton a second later, who’s standing near the back watching me with his arms folded tightly over his chest.
His jaw is tight, brows pulled low as his eyes bounce between me and the scoreboard behind me. I drop my board to the side of the tent and busy myself with my leash, crouching down so I don’t have to look at him, but it doesn’t matter because he steps closer anyway.
“What the hell was that?” he asks.
I shrug, forcing my tone to stay light. “A shit score”
“Don’t do that,” he says immediately.
I look up. “Do what?”
“Don’t brush this off like it’s…nothing.” His voice is tight. “That wasn’t nothing, Kairi. That was—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “A 4.7? Are you kidding me? That deserved a perfect score all around.”
“It’s whatever, Colton,” I say, a little quicker this time because I really don’t want to talk about this right now. “I still placed high enough for the girls to be able to win this for us if they do well.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not the point.” His eyes flash. “Someone just screwed you over and you’re acting like it’s normal.”
“Because itisnormal for me,” I snap, standing up too fast. “This isnormalfor me, Colton.”
“That’s not okay. You should be angry,” he snaps back. “You should be arguing that with Gabriel and the judges.”
“You don’t think I’m angry?” My voice cracks before I can stop it, heat rushing up my throat as Colton’s expression falters. “I’m beyond angry, because no matter how hard I train, how many hours I spend bleeding into this sport, there’s always someone ready to remind me that I’ll never quite belong here.”
My chest heaves as the words hang heavy between us, the air shifting.
“Kairi, there you are,” Gabriel interrupts.
I turn to face him as he approaches, one hand resting on the shoulder of the man he was speaking with earlier. The man offers me a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but Gabriel offers me an encouraging nod regardless.
“I was just telling Mark here that you’d be a great fit for the surfing shoot he’s planning to organize for his new range of surfer hair products.”
Mark’s gaze shifts over my face, my skin, my hair—still damp and curling wildly from the saltwater and his smile falters subtly.
“Oh,” he says, dragging the word out as if he’s buying time. “Right, yeah…she’s—” He clears his throat. “She’s got…potential”
The word lands like a slap, and Gabriel’s brows knit together. “She just scored one of the highest waves in her heat,” he says, pointing to the scoreboard, then hesitating when he notices the low score from Stephen.
“Of course, of course,” Mark says quickly, without glancing at the board. “It’s just…well this particular campaign has a very specific…look we’re going for.”
My stomach sinks again as I realize where he’s going with this. It’s like the Surf Gods decided I needed every bit of reminding for why I genuinely hate coming to competitions.
“So,” he continues, glancing past me toward the group of our new members drying off in the sun, “I was wondering if maybe one of the new girls might be a better fit?”
