13. Dex

Chapter thirteen

Dex

The ride back to the house is quieter than it should be after I've just been named the world's best surfer. We should all be celebrating. I should be overjoyed every time I see my distorted reflection in the silver trophy that takes up my entire lap. It's so big, I can barely see Britta in the captain's chair next to me.

This win is what I've wanted more than anything since I started surfing—at least, before surfing was added as an Olympic sport—and I shouldn't care that the trophy is digging into my legs, or that I won't get to see Britta in her green dress tonight.

As happy as I am, the disappointment that's she's not staying to celebrate with me weighs even more than this award.

"Thanks for coming," I say as we turn down the street to the house.

"Thanks for inviting us. The whole day was amazing." She smiles, but there's a tentativeness she didn't have before.

"I hope everything is okay with Britta's. "

"I'm sure everything will be fine," she says in a voice too high and too certain, but then there's a bit of a loosening in her posture. "I hope it's nothing that will cut my trip short."

"What?" Stella turns in her seat to face Britta. "You're thinking about leaving?"

My lungs refuse to take in air while I wait for Britta to answer.

"I'm just saying it's a possibility. Things are falling apart there without me." She stiffens again, like she's preparing to dig in her heels if Stella tells her to change her mind. "But you don't have to leave if you don't want to. You should stay until Georgia needs you. Finish your vacation."

" You should stay and finish your vacation until your family actually needs you," Stella shoots back and faces the road again.

Silence falls over all of us with an awkward thud. No one says a word until we pull into the driveway of the Rip Tide house. There are other cars parked there, and the house is already full of people waiting to celebrate with me. I realize I may not have time to say goodbye to Britta the way I want to.

She's out of the van the second Archie comes to a complete stop. I jump out to follow her, but the prize I thought I wanted more than anything slows me down. Britta is through the front door before I've made it halfway up the walkway.

By the time I walk in the door, she's on her way up the stairs to the bedroom where she and Stella slept. Before I can follow her, voices shout, "Congratulations!" and I'm squeezed into a giant group hug.

"Mum? Dad? What are you doing here?" Shock freezes me in their arms and those of my thirteen-year-old brother, Jordy, who's wrapped around my back. "Is Chloe here, too?"

"She has school, but we couldn't stay away! We got in this morning," they say together as they release me. "We watched the live coverage on TV."

Four years ago, after I fired Dad as my coach and manager, things were dicey between us. I asked my whole family not to come to competitions anymore. I made up an excuse about them needing to focus on Jordy's surfing career and getting my sister, Chloe—who's twenty-four now—through uni. I don't think anyone believed me, but it was better than saying the truth out loud; Dad knew I couldn't stand the pressure he put on me, even if he saw nothing wrong with what I was doing. But I couldn't ban only him from my events. If Mum, Chloe, and Jordy came without him, he'd think they were siding with me.

This is the first time they've come to a competition since then. It's been hard for them not to be there. It probably near-killed them not to watch me win today in person, but they flew halfway across the world to be here anyway, whether I won or lost. They respected my boundaries, but found a way to support me.

There's no way I can go after Britta now.

"I can't believe you're here." I look into Mum's teary eyes; genuinely happy they went to so much effort.

"Bro, that was so gnarly!" Jordy holds his hand up for a high-five.

He was a big surprise to all of us when he was born the first year I was in the juniors. Most of Chloe's childhood was spent being dragged to my competitions across Australia, but Jordy's been lugged around the world. At least he was until four years ago.

Chloe surfed some, but she decided early on to blaze her own trail and went to uni after a gap year. She's just started med school.

Jordy, though, wants to follow in my footsteps. I hope Dad's learned from his mistakes with me, and that Jordy will do better under the pressure than I did at his age.

"Good on ya, Son." Dad slaps me on the back then sniffs back the deeper emotions trying to escape.

"Thanks, Dad." I hand him the trophy. "Feel the weight of this beauty."

Dad hefts the trophy, smiling reluctantly. It was hard enough for him to say he's proud of me.

We move into the sitting room where Jordy takes a turn lifting the trophy like he's won it, then taking a selfie with it. Archie comes in at some point and gives them all a hug—except for Dad. Dad's mostly a handshake guy.

Soon after, Britta and Stella come down the stairs with their Rip Tide bags, and I meet them at the bottom step.

"I feel bad taking these," Britta says, holding the bag up.

I shake my head and take the paper bag from her, plus the one Stella's carrying. "I'll take them to the car for you."

Once we're out the door, away from my family and the other guests, I lean in close to Britta. "You promised me dinner. I'm going to hold you to that, and the green dress."

That puts the smile I know on her face as she opens the back door of her car. "As long as my family doesn't need me to come home, we're on."

"Then I'm crossing all my fingers they don't." I set the bags in her back seat. When I turn, she's behind me, close enough I could kiss her again. But unlike the other times, I worry that would be the wrong move here.

I wave goodbye instead, then watch her and Stella drive away.

Within minutes, more people show up. My agent, Marta, the Rip Tide execs, other Aussie surfers who were at the finals to support me and Jack. Matthew McConaughey.

The house fills with people, music, food, and drinks. Everyone wants to talk about my win, my meteoric rise over the past year, and—the kicker—what I have planned next. I try to answer the questions as best I can, but the only thing that's certain is that all I have planned for the future is more surfing. Hopefully, more wins go along with that.

The party is an absolute cracker, especially after the pressure I've been under. The tension that's been curled, snake-like in the pit of my stomach, disappears in the music and the one beer I allow myself. But my mind keeps drifting back to Britta. Over and over, I find myself wishing she were here.

I'm throwing the bull with Kelly Slater when Archie finds me. "Can we chat for a minute, mate?"

I'm surprised by how serious he is at a party. He should be four beers in by now. He leads me to a back room where my agent, Marta, sits on the white leather sofa.

I send Archie a questioning look as I take the chair next to him and across from Marta. He answers with a micro-lift of his eyebrows that I have no idea how to interpret.

There's an ice bucket full of drinks on the table between us. I eye a Corona, but reach for a water instead.

"What's so important it can't wait until after the party?" I ask while twisting the cap off.

"That was a huge win today." Marta leans back in her chair and crosses her legs.

"Thanks."

I wait for her to say what she's really thinking, because it's not about surfing. She couldn't care less about surfing. All she cares about is how I can make money from it. That's why she's my agent now instead of Dad. She sees the surf companies who represent me and other pro-surfers as the multi-billion-dollar businesses they are. Dad saw them how they wanted us to see them: as fellow surfers who are family.

It was a nice thought. Except the execs were all driving hundred-thousand-dollar cars to their vacation homes while I was camping in the back of trucks to save money while surfing at competitions sponsored by their companies or shooting promotions for their products.

"We're going to get you more out of the win than some prize money and a trophy." Marta doesn't smile, and while I don't want to talk business right now, I trust her to do exactly what she's promised me. When my surfing career is over, I'll have enough money to retire without worrying about anything but where I'm going next to surf for fun.

"Awesome. Do it. Let me know what you need from me." Marta and Archie handle all the business stuff I'm not smart enough to understand.

They've got the education for it. I didn't finish secondary school, so I usually excuse myself from any conversation with Marta and let Archie do the talking. Which is what I have every intention of doing as I push myself up.

Marta's look puts me back in my seat. "I'm talking Olympics, Dex. You need to be part of this conversation."

"Olympics?" I'll gladly stay in my seat to talk about my chances of going to the Olympics. I might have been one of the two Australians in Tahiti six weeks ago if I hadn't gotten injured in 2022.

Archie rests his elbows on his knees and leans toward me. "Your comeback this year has grabbed the attention of sponsors and USA Surfing."

"USA?"

Archie nods.

"Why?"

"Your Mum's dual citizenship, for starters, which gives you a connection to America. Besides that, you've lived in the States three years and have a visa, so you may already qualify as a permanent resident. And most importantly, you've just proven you can beat the Aussies, but they don't want you." Archie counts off his fingers as he lists each point, but it's the last one that gets me.

"What do you mean, my country doesn't want me? I'm Aussie."

Archie holds up his hands to stop me. "Not your country, mate. The Olympic committee. You've been in their sights the last two Olympics, and you've crumbled or been injured."

"They still got their medals with Wright and Robbo," I mumble, but it's not a valid defense.

I doubt I'd consider myself if I were on the committee. I crumbled before even getting close to the 2020 Olympics, and my back injury took me out of contention for the 2024 games. That alone would be enough for the committee to be skittish about considering me, but add my age plus years of bad behavior when I was younger to the equation, and Archie's right. I wouldn't want me either.

"The real problem is whether you've spent enough time in the States over the past three years that you can qualify as a permanent resident. If so, you'd only need another two years to gain citizenship." Marta inserts, as though I'm actually thinking about surfing under any other flag but Aus's.

"They'd hate me back home if I surfed for America, and I spend as much time traveling out of the States as I do living here." I wag my head left and right, as much to say no as to shake the Olympic idea from my brain.

But it's already taken seed there. Because Archie may be right. The only way to live out my dream of surfing in the Olympics very well could be under another country's flag, and America is the only one I'd even consider.

Mum's dad was American. He met my Australian Gran when she was a nurse in Vietnam and he was a doctor. They married, but her tour ended before his did. She went home to Aus, already pregnant, to wait out the last few months of his service. He was killed when the helicopter he was in was shot down by enemy fire.

Mum never knew him, but his parents made sure they were part of her life. When she was old enough, she spent a few summers in San Diego with them. And because her dad was an American, it was easy for her to get dual citizenship. But she's never spent enough time in the States for her own kids to qualify for citizenship. Her history is my connection to America.

"You don't have to decide today," Marta says, but I recognize that tone. She's going to be pushing this idea. "In the meantime, I've already got an immigration lawyer looking into what it will take for you to gain citizenship in time to be considered for the 2028 USA team."

I look between Archie and Marta. Things are moving really fast. "We're sure the Aus team won't want me?"

"Not gonna happen, Dex. Put it out of your head. You surf for America or you don't surf in the Olympics." Marta's bluntness shouldn't surprise me, but I look to Archie to shut her down anyway.

He sucks in his lips and tilts his head to the side, like sorry, bro. "Look at the Aussies coming up behind you."

When I drag my eyes back to Marta, she meets me with an I told you expression.

But Archie's words have already convinced me. Aside from the fact that if he's trying to talk me into surfing for America, he must really think I have no chance of making the Australian team, we've spent a lot of time assessing the rookies and younger guys on the tour who are making their marks. They're younger than me, they haven't had the injuries I have, and even though they come from all over the world, the best ones are all from Aus.

"The American bench is a lot shallower, and as the host nation, they'll likely have a bigger team." Marta shifts on the couch to drill me with her determined gaze. "That's another reason USA Surfing has you in their sites. With the games in Los Angeles, they want to make sure the gold goes to an American, even one who's technically Australian."

When she goes quiet, Archie jumps in. "If you made the team, you'd be surfing Malibu, Huntington, or Lowers—all waves you know well."

"So do the other Americans. They're even more familiar with those waves," I say.

"And you just beat them, yeah?" Archie sends me a smug smile and holds out his fist.

"Can't argue that." I bump my fist to his, feeling my resolve to only surf for Aus crumble faster than I did as a rookie on the Tour. "How long would the process—what's it called?"

"Naturalization," Marta answers.

"Yeah. That. How long would it take if I decide to do it?" Still a big if, but I'm not counting it out. "And would I have to give up Aussie citizenship?"

"Five years, and you'd have dual citizenship." Marta tries to smooth a wrinkle from her trousers as she talks. "You've had a visa for the last three. If you've spent enough time in the States, and paid taxes here during those years, you could get citizenship as soon as two years from now."

I turn to Archie, who says, "I'll look back at our travel schedule once we hear from the immigration lawyer about residency requirements to see if you've met them. Taxes is a question I'll pass along to your accountant."

Worry sits at the slightly turned-down corners of his mouth. It's barely noticeable, but enough for me to tamp down my rising hopes.

"And if I'm not considered a permanent resident? Then what? There's only four years to the next Olympics."

This situation feels a lot like the Marta trying to smooth that wrinkle out of her trousers with only her hands—impossible. I don't remember if I've paid taxes in the US or Aus, but I do know I spend most of the year chasing waves. Some of those are in the US. Most aren't.

Odds are, I'm not becoming an American in time for the 2028 games. Even if, by some miracle—or, more likely, bribery—I meet the citizenship requirements, there's still the intense training and basic luck I'd need to stay on the Championship Tour for the next three years. The US coaches won't look at me if I don't keep winning.

The whole thing sounds impossible.

But just as I'm about to give up hope, I remember that at the beginning of this season, winning the world title seemed impossible too. But intense training and a bit of luck earned me the Duke Kahanamoku trophy. And I'd love to see an Olympic medal next to it.

An Olympic medal, more than any other trophy, legitimizes the sacrifices an athlete makes to be the best in the world. Not finishing secondary school or skipping university doesn't matter with an Olympic medal hanging around your neck. A fella doesn't have to be book smart to get one. He only has to know his sport and his competition.

The Olympics are the ultimate for any athlete, and I want to be that athlete.

I can handle the training it will take to get on the team; it's the legal stuff that's the biggest if .

"Is there any way to speed up the immigration process if my years here don't already count?" I ask Archie, even though Marta is more likely to have an answer. I have a sliver of hope left that I'm not prepared to lose to a blunt no from her.

Archie lifts his palms in a shrug. "I reckon marrying an American would speed things up."

He's joking, but Marta sits taller, her interest piqued. I stand and slap Archie's shoulder with a laugh, then bolt for the door. "If that's my only option, let's pray my days here count, then."

I've got a party to get back to, and an actual win to celebrate. That's what I'm supposed to be doing, not entertaining impossible dreams.

I'm almost to the door when Marta says, "Is that girl you kissed today American?"

With my hand on the knob, I turn around. Marta's foot tick tocks side to side, a sure sign she's cooking up some plan. But it's the way Archie slowly sits up that has me more worried.

"Yeah, she is," he says with a hint of excitement.

"What's that got to do with anything?" My eyes dart between the two of them.

"How serious are you two?" Marta asks.

"We barely know each other."

Music and laughing come from the other side of the door, but I can't open it. My head buzzes, trying to put the puzzle pieces together that Archie and Marta are laying in front of me.

"You like her though," Archie says.

I shoot him a warning, but I don't deny what he's said. He'd call me a liar if I did, and he wouldn't be wrong.

Marta taps at her phone. I should walk out right now, but I'm stuck waiting to see why Marta, who never smiles, looks like she just cracked the recipe for chicken salt.

She looks up, still smiling, and shows me her phone screen. There's a blue header up top with an official-looking seal and a title that says something about naturalization. "Three years to citizenship if you're married to an American."

I burst out laughing. "Britta may be on her way back to Idaho by the time I get back to South Bay. She will be for sure if I ask her to marry me."

Marta doesn't join me laughing. "If she's gone, then, depending on what our immigration lawyer says, you might want to consider Bumble or Tinder or whatever app will put you on the fast track to finding an American to spend the rest of your life with. Or at least the next three years."

I shift my gaze to Archie for backup that what Marta is proposing—no pun intended—is insane. But all I get is a forced laugh.

I stare at him until I finally find my words. "Yesterday Britta was a distraction, and now you're seriously considering I marry her as a backup plan?"

"I just watched you win the Title after kissing her. She may be exactly the distraction you need." Archie smiles, having officially—along with Marta—gone completely mad.