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NOAH

She didn’t reject me

People love a bad boy.

Up to a point.

That point being when photos leak of said bad boy having a threesome with two supermodels, followed by a fistfight at a party of a renowned cocaine-addicted music producer.

All this the night after the police arrested him for being drunk and disorderly, risking his entire athletic career.

Around that point, people think you’re an obnoxious dickhead.

It’s understandable nobody wants to work with me. My brand deals were either cancelled or not renewed and now, the bosses at the World Surfing Association are waiting for the final straw to break so they can cut me from next year’s Championship Tour.

The floor to ceiling windows across the eastern wall of my house give me a perfect view of the waves angrily crashing below. Rain batters on the roof and the trees whip furiously in the wind. I’ve only been back in Australia for a couple of weeks, and I’ve even managed to piss off the weather.

I crack my neck. “Don’t worry, I’m pissed at me too.”

Whilst I technically don’t need sponsors as a professional surfer, they sure as shit help.

Every surfer worth their salt is proudly sponsored by reputable brands covering an array of costs for the athlete.

I’ve had contracts with surf brands, energy drinks, natural food companies.

Even beer. As it stands, alcohol brands wouldn’t touch me. I’m too much of a liability.

Some people think the surfing world is all about family, friendships and the love of the sport.

Don’t get me wrong, that’s a huge part of it, but anyone telling you it isn’t a billion-dollar business is lying through their teeth.

If you want to make decent money, you’ve got to win competitions and be likeable enough that brands and companies want to work with you.

And I want to work with them. Whilst twenty-seven years of age might be young to some, it’s old compared to the teenage flesh and blood coming up through the ranks. Soon there’ll be no room for an old guy like me.

I yank open the fridge door and stare at the shelves of beer bottles and a leftover Thai takeaway container.

If I hadn’t spent the past six months pissing my money and reputation down the drain because I got caught up in the fame of it all, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

If only the press had seen I helped another human being this morning.

An insufferable one, but a human, nonetheless.

“Fuck’s sake,” I hiss, slamming the fridge shut.

A grunt sounds from behind me, and I turn to see my best mate Dan Fisher lumber inside. “What’d you do this time?”

“Just thinking of what a giant cock-up I am.”

He nods. “Probably overdue.”

Dan’s been my best mate since we were twelve.

We met on a bitter winter morning at the beach after coming out of the icy water at the same time.

I’d gotten a ride with my older brother Jared and while we were desperately peeling off our winter skins and staying close to the open engine for warmth, Dan appeared from a few car spaces over with a thermos of hot chocolate to share. I knew then we’d be mates for life.

Six foot four of pure muscle; it’s a wonder how Dan looks graceful on a surfboard.

Not only is he a staunch friend and my certified physiotherapist, he’s the one who stormed into the L.A.

party and dragged my ass out of there, shoving me into the shower to sober up.

He went with me to my meeting with the CEO of the World Surfing Association a couple of days later and then got me on a plane home.

“How’s the surf?” he asks.

I frown, remembering my run in with the high-school do-gooder. “I’ve had better.”

The memory of my interaction with Millie creates a flurry of unexpected emotions in my body. Excitement, anger, nostalgia, confusion, embarrassment. Imagining her dark brown eyes narrowing at me, her breath huffing in annoyance, makes my blood boil.

I lean against the kitchen island. “Do you think I’m a cliché?”

Dan quirks an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think I’m predictable? Like, I’m the same as I was at school?”

“I didn’t go to your school.”

“But you knew me. Do you think I’m the same? That I’m easy to read?”

Dan folds his arms across his body. “I’ve known you for fifteen years.”

“And?”

“I can tell when you’re excited and when you’re lying. I know when you’re into a woman or when you think a bloke is being a cretin. So, yeah. You’re easy to read. You’ve been that way since I met you.”

“Damn it.”

He frowns. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

The sound of the front door bursting open ricochets down the hallway, our friends’ voices hollering as they scramble inside.

It’s rarely quiet when those two are around.

Dan and I haven’t known Mack and Callum for as long as each other, but they became fast friends with us when we met in Hawaii five years ago.

Mack had graduated from studying PR and sports management, and Callum was lining up work as a sports nutritionist and personal trainer.

In a matter of months, they joined my team as ‘staff’.

I use that term loosely. The four of us mostly surf and hang out, doing our best to keep each other out of trouble.

That was until I decided to ignore every single person around me.

Callum enters the kitchen first, flicking his brown hair out of his eyes whilst swiping at his phone. Mack follows with a shit-eating grin on his face, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Where’s your phone?”

I nod to it, plugged in on the bench. “Out of juice.”

“Shocker.” Callum reads from his phone, “ Playboy Noah King spends time with local business owner, Millie Schofield, as he tries to re-connect with his roots .”

“At least they didn’t use California’s Adopted Fuckboy this time,” Mack muses.

I cross the kitchen and snatch Callum’s phone from his hands.

A series of images fill the screen, evidently taken with a long-range lens from somewhere above the sand dunes.

Millie and I have our backs to the photographer, our heads turned towards each other.

Whilst these snaps make it look like an intimate moment between lovers, I can almost pinpoint the second she started to rile me.

“You swam on a closed beach with some new bird?” Mack asks, rubbing his hands together. “You devil.”

“I helped her out of the water,” I dismiss.

Callum gives me an exaggerated wink, taking his phone back. “Sure.”

“It ended with us sniping at each other. Did they print that part?”

Mack slaps me on the back. “Your wily, hypnotic powers won’t work on Australian women, King.”

“She probably read about you in the tabloids,” Callum chimes in.

“And had the common sense to stay away,” Dan adds dryly.

“Fuck. You. All.” I give each of them a direct view of my middle finger and move into the open lounge, slumping onto the couch.

It makes sense. Maybe Millie was referring to the cliché, typical jock behaviour she’d seen online.

I was loud and popular at school, focused solely on sports, getting into the junior leagues of surfing, and flirting like it was a competition.

Lately, I’ve focused on having a good time, lots of sex, and barely holding onto my surfing career.

I had to dig out my old yearbook to jog my memory of Millie. I don’t remember a lot about her, other than she was super smart. What I’ve gathered from my flip-through is that Millie was involved in everything .

She ran school events and volunteered in the community.

She was a prefect and captain of the science club.

She even forfeited celebrating a week of debauchery after year twelve graduation for a volunteer program in Kenya.

I remember her speaking at assemblies a few times and not once did she strike me as shy or that she cared about what anyone thought of her.

I might not have had many interactions with her, but it seems like everybody respected her.

From our meeting on the beach, I’d say she’s as self-assured as ever.

As well as quick to judge and shut people down.

Physically, she’s mostly the same as her photo, with dark, curly hair and a big smile. Except the smile in the book is innocent. Her smile today was cheeky as fuck, and she has a body I definitely checked out a few times when she sat soaked next to me.

Under her graduation photo, it reads:

In 10 years, I will: Be smashing it as a health scientist!

Likes: Sour lollies

Dislikes: Tomato ketchup

Favourite quote: Women. Can’t live with ‘em. Can’t kill ‘em.

The yearbook reminds me I know nothing about the woman I pulled from the water, apart from the insults I threw her way from my quick assessment of her. I’ve gotten good at reading people and when I spat those words at her in the rain, I know I hit a nerve.

“Found her!” Callum sings out, taking a seat on the U-shaped couch across from me.

“Millie Schofield, twenty-seven, co-owner of Beans Coffee and Creations on the Gold Coast. Camera emoji, lollipop emoji, sun emoji. Her profile is private, but if we head to Beans . . . yep, she’s on here a few times and she is cute . ”

Like I hadn’t noticed. My go-to moves of lip-wetting, hair toss and a wink did not register on Millie Schofield’s radar. If anything, it had the complete opposite effect.

“She’s also a saint.” Callum stretches his long tan legs out to rest his feet on the coffee table.

“Every few months she hosts a night of free meals and haircuts for the homeless, and donations go to a variety of local services, including shelters, domestic violence safe houses and cancer support services.” Callum lowers his phone with a raised eyebrow. “Sainthood shit.”

I scoff. “Still a do-gooder by the sounds of things.”

Callum arches an eyebrow. “ Still ? Do you know her?”

I shake my head. “Not really. We went to high school together.”