Episode 4: “The It Factor. The Jerk Factor. Same difference, right?”
Apparently, the key to jet lag is to sleep for twenty hours straight.
Then, when you wake up, you call your dad and let him know you forgot to tell him you’re in Australia and won’t be home again for, like, three months.
Thankfully, he won’t be too upset about that because he’s the best dad in the world and, also, extremely busy running his veterinary practice, and the call will only last a good ten minutes because he has to perform a knee replacement surgery on a golden retriever named Bob.
Then, even though you won’t want to, you call your oldest, most overbearing sister and let her bitch at you for a while, and then take a shower, eat some food, and go to a gala.
[laughs]
Yeah, don’t take that advice. It’s horribly specific to me, and the sleeping part of it is the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do. But it’s what I did for my first full day in Australia.
Fortunately, it worked. And by the time June 5th rolled around, I was in full journalist mode at the Surf Arsen Gala…
I snagged a much-needed glass of champagne from one of the dapper server’s trays at the entrance to the ballroom and ran my free hand down the silk of my A-line dress.
As I’m sure you know, any opportunity to dress up and I’m in my element. After my first introduction to Ollie, I’d had visuals of flip-flops and cargo shorts dancing around inside my head.
But this display, well, it was a welcome fashion sight in comparison.
A sea of tables filled with men in tuxes and women in their best gowns went on as far as my eye could see.
I’d spent the first two hours of the evening standing on the red carpet in my favorite pair of secondhand Jimmy Choos, interviewing the event’s popular guests about their experience with the first half of the tour, and it’d only taken a fraction of that time to realize how unprepared I was.
This gala was the surfing world’s version of the Academy Awards, and I was like a fanny-pack-wearing tourist they’d pulled off the street.
Seriously, guys, I had a sobering learning curve to get around in the beginning.
I had no idea who in the hell anyone was or the questions I should’ve been asking, because, hello, I didn’t know anything about surfing.
But thankfully, I hadn’t been the only journalist there, and I’d discreetly followed my fellow word-crunchers toward the important people.
It wasn’t hard to figure out who was who in the world of surfing when journalists and photographers were enthusiastically shouting their names on the red carpet.
Media people were obvious that way. Thank God.
Once the hustle and bustle of the red carpet wound down, I headed inside the W, one of the biggest hotels in Sydney—and conveniently, the place I was staying—and into the giant ballroom where the rest of the evening’s festivities would be held.
Luxury was everywhere. White silk cloths covered the tables, floral displays composed of orchids and roses lined the room, and soft lighting and tealight candles inside crystal bowls filled with pearls created an intimate atmosphere.
The people in the room were celebrating the halfway mark of the biggest and most important competition in men’s surfing, and apparently, they did that shit up.
While I found my assigned table, I silently wondered if the women of surfing received the same kind of five-star treatment.
Obviously, as a self-described femme fighter, I hoped that was the case.
Discreetly, I took my phone out of my purse and added a writing prompt to explore later.
Compare the women’s competition to the men’s. Is there also an extravagant gala at the halfway point? Are the women met with the same perks and special treatment throughout the competition as the men?
Even though my knowledge of surfing was on the same level as my understanding of advanced calculus—and I think you remember just how mathematically talented I am from the last podcast—I was focused on learning anything and everything I could.
And I never take anything at face value. I make a point to explore all perspectives and aspects before I put words to paper for an assignment.
Now, I knew Scoop hadn’t been hired to investigate inequalities within the surfing world, but that didn’t mean if I’d found something like that to be true, I wouldn’t at least reveal my observations within my pieces.
Some might see articles about fashion and dating and relationships as some sort of guilty pleasure and filler between things like politics and world events, but I take my job seriously and treat each column as such.
Hell, one of my articles about Fashion Week went viral when I’d given a bird’s-eye view on what the pressure was like to stay thin when your job was to walk the runway in designer duds.
I received a lot of flack for that one, but I received a lot of positive feedback too.
And, generally speaking, the only people you piss off when you lift the veil on something negative are the ones who are in the wrong. Their anger doesn’t stem from disagreement—it originates from not wanting to face the truth.
[sighs]
Anyway, I’ll get off my soapbox, pack it up in the gold-edged case I keep it in, and get back to the event…
The MC took the stage, and I slid my phone back into my purse and made focus my bitch. Obviously, this thing was about to get kicking, and I didn’t want to be the twerp with her head in her phone instead of the action.
“We’d like to welcome Ollie Arsen to the stage, but it appears he’s running a few minutes late tonight,” the MC announced with a knowing smile and soft chuckle.
As a wave of laughter hit me, I looked around the vast room, filled with the world of surfing’s legends and biggest stars, to find that no one seemed surprised.
Apparently, Ollie was known for being fashionably late, even to important shit like a gala at which his company, Surf Arsen, was the highlighted sponsor.
Frankly, after the manic, devil-may-care style car ride the day prior, I wasn’t surprised either. Though, I did find it interesting that not even one person seemed bothered by it.
“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” a male voice ventured beside me, the room descending back into mindless chatter as it became clear there wasn’t an immediate need to pay attention. I looked to my right at the prompt and straight into the most vividly pure blue eyes I’d ever beheld in my life. “I’m Jordy Fuller.”
The name rang more than a few bells.
He’d been one of the most sought-after men on the red carpet that evening, and after a little Google research between interviews, I’d quickly found out he was the front-runner of the competition.
“Lucky Wright,” I answered and reached out to shake his hand.
“Lucky?” he asked, and his face held the same expression most people’s faces held when I told them my name. A confused, albeit slightly amused, grin.
I returned the smile. “Well, my full name is Luciana, but everyone calls me Lucky.”
“And are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Lucky?”
Visions of my ex-boyfriends played across my mind like a movie, and I laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself the human version of a four-leaf clover…”
He chuckled at my self-deprecating understatement, and I enjoyed the way the humor lit up his bright Caribbean eyes and high cheekbones.
Surely, a man like this posting photos of himself riding waves and striding around in the sand had to have a million-plus followers on Instagram.
I made a mental note to look it up, and at the first opportunity, did.
And, not to toot my own horn, but I was right.
The Real Jordy Fuller is a hit on Instagram, and when I’m done telling this whole thing, if anyone actually listens, I imagine his popularity will only skyrocket. His posts are hot, sexy, and one hundred percent adorable, and the real-life version of him is no different.
[laughs]
Anyhoo, I digress. Back to the story…and, you know…me.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re an unlucky girl named Lucky?”
“Something like that.” I shrugged, but I also smiled. The statement was a sore spot, but it was hard not to smile around a guy like Jordy.
“So, what brings you here to the big Surf Arsen Gala tonight?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Oh, really? What newspaper?”
“A website, actually. It’s called Scoop.”
He quirked a brow. “So, you’re a sports journalist?”
“Well, not exactly…” I paused with a knowing grin. I presumed this was going to become quite the repetitive conversation as this competition wore on. “I’m more of a fashion and dating expert.”
“But you’re here. At a surfing event?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I responded with a soft laugh. “Actually, I’ll be following the rest of the competition.”
“You’re a bit of a conundrum, unlucky Lucky.”
“Tell me about it.” Hypnotized by his kind blue eyes, I leaned closer to him and whispered, “Do you want to know a secret?”
He nodded. The intrigue was pungent. “Of course.”
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
Amused by my childlike behavior, he crossed his fingers on his chest. “Promise.”
As for what led me to take it to the next step, I can’t say. I’m honestly still a little embarrassed by how ridiculous I was, but I’ve seen enough friends turn into this bubbly, freak version of a girl before to know that I couldn’t have stopped it, even if I’d wanted to.
“But do you pinkie promise?” I asked and held out my right pinkie finger.
“Pinkie promise?”
“You don’t know what a pinkie promise is?”
He shook his head, and a giggle escaped my lungs.
“Give me your pinkie finger,” I demanded. He followed my instructions, a smile holding strong the whole time. “Now, before we do this, you need to understand that this is like a blood oath. Once you pinkie promise, you can’t go back on it.”
“What happens if I go back on it?”
My eyes went wide. “It’s so awful, I can’t even say it out loud.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
I giggled and interlocked our pinkie fingers for a brief moment, and when I let go, he looked at me in confusion.
The moment, it seemed, had been a little anticlimactic, and he said as much. I was far too drunk on cute boy and the smile on his face to let up then, though.
“Do you want to know my secret or not?”
“Of course,” he said and leaned a little closer to me. “I’ve given you a blood oath and nearly signed away my firstborn. I’m all ears.”
Ah, Jordy Fuller.
There is just something about him that makes you feel at ease in his company. Like you can tell him anything, and he’ll listen without judgment or the risk of him divulging your secrets to someone else.
I clearly liked him instantly, which allowed all the happy fumes to go to my head.
I leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “I’ve never been to a surfing competition.”
His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Never?”
I shook my head. “Honestly, I’ve never even watched a surfing event on TV.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said, his voice a soft yet amused whisper. “You’ve never been to a, you know, and yet, you’re here, to report on the biggest, you know, in the sport. How does that even happen?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
God, I was nauseating. Thankfully, the MC came back onto the stage and pulled everyone’s attention toward the podium before I could make any more confessions.
It wasn’t like Jordy was the surfing FBI, but I’d damn well run my mouth enough.
“I’d like everyone in the room to give a warm welcome to Ollie Arsen,” the MC said with a giant smile etched across his face. He clapped his hands with the rest of the crowd and stepped away from the podium as the apparent man of the hour swaggered onto the stage.
Ollie’s strides were easy and confident as he made his way up the steps and toward the mic, and it was more than apparent by the strength of applause that everyone in the room, including my table mate, Jordy Fuller, looked up to Ollie like he was some sort of god among men.
By the time Ollie made it to the actual podium, the entire room was on its feet, clapping and wolf-whistling and giving his ego a thorough stroking it didn’t need.
I kind of wanted to roll my eyes, but I reminded myself that my first introduction to Ollie had been after traveling for twenty-plus hours, and I hadn’t exactly been at my finest.
Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I thought he was?
“Thank you.” He gestured with his hands for the crowd to sit down. “Thank you.”
The crowd hushed at his command and settled in for a listen. I did the same, perching my chin on two folded hands. If, by some chance, he really did impress me, they’d be there to conveniently prevent my mouth from opening dramatically.
“I’d like to say I don’t deserve that kind of applause, but…” He paused and winked toward the crowd. “With four championships under my belt, I think it’s probably safe to assume that I do.”
It was a joke. Even I could tell it was a joke. But holy Jesus, just the thought of stringing those words together made me throw up a little in my mouth.
How the hell confident did you have to be to say something that arrogant?
I’m not sure, but I’m thinking it goes something like this: if the room that night was the universe, he was the fucking sun, and the rest of us just orbited around him.
My initial inventory of his jerk status was right on the money.
But for some reason, people loved him.
Like, loved him. A woman sitting at the far-left side of the room shouted it toward him like a prayer, and Jordy’s clear blue eyes shone like stars as he looked toward the stage.
“This is a big year for the sport of surfing,” Ollie continued. “And I’m honored that I get to be a part of it.”
The crowd clapped their hands, and Ollie continued talking about this year’s championship event, and…well, this is the part I’m embarrassed to admit I can’t actually remember.
I tried several times, while preparing this podcast, to get the words down in some fairly accurate report of the speech he gave that night.
But when all that mental searching still came up empty, it only made it more obvious why I hadn’t been paying attention.
Pillow lips.
[sighs]
Ugh. Sometimes, hormones really are the worst.
As a result, this is what I know.
Oliver Arsen looked absolutely debonair in his sleek black suit, and the way his messy brown hair, highlighted with light streaks of blond, went with his bone structure was nearly criminal.
He had the It Factor. The kind of presence that even if you didn’t want to be drawn to him, he had your full, rapt attention.
And that night, he certainly had mine.