Belle walked out of the shower trailer like she had just closed a hostile takeover. She wore a dry academy hoodie that hung to her thighs and nothing I could see underneath it. Her blue hair was wrapped in a towel turban, and her mascara had been scrubbed off so hard her cheeks still glowed pink. She also limped, and she made zero effort to hide it.
I came out two steps behind her with a towel around my neck and my dignity somewhere back in the drain.
Jordan sat on an overturned crate ten meters away, still wearing half his wetsuit. Javier crouched beside him with a stopwatch in one hand and his waterproof notebook in the other. They looked up at us at the same time, and Javier clicked the stopwatch with a little ceremonial flourish that made me want to throw him into the Pacific.
"Twenty-three minutes and forty seconds," Javier announced. "Jordan, you owe me forty credits."
