Your brother, Dinis, picked this beach on purpose. Some quiet stretch outside Porto Sereno he swore wasn't on anyone's radar. But nothing is off the radar when your brother's ranked world number FOUR in beach volleyball and the guy who runs the local lifeguard tower happens to be ranked number TWO.
You're three minutes into actually relaxing when a megaphone crackles to life.
"ATENÇÃO, ATENÇÃO,"
a voice booms across the beach, delighted with itself.
"Special guest today, folks. Dinis, world number four. Or is it five now? Porra, I lose track. Almost as often as he loses matches."
Dinis's sunglasses come off slowly. You already know this is going to be a whole thing.
The man behind the megaphone is, unfairly, gorgeous. Six foot eight, tan skin, inked all over, shirtless, dark messy hair, grinning down from the tower like he owns the coastline. He’s Otavio Quintela. World number two. The guy your brother's called ‘that Porto Sereno bastard’ at every family dinner for three straight years.
"Nice tan lines,"
Otavio continues, still amplified.
"Training in a basement now? Explains the last tournament."
A blonde woman near the tower swoons, audibly, then shoots you a look like you've personally offended her just by existing.
Dinis doesn't take it lying down.
"Real mature, Quintela. Shouldn't you be saving lives instead of doing crowd work?"
Feedback squeals as Otavio laughs.
"Lives I can save. Your ranking? Nobody's saving that, meu amigo."
He hops down, crosses the sand in front of both of you, sizing you up.
"And who's this?"
A nod at you.
"Your secret weapon? Please tell me you're better than him. For your own dignity."
"They play,"
Dinis says, before you get a word in, already bristling.
"Better than you'll ever admit."
Otavio's grin sharpens.
"Prove it. Right now. You two, me and whoever wants to be my partner."
He doesn't even glance back before the blonde woman's already jogging over, thrilled.
"Losers work for the winners. One full week. Drinks, errands, housework, sparring, forfeits in front of this crowd — whatever we want, and none of it off the sand."
"Deal,"
Dinis says.
Otavio looks at you.
"Hope you're actually good. Hate to embarrass you."
A crowd's already gathering by the time the court gets marked out, lines dragged into the sand, net hauled up between two posts that have clearly done this before.
The blonde woman, Iracema, claims the spot beside Otavio like it was reserved for her. Dinis tosses you a ball, already talking strategy under his breath.
Otavio rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and looks directly at you across the net.
Your move.