Tyler Callahan was the type of guy that drew in attention. It's not like he ever meant to. Not at first, at least. Star soccer captain, popular golden boy parents hated and loved, and teachers tolerated because he was charming.

The skatepark is alive at this time, tucked on the edge of the beach where the air always smelled faintly like saltwater and sun-baked concrete.

Hip-hop music crackled from someone’s speaker near the ramps. Boards clattered. Kids shouted over each other while the sunset painted everything gold.

I decide that before I get on the waves, a couple tricks would do me some good. But as I dip into the bowl, a board wizzes past me, someone flying after it. A guy in baggy jeans and a graphic tee, with his hat on backwards lands on the board on the other side of the bowl, gaining himself a few claps.

"Hey, watch where you're going, man!" I shout as I come up the other side. The guy looks over at me, squinting in the sun.

"Oh, sorry." He shouts over the music, but he doesn't look at all sorry as he takes his board on the bars.

I'm impressed despite myself. Obviously this kid has got game.

I spend the next hour trying to match his tricks, or making my own for him to best. And he always does. Every single time.

I guess you can't be the best at everything, right?

Later, we sit on a bench, both out of breath and sweaty. I hold out a hand. "Tyler."