Page 64 of Well Played

DANGEROUS CURVES

BY T.S. SIMONS

In the world of elite ski racing, Sophie Russell knows that discipline and focus are everything. Her lifelong dream is to win gold, and she will do whatever it takes to win each race on the World Cup circuit and earn her place on the Olympic team. Following a knee reconstruction, she struggles to regain her form, and the coach bullies her, attributing her lack of success to her curvaceous figure. This fuels her determination to prove him wrong and emerge victorious.

But when Sophie meets Owen, a fellow skier who loves her curves, she realizes there may be more to life than just ski racing. As a dangerous liaison ensues, Sophie is forced to choose. Can these two champions compete in the ultimate competition and win gold in the game of love?

1

Kitzbühel,Tyrol, Austria

Keep it together, Soph.Clenching my jaw, I steeled myself against the barrage of abuse being hurled at me by my coach after the average time I posted in my first run.

“For fuck’s sake, did you even try to stay close to the gate?” he boomed, making the wall rattle behind me. “Did you evenseethe fucking gates while you were daydreaming your way down the course? This is arace, Sophie! Do you know what that even means? Are your ears painted on? I told you to roll your edges and hit the fucking gate! Am I wasting my time? You know I could be fishing? You never fucking listen! None of you do. You all think you know better. Now look where you are. A loser. As fucking usual.”

Everyone walking past the tiny room in the competitors’ race facility was looking in, fascinated, as they approached. They heard his tirade from well down the hallway and then hurried past as they regrouped between runs. He had me backed into a corner, my back against the wall, and I was struggling to hold it together as his acrid coffee-reeking breath rebounded off my cheek with every roar.

“How many times do I have to tell you, your problem is yoursize!You are fucking enormous and should be ashamed to call yourself an athlete. You look like a baby elephant in that suit. Did you lie in bed after your surgery and just stuff your face with chocolate cake?Stop fuckingeating. Have you seen the Scandinavian women? At least they look like skiers. And if you tied down those fucking airbags, you would do better. How many times have I told you to rein the puppies in? You will never amount to anything until you fucking do what I tell you!”

Gripping my lower lip between my teeth, I exhaled forcefully and avoided eye contact. Jerkwad Jeff, we called him. Jeff had been an elite Olympic skier in his day, a household name, winning medals in both slalom and giant slalom. Now, he spent his days coaching skiers on the World Cup circuit and constantly reminding us how much harder it was in his day, how ski technology had changed, how the skis were better, and how we were soft. But in my case, the thing he loved to criticize was my size. As a US size 10, I was bigger than most of the girls on the circuit. I was curvy, but I was strong. Between Pilates and gym work, I was stronger than most, just not the slimmest. Strength and agility were critical in this sport, and I had both. But Jeff’s most significant issue was my DD breasts, which he took every opportunity to berate me for. It wasn’t like I could control my cup size, which had developed, much to my dismay, when I was sixteen. I had starved myself, flogged myself in the gym, and even spoken to a surgeon about a breast reduction, but ultimately had decided I was who I was.

For the millionth time, I wondered how much more of this I could take. Ski racing has been my passion since I was nine, and I entered my first competition. The sense of exhilaration when flying down the course, the wind rushing past, and the cheers as I flew over the finish line had been addictive, and ever since that day, all I ever wanted to do with my life. My chin dropped to mychest, and I tried to focus on my breath as he continued to roar at me, specks of his saliva spattering across my forehead as my shoulders dropped, and I wondered if I should even attempt my second run. But having a DNS recorded against my name would be worse and would guarantee me a one-way trip home.

Stop crying!I bit my lip harder to stem the hot tears streaming down my cheeks.Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“Back off her, man. She needs to focus.” A low Midwest American accent emanated from behind him as I cowered in the corner. “She has another run. You aren’t helping.”

Jeff whirled like a viper to attack whoever had dared to criticize him, but his bravado visibly deflated when he realized it was Owen, the superstar of the US ski team. Everyone knew Owen. While we were at all the same events, we had never spoken. From what I saw, he kept much to himself.

“How about you focus on your second run and leave me to do my job,” Jeff snarled, but his tone was far less venomous toward Owen. “Your first wasn’t exactly anything to write home about, and you know it.”

Jeff was playing with fire. Owen was a champion and had sponsors clamoring to sign him. He was a quiet man though, not a pretentious, arrogant twat like many of the field who used their fame to attract women and publicity.

“How about you go get a coffee?” Owen took a step closer, glancing from my tear-streaked face back to Jeff. “You’ve made your point.”

Owen was well within swinging distance, and for a moment, I wondered how this would end. Roughly the same height, Jeff was larger, but Owen was undoubtedly stronger. With an athlete’s build, he was at the top of his game; his lycra race suit filled out with toned muscles in all the right places. I had never been so close to him before, and my heart skipped a beatas I took in his taut skier’s legs, the muscles clearly defined. An uncomfortable few seconds ensued as my heart stopped, watching the testosterone visibly fly between them, sizing each other up. Owen deliberately stepped to the side but didn’t adjust his gaze, making it clear Jeff needed to leave. He did, in a huff, but not before delivering his parting shot.

“Fucking get a bandage before your second run, and for fuck’s sake, do what I tell you.” He stormed off, slamming the door behind him, the sound reverberating through the tiny room.

“You ok?” Owen asked, studying my face before I could pull myself together enough to thank him.

I nodded, feeling the tears still wet on my cheeks.

“Sophie, right?”

Owen, knowing my name, impressed me, but also terrified me.Why would he know who I was? Did the guys laugh at me behind my back?While the World Cup circuit was a fairly close-knit group, it was highly competitive too. Not that men and women competed against each other, but we often trained on the same courses. Owen was Mr. Consistent, always in the top three. This year I usually finished in the top ten but struggled to podium since my knee reconstruction at the end of last season. I just hadn’t quite found my groove again. But it was early days, I just needed to keep practicing.

“Yes,” I tried to smile, but the emotion of the last twenty minutes, being screamed at for my performance and being over a second from the fastest time, was still dangerously close to the surface.

“Jeff is an ass. He needs to retire. What did you do?”

“Went wide on gate five,” I admitted.

“That one is shit,” Owen agreed. “Hairpin corner, right on the steep. I think everyone blew that one. Did you crash out?”

“No, just a bit off the pace. Ended in fifteenth.”

Owen exhaled forcefully. “The way he was carrying on, I thought you had blown it. You are fine. Nail your second run and you will make the cut.”

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