Page 1 of Seduction on the Slopes

Chapter One

Six Weeks Before the Opening Ceremony

Miles

“I’m not here to be a goddamn babysitter.”

“Yeah, well, neither am I. And he’s your fault.” Ted jabs a finger closer to my face than I care for. I don’t flinch, but I do wrinkle my nose.

Okay, he has me there. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try to get out of this. If anyone else on the team were around, I wouldn’t, because I set an example. It’s what I do as the most senior member of the team—hell as one of the most senior members of the entirety of Team USA, never mind just the small corner that is downhill. But I’ve known Ted a long time and we have an arrangement: I can speak to him as frankly as I’d like in private, as long as we present a united front in public. We’ve had a while to perfect this arrangement, and it works well.

Except when he’s driving me crazy. I’m far more comfortable being the one who drives him crazy. Aren’t athletes supposed to be the temperamental ones?

I try to look puppy dog–innocent, but just like you can always tell when the damn dog ate the shoe, I’m sure he can see right through me. But still, I say, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Ted’s eyes bulge wide. “I would. I wasn’t going to take him because he’s too much of a wild card, but you were all, ‘He’s unpolished, but he’s a phenomenal raw talent. Think what you could do with that.’”

His Miles impression is getting better all the time, and I don’t know whether to be impressed or throw something in his self-satisfied face. I suppose both isn’t out of the question. “Yes, and the key word wasyou. Not me. I just ski. That’s the only thing I’m good for. And to be fair, you have done a great job with the kid. He’s improved his times, his technique is heading toward better, he shows up—”

Ted gives me a dark look. I was going to say “on time,” but would’ve had to add too many qualifiers so instead, I extend a defensive finger, daring him to argue. “He does show up now.”

“Yeah, but this is the Snow and Ice Games we’re talking about, not some bunny slope competition where everyone gets a participation trophy. At this level, we pretty much expect you’ll not only show up but that you do it on time and ready—to train, or do press, or do whatever it is that you’re supposed to be doing, and this kid . . .” Ted shakes his head and blows a frustrated breath out of his mouth, his cheeks puffing with the effort. “When he shows up and when he listens, he’s great, but otherwise . . .”

Yeah, I know. Crash Delaney is a royal pain in my ass.

“I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve got six other skiers I have to deal with, and I don’t have time for this shit. So you can step up and take responsibility for him, or I’m saying to hell with it and trading him in for Sully.”

Sully? Ugh,Sully.Brett Sullivan is a perfectly respectable skier. He’s also perfectly dull. No style, no flair, no oomph. The guy somehow manages to make hurtling down a mountain at eighty miles per hour look boring, which is a talent in itself, but not one I’d ever want. He’s technically good, but god is he ever like the Red Delicious of downhill. Mealy and bland.

“Ted. You know Sully’s—”

Ted interrupts me with a hand up. “What I know is that Sully is reliable, consistent, and he’s decent with the press. I know he doesn’t set the place on fire and he’s never going to end up on the cover of any magazines. But he’s not going to embarrass us. He shows up on time, works hard, and takes instruction well. All things being equal, he’s never going to beat Crash on the slopes, but things aren’t equal. Crash is a maverick, which is all well and good on his best days, but on his worst I’m lucky if the kid can find the damn mountain. I can’t take that chance during the SIGs, because the committee will have my ass. So it’s up to you, Palmer. Either he’s yours or he’s out. Your call, because I’m not making it.”

I hate it when Ted does this. This is what he gets paid the big bucks for: making the tough calls. But I guess when you’re as old as I am and have been doing this for longer than some of your teammates have been alive—Christ, that’s disheartening—you ought to have figured out your priorities. What comes first for me, what always has, is the good of the team. The good of the sport, the good of the Games, and in my own small way—because I’m never going to be a politician or join the military or really contribute to society at large in any other way—the good of my country.

Of course the calculations are more complicated than that. I never wanted to be a coach, and this is why. Not only would considering this shit be the right thing to do, it would also be my job. Also, athletesaretemperamental, I don’t want a piece of that. Right now, though, I still have to make my call about Crash because Ted is making me. Bastard.

Will managing Crash be so consuming I tank my own chances at medaling? Will his presence on the team mess with other people’s mojo? Will he set a bad example that some of the younger, more impressionable team members will be inclined to follow? Will his idiotic behavior and frankly poor personal grooming habits present an unfavorable picture of alpine skiing to the world?

Or will his unconventional style and rags-to-riches story be inspiring to kids who don’t think they can afford to ski? Maybe win us back some of the youth who would’ve switched to snowboarding because it’s “cooler”? I know he’s a better bet for a medal than Sully.

My brain isn’t going to be of much use here, because there are as many tally marks in the pro column as there are in the con. So I tell my rational self to take a hike and for once I listen to my gut off the slopes. After all, that’s what’s gotten me down mountains in one piece for twenty-eight years and with six gold medals around my neck to boot. I hope I don’t live to regret it.

Plus, while my gut has feelings about this, my heart has more. So many feelings, and my skier’s heart, the athlete and showman’s heart, beats only for one man right now. One irresponsible, shaggy-haired, walking disaster of a man.

“Don’t move Sully up. I’ll deal with Crash. I know he’s supposed to be bunking with Hollingsworth, but now he’s rooming with me. You tell him I’m not going to take any shit and he better listen to every word I say because I can have his ass kicked back to Utah or Wyoming or Montana or whatever snow pile he climbed out of.”

I am so, so going to regret this.

Chapter Two

Crash

I am regretting this so hard.

Skiing on a team only vaguely resembles skiing, and anything that doesn’t have me on my skis makes me want to pack up and go home. Or smoke. Jesus could I use a joint. Actually, if everyone around me could take a few hits, I wouldn’t even need to. They’re the ones who need to chill out. It’s like they never learned skiing is supposed to be fun. They’ve made it their mission to make it boring as fuck. Maybe faster, yeah, which is cool, but still.

I’m not supposed to be here.

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