Page 2 of Seduction on the Slopes

In a larger sense, it was a stupid idea to try out, it was stupider to accept the offer to be on the team, and stupidest to agree to Coach Miller’s ridiculous conditions for getting to keep my place on the SIG roster.

In a smaller sense, I’m not supposed to be in my room at the village right now, chilling on my single bed. I’m supposed to be getting made up and mic’d for more press. My stomach pitches at the thought. Press. Lights. Cameras. Me saying stupid shit. And Miles Palmer is so going to have my ass for this. . . . Which, if Miles Palmer actually wanted to have my ass? He’d be welcome to it. My ass, my mouth, my dick; anything he wanted, anytime he wanted it.

My devotion to Miles Palmer started out as pure and chaste hero worship. And since then has become . . . something else. Which is probably because when it started, I was a kid and he was a gold medal–winning SIG athlete. I had a poster of him on my wall that I ripped out of a magazine at the gas station in town because I couldn’t afford the actual magazine. Also a cardboard portrait I cut off the front of a box of Wheaties after begging my mom for the box for weeks, tearing my hair out in the grocery store when she refused at first because they might sell the last box and my life would be over.Over.The worst part was I had to actually eat the Wheaties because no way were my parents spending money on a cardboard box. Gross, but worth it to have another picture of my idol.

At some point, it started being less like hero worship, and more like the bikini girls that were up on most of my friends’ walls. Because the man is . . . hot. Like drool-worthy, boner-inspiring hot. Not to mention a badass on the slopes. I copied his technique as best I could on my own, but clearly didn’t do a great job because he crits my runs like I fall down the mountain instead of skiing. I have to admit his suggestions have been helpful, even if he can be kind of a killjoy when he’s delivering them.

I still want to hook up with the guy worse than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, but it’s become abundantly clear he thinks I’m a jackass. Which is fair. Because I’m being a jackass. Not that thinking someone’s a jackass is always grounds for not fucking them, but I bet it is for squeaky-clean Miles Palmer. I would not be surprised if the man were saving himself for marriage or at least his true love, so a scruffy-ass screw-up who ticks him off on the regular isn’t going to tempt him.

Checking my cell, I see Miles has called, texted, and emailed me. Coach Miller and my other teammates have done the same, and it sets my stomach to churning even more.

If I leave this second, I’ll be in time for the whole interview, which means too damn soon. So I wait, and wait, and wait, until the messages stop coming, and I know I’m going to get reamed out by Coach Miller and Miles. There’s going to be yelling. And lots of snappy dudes telling me I’m the worst. Angry faces, fingers wagging, and my favorite: people telling me I’m wasting my potential.

That’s it. The movie I’ve got playing in my head is good enough to finally bring up the contents of my stomach. I book it to the bathroom so Prince Palmer, His Royal Highness of All the Damn Things, won’t have another offense to yell at me for, and pay homage to the porcelain god.

Lunch and bile in the shiny new bowl—I’ve heard some of the other athletes saying the village is a hole, but this is the nicest place I’ve ever lived, everything’s brand spanking new—I flush and wash up, because whatever my teammates think of me, I have some standards.

Now. Now I can go and not humiliate myself. Scratch that. Not humiliate myself as much.

Miles

Finally. Finally the kid shows up. The lights have been glaring in my eyes for half an hour and I’ve been taking questions actively for the last ten minutes. Does Crash think this is a press buffet? Show up whenever, talk as much as you want and then leave with a shitty tip on the table? Because it’s not. It’s really not, and his attitude is seriously grinding my gears.

I’ve tried all the things I know to get him to meet his obligations. I’ve talked to him like a grown-up:Crash, here are your responsibilities.Like a laid-back teammate:Dude, I know it’s not fun, but you’ve just gotta show up. It’s the price we pay, you know?Like a school principal:Young man, if you don’t start showing up on time, there will be consequences which will be recorded in your permanent record.Like a bad cop:Dammit, kid. What the fuck is your problem? Get your ass to these things on time, or I swear to god . . .

I’m out of tactics, and so is Ted. We are desperate. Maybe we’ve aimed too high, assumed Crash has a certain maturity level and we’re flat-out wrong? Maybe we should be going with a sticker chart or a piece of candy every time he does something he’s supposed to do? Hell, I would go farther than that if I had to. Whatever the kid wants, as long as he just starts showing up.

Once he’s sidled up the side of the room chock-full of sports magazine reporters, flashing his ID when people give him dirty looks, he takes a seat at the end of the folding card table that’s been set up for us. He slouches in his chair, and I hope the photographers aren’t capturing this, because what the hell is that headline going to look like? Also, he doesn’t look so good.

His hair’s as reasonable as it ever is, which is to say not very, but his skin is kind of a sickly pale, and his eyes are red. But unless he somehow snuck out and snuck back in again last night without me noticing—unlikely—he’s not hungover.

Then there’s an elbow nudging me from the left. I shoot Anderson a look, because he’s got enough room he shouldn’t be invading my space, but his eyebrows shoot up and he does one of those not-so-slick moves where he’s allegedly scratching his nose, but really he’s pointing to a woman who’s standing amidst the sea of cameras, recorders, notebooks, and harried looking reporters.

Shit. I missed a goddamn question because of Crash. It’s one thing for him to screw things up for himself—one thing I’m still disgruntled about—but it’s another to mess things up for other people by distracting them.

“Yes, sorry, didn’t catch that?”

Ted glares at me from under his brows, his arms crossed and if there weren’t so many people here, I’d flip him off. God forbid I not be perfect for a minute. The reporter offers me a tight, don’t-waste-my-time smile. “Actually, I had two?”

“Sure.”

“What’s it like to be the only black athlete on the American SIG alpine team?”

I’m not a big fan of this question. It gets asked all the time, and I generally try to handle it with grace, but today, I’m fresh out. “I don’t know. I’ve always been the only black guy on the alpine team, so I have nothing to compare it to. Second question?”

She blinks at me, but when she realizes that’s all she’s going to get, she forges ahead. Some nonsense about the new advances the Austrians have made with their suits and whether that’s going to affect our chances at the podium.

I lean slightly forward to take advantage of the microphone, and answer. “I’m not worried. If it’s competition-legal, then there’s no way our engineers and designers aren’t taking advantage of those techniques, too. As far as I’m concerned, the alpine events are ours to lose.” I shoot a glance at Crash to make sure he’s listening, because I want him to hear me. “We have the science, we’ve got the potential, we’re doing the work, and all we need to do is show up and give the performance of our lives.”

Chapter Three

Miles

Even though my blood had been boiling, there hadn’t been time after the latest presser to tear Crash’s limbs off and beat him with them. We had to book it over to the slopes for one of the few times we’ll get practice runs before the event, but now . . .

We’re all showered off, towels around our waists in a shiny new locker room that hasn’t been in existence long enough to have acquired that deep-rooted sweaty-man stench. The towels are still a bright white and there’s no peeling paint from the humidity of the showers, no mildew in the freshly grouted tile floors. It’s not luxurious, but it’s pleasant.

Having a good workout and having been doused in hot water should’ve taken some of the edge off my frustration with Crash, dulled it into prickly irritation or annoyance, made me able to be more rational when dealing with him. Unfortunately, there’s something about Crash Delaney that has crawled under my skin and won’t let go. Everything about him—except the way he makes his way through a course—makes me absolutely fucking crazy.

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