Page 21 of Seduction on the Slopes

Weirdly, it sounds like Miles. Why would Miles want me to do better than him? I know how fucking bad he wants those medals, and I can understand why.

I feel like maybe it’s not just about the medals? Not quite about proving he’s the best? Which would be reason enough, but I think part of it is that this is Miles’s whole life. Thing is, if I hadn’t made the team or even if I had but was nowhere in the vicinity of medal-winning times, I’d be okay. I have other things in my life. A town I call home, friends, I’ve had boyfriends and I’ll have another one someday, maybe even one who wants to be more than a boyfriend. Who’d like to settle down in a ski town and we’d work as much as we’d have to to make ends meet, but otherwise spend our days on the slopes. That’d be perfect.

For Miles, though, this isn’t a dream he walked into and that he knows he’ll wake up from. This is his life, and knowing it’s all going to end, and soon, must not feel great.

After the van drops us back at the village, I stop in the convenience store and pick up some gum. It’s sorta stupid, but I like chewing it just before a big race. Gives me something to do, lets me multitask right up until the last minute when I spit it out and devote every brain cell I’ve got to the million things I need to remember when I race. Of course a lot of it is natural. Muscle memory, instinct, things I’d have to think harder aboutnotdoing than doing if I wanted to get myself to stop.

Some of those habits Ted wants me to break. But honestly, what I do has gotten me this far. Why should I fuck with it, and right before the biggest race in my life?

When I get upstairs to our suite, Miles is pacing, back and forth, back and forth, his long strides shuttling him across our small room. As I close the door, his head whips up and I want to tell him to chill or he’s going to need a chiropractor. Before I can get it out, he’s pointing at me, shoving an extended finger in my face so close it could go up my nose. Yes, I would like Miles to insert parts of his body into parts of my body, but finger-nostril intercourse is not what I had in mind.

“You.”

“Me?” What did I do now? I thought I’d been on good behavior, but Miles gets twitchy about some weird shit. Like me using his towel.

“Yes, you.”

I may as well ask. “What did I do?”

“It’s not what youaredoing, it’s what you’renotdoing.”

Well that’s clear as mud.

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, I know.” He starts pacing again, his hands held in front of him like he’s carrying a cantaloupe in each or something. I’m calling it. Miles has officially lost his marbles.

“No, you don’t.”

“Miles, could you explain this before I call the proper authorities? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I was watching your run tapes from today, and comparing them to the old ones. Your upper body engagement has improved markedly and your balance is better, too. But I think what you’re not doing is . . . You look like you’re still starting your turns with your upper body, your ankles seem kind of floppy, and your skis are coming off the snow too much in the turn.”

My face must go white because I think all my blood just drained onto the floor. That’s a laundry list of things I’m sucking at, and there’s not much time to do anything about it. My ribcage feels like it’s shrinking, like oxygen is being replaced with defensiveness. “And what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of practice time left, and this shit takes people years to master.”

I don’t get angry a whole lot. It’s just not in my nature. People joke about potheads, but I’ve always been laid-back. But now I’m getting mad. “So why are you telling me this? If there’s nothing I can do? So I can feel shitty about it and when I bomb spectacularly out there, I’ll know why? What the fuck?”

“No.” He shakes his head and looks honestly shocked that I’d suggest such a thing, eyes wide, brows drawing together. It’s not a crazy thought though. Maybe he’s doing this on purpose to fuck with my head so he’ll have a better shot at beating me. But then I feel shitty because that’s a mean thing to think about this guy who’s done nothing but help me, including getting me off so I won’t bark at ants on national television. “No, Crash. I’m sorry if it came across that way. Not at all. I was telling you because if there’s anyone who can pick this stuff up that fast, it’s you.”

His execution is shitty, but that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Miles has faith in me. He thinks I can be taught. He thinks I have potential, and for the long haul, not just as a one-hit wonder. That’s one of the things I admire about Miles. He’s been in this for the marathon. He’s not super flashy, but he gets the job done time and again, and he thinks I can go the distance. That I’m not just some flash in the pan. That’s what I’ve been to so many people, and it gives me kind of a warm squishy feeling inside that he’s not one of them.

“Thing is, even if you can only pick up one of those things, you’ll be better. And if you managed to get all three?” All of a sudden his face gets tight and severe, like someone grabbed his Miles mask from the back and twisted and now his features don’t have any give. I’m used to him yelling at me, but his face always moves. This is some weirdalien-wearing-a-Miles-suitshit. “If you get all three, you’ll be unstoppable.”

It takes me a second to figure out what he’s trying to say. Unstoppable? I mean, I’m up there already, my chances of medaling are damn good which is what he’s been telling me. But what I think he’s just given me is not some offhand advice to make it even more likely I’ll finish out gazing up at him on the medal platform slightly above mine. No, he’s given me the key to beating him, and he knows it. That’s why his voice got all quiet and he’s not meeting my eyes anymore. Because he probably feels like he just handed his medals, a.k.a. his life, over to me on a silver platter.

“Miles . . .” What am I supposed to say to that?Thank youseems not good enough and insulting in a way. Doing a victory dance is out of the question. But not acknowledging this at all? Not cool. He’s helped me so much, all the while knowing me improving could be his downfall, but he’s done it anyway.

“No, don’t. I have to . . .” He looks around, gaze pinging desperately, bouncing off of walls and furniture. I want to hand him something to do. Like knitting needles or a crossword puzzle or some wood to chop. Anything. But I’ve got nothing. Luckily, he finds his own excuse as to why he can’t look at my face anymore. “I’m going to go for a run. See you later.”

Miles

When I get back to the room, sweaty and worn out, Crash is sitting on his bed, staring off into space. Which makes me angry—he should be watching tape, or down in the gym. Hell, he should be standing in the middle of the room with his boots and his skis, trying to practice what I told him. Not sitting there like some kind of stoner.

Through my shower, I get angrier and angrier.I hand you everything, and this is what you do with it? Nothing? You’re not even going totry?

I don’t know what I’m angrier about. The knowledge that I’ve essentially told him how to take those last two gold medals away from me, or the fact that he might not use that information. Whichever it is, I am not happy, and as much as I try to control it, it won’t go away.

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