Page 33 of Seduction on the Slopes

He turns on me then, eyes practically on fire, or maybe it just feels that way because they’re burning right through me.

“I can’t do this right now. You’re still my teammate, but you’re also my competitor, my enemy for the next few days, and I can’t . . . I have given up my entire life for this. This—” He flings his arms around, encompassing the room but the rest of the SIGs as well. “This is all I have, and I have fuck all idea what I’m going to do when this is over.”

I’ve seen Miles angry before, but never quite like this. He has just flat-out lost it. And Miles isn’t like some of the people I know who didn’t have much to lose. Miles . . . Miles has all the things, or he usually does, and now he’s lost every single last one. It’s kinda freaking me out, especially since this has happened literally overnight. Did the race getting so close finally poke the sleeping competitive giant inside him? Or is it something else?

“This isn’t all you have. You have your parents. And . . . friends.”

IthinkMiles has friends? But outside of people he knows through skiing, is that true? He and Coach Miller are annoyingly close, but will that keep being true when Miles isn’t on the team? Same with the other people on the team, except he’s not so much friends with them as he is a mentor. So . . .

“I don’t have friends who don’t ski competitively. Or who don’t coach or train. So yes, I have my parents. I am thirty-fucking-one years old and the only thing I have to show for my time on earth is a functional relationship with my family and a few pieces of metal. That is it, Crash, and you want to take that away from me.”

Whoa. I hadn’t realized that he feels that way. Under all that slick and easy Miles-y-ish-ness, he’s as insecure as the rest of us. It’s just that no one sees it because he’s never had to be anything but a professional skier. It’s not really fair of him though to act like this is personal. I no more want to take those medals away from him than he wants to take them away from any of our competitors. He just . . . wants it. Why can’t he see my hunger the same way? I only ever wanted to be like him, modeled myself after him in everything I did, to the extent I even could.

Before I can call him on weirdly personal bullshit though, he goes on.

“Don’t you see that for everything you’ve lacked, you’re not walking out of here with nothing. You have friends, you’ve had boyfriends. I’ve never had that.”

“You’ve never—”

“Dated anyone? No. Hooked up with people, yes, been on a couple of dates, but no matter how much I’ve liked some of the men I’ve been with, I didn’t like them more than skiing. Who wants to come in second place all the time to a bunch of sticks and a mountain? No one. No one worth being with anyway. And watching my parents—they’re devoted to each other. They pay attention to each other. Do little things to make each other happy. I would’ve been shitty at all that, and I didn’t want to be, so I’ve done without.”

Damn. I mean, not like I always have a boyfriend, but sometimes. Even when we were moving around all the time, I managed to have a couple of relationships. I had no clue Miles thought I was better or luckier than him in any way. I don’t get any satisfaction from his envy though. It makes me sad for him. I kinda want to hug him and tell him I’ll teach him how to be a real person once this is over, and I can be his friend or his boyfriend or whatever he wants. But I think he’d smack away any try at comfort, so I’ll stand here while he’s heaving with anger and confusion and some things I don’t recognize and probably he doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, but I—”

“Hey, I’m not telling you to throw the race, I’m not telling you not to do your best. In fact, I will hunt you down and stab you with my own poles if you do something as bone-headed as that, but you can’t expect me to . . . to . . .”

Miles doesn’t say “fuck.” Not about fucking anyway. He waves his arms again, but this time he’s only talking about what goes on behind our closed door. “—when we’re racing. I just can’t. I’m sorry if that’s going to make things uncomfortable, I really am, because you know I’ve only ever wanted you to do well, but I also need to do well, because this is my last shot. This is all I get, Crash, and if I can’t have this, then what was it all for? I traded my life for empty hands?”

I want to point out how ridiculous it is that he’s happy trading his life for a circle on a string, but then he might go into a spiral of existential angst or some shit, and I have no idea what I’d do with that. I’m surprised Miles doesn’t have a plan for when this is over. That’s something they talk to us about: having a back-up plan because you can’t be a SIG athlete forever. Whether you think you want to coach, or go back to school or whatever, have a plan. And it seems entirely unlike Miles not to have done that.

Although maybe that was part of his strategy. It was certainly part of mine. If I don’t have any other options, then I can’t fail. There is nothing else. I suppose for Miles, he’s got that whole trust fund thing going on, so it’ll be easy for him to take his time and figure his shit out, and then do what he really wants. I think he’d be a great psychiatrist, although the AMA or whatever other governing body they have probably frowns on a lot of the methods he’s used with me. But the point is, he’s going to be okay.

For some of us . . . we have to figure shit out a lot more quickly than that. Because if I, for example, don’t? I don’t eat. Or have a roof over my head. I think the ski area will take me back, because why the hell wouldn’t they, but what if I can’t do that anymore for some reason?

Miles might feel like he has nothing, but if I lose skiing, I’m well and truly fucked. He’s not the only one who has a lot riding on these races, and all of a sudden, that competitive part of me that’s been curled up like a lapdog, and enjoying the belly rubs Miles has been doling out, wakes up and growls.

“What the hell do you think is going to happen to me if I finish out of the medals, huh? No one puts a SIG athlete on a magazine cover just for showing up. My face is not going to be on a Wheaties box. No one is going to pay me to use their gear and talk about how great it is. No matter what happens, you’ll be fine. You’ll go home to your parents’ big-ass spread in Greenwich and maybe you’ll be depressed for a while, but you can do it in the lap of luxury, with your champagne fountains and your diamond-soled shoes and you’ve probably got servants to stroke your ego when they’re not cleaning your toilets or making you a goddamn sandwich. I don’t have any of that. I blow this? I go back to Cast Iron Peak with my tail between my legs and a few duffel bags worth of new gear.”

We’re both breathing heavily as we face off. I don’t like yelling at Miles and I sure as hell don’t like him yelling at me. This . . . this was not a good idea. If I had known this was how things would turn out, I never would’ve agreed to this. Started it. However you want to think about it.

I can barely look at him right now, because it hurts. I get it, I do, but I want for him to get my side of it, too. He can’t see it, though, because he can’t look beyond his fear. Can’t focus on anything except Miles. I get why his world is shrinking when he needs every ounce of focus he possesses, but I’d kind of hoped his competition blinders wouldn’t make him blind to me. No dice.

There’s still a couple of hours left before our team meeting and even though I don’t have anywhere in mind to go, I can’t stay here. So I grab my coat and my hat and mittens, even though it can’t possibly be chillier out there than it is in here. Only difference is that the cold outside I can defend against with layers, but the chill in my heart is going to stick, no matter what I do.

Chapter Eighteen

Miles

This is it. I’m standing at the top of the slalom course, wind stinging my eyes. I’m freezing my ass off because all I’ve got on is my skintight suit and the boots that hug my feet perfectly, sculpted around every curve and offering the perfect amount of structure and support, but lacking in the warmth department. Soon it’ll be time to lower my goggles over my eyes, glide up to the gate, and then . . . go.

It’s strange to be doing this, knowing it’s my second-to-last chance at glory. Here in the giant slalom, the space between the gates is bigger, the course wider. Also, it’s called “giant,” which is kind of cool. Makes me wish I had a shot at the super-G, because that’s an even cooler name, but that’s never been my strong suit.

This is the first of two runs and I’m doing my best not to pay attention to anyone else’s results. Racing against myself is the only thing that matters, because if I can do this run even a fraction of a second faster than I have before, I’ll be skiing this course the fastest it’s ever been skied. That also means everyone else has their eyes squarely on me.

With a gesture from one of the officials manning the starting hut, I know it’s my turn.Breathe, Palmer. You do this every day, there has never been anyone alive who has been better at this than you.A little voice in the back of my brain pipes up and volunteers, “Maybe there hasn’t been, but—”

I don’t want to think about Crash, for a whole heap of reasons. Bottom line is the dude needs to get out of my head. This is my time to shine, and I am going to motherfucking glow.

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