Page 34 of Seduction on the Slopes

Pulling my goggles over my eyes, I push up to the start gate and focus. Speed. Style. Technique. Now is not the time to catalogue all the things I need to do, though. Now is the time to trust my body to do what it’s been trained for. I know this. I was built for this. I’ve sacrificed for this. All I have to do is take it.

The tone sounds, and I feel it down to the marrow in my bones. Every particle of me responds, and I shove off. Poles, skis, limbs and core, all working to hit that first gate as fast as humanly possible. And there it is, that satisfying thwack against my guards.

No more shoving off, only taking advantage of gravity and my own ability to shift my weight precisely, angle my skis, use the tools I’ve been given to go faster. And faster. Yes, the turns slow me down, as does recovering my balance, but then I always speed back up again.

I like to think of it like flying: wings out to recover my balance, wings in to recover my speed and hit the gates as fast as possible. Unlike flying, I’m keeping my skis in the snow, becoming intimately acquainted with the terrain as I slice through the course, using the guidelines that are spray-painted through inches of snow. At this speed, they’re blurs.

And then . . . then I hit the second to last gate and all I have to do is tuck and go, go, go. Skis slide over the finish line, and that’s it. My work here is done.

One of my favorite parts of this sport is the mini victory lap you get to do at the end. The circle is big and there’s space to crash, if that’s your style, or give a wave to all the people who’ve been standing out in the freezing cold to watch you for a few minutes. The biggest minutes of your life, but still. Lucky for them, they’re bundled up to within an inch of their lives, but we’re not afforded such luxuries—warmth is for suckers. Or at least not world-class slalom skiers.

I smile and wave, lifting my arm, the pole still clutched in my hand, and people cheer. Wave flags. Hold up signs. Jump up and down as if my victory is theirs. Sure, it is. There’s no way they’re as invested in my success as I am, but yes, I can spare a few grains of glory. Sprinkle it over them like confetti.

My parents are here, and as two of the only black faces in the crowd, they’re not hard to find. Plus, my dad has brought the same flag to every single one of my SIG races, and my mom is holding a sign that she painted herself: “Miles Can Go the Distance!”

If I were a bigger jerk, I would point out that I’m not a marathoner. Finishing is only a question if I’m overly aggressive. Two of my competitors have wiped out already, and I know better. Yes, I’ve got to go fast, but I also need to be in control, otherwise speed does me no good. It’s all about balance.

I make sure to pass my mom and dad as I make my way out of the finish circle. Hug my dad, kiss my mom’s cheek. There will probably be pictures of this in the papers tomorrow, come what may. My mom squeezes my shoulder, and like she always does, smiles at me.

“We love you, Miles.”

Her face is so familiar, so beloved. Times like this I get this overwhelming gratitude for my parents, who put me on skis in the first place so I would fit in with the other kids in our ritzy Connecticut suburb. Neither of them can ski at all. But they spent hours upon hours in ski lodges, driving and eventually flying all over the place so I could train and race, spending untold amounts of money on my equipment and my coaches and not regretting even a little bit that the one thing they set out to do—make me fit in—was something they didn’t accomplish.

But how mad can you be when your only child has turned out to be exceptional? I know she’d say the same thing if I were a teacher or an investment banker, hell, she’d love me even if I were a custodian, as long as I was the best damn custodian there’d ever been. Her kind eyes tell me she wouldn’t care a lick, which is going to come in handy when this is over and I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.

“I love you, too, Mom.”

Not one to be outshone, my dad offers me a solemn nod. “Proud of you, son.”

He’s a tougher nut to crack than my mom, but once you break the shell, he’s just as squishy on the inside. He’s cried every time I’ve won a medal. Softie.

“Thanks, Dad. For everything.”

I give them a big smile, one that’s just for them. Not for the crowds, not for the press, and I hope someday I can find a way to express just how much their support has meant to me. Along with a flood of warmth that reaches all the way down to my brittle toes, there’s a sharp prick of . . . what even is that, my conscience? Whatever it is, it’s whispering Crash’s name, and I have a vision of him standing on a street corner with a duffel bag and not much else, in a town he doesn’t want to leave, while his parents pull away in that goddamn van to destinations unknown.

Are they here? They were here earlier, but when I’d asked if they’d be at the races, Crash had shrugged. “I’ve given up guessing what they’re going to do.”

Part of me wants to hunt them down and drag them here, tie them to one of the posts that holds up the barrier of the finish circle. He would see them, know they were here, that they’d showed up for him. Another part of me that’s selfish and stupid wants to hoard that giant smile he’s going to have on his face when he finishes.It’s mine, you assholes. I earned it, and what the fuck did you ever do for him?

That, alas, is crazy talk and I know it. I’ve got to head back up the mountain and prepare for my second run, because this isn’t over. Not only that, but there’s some guilt I can’t quite get rid of because I want to beat him. I would give Crash anything, but I’m not going to give him this. Not if I can help it, although it might not be mine to give.

Crash

I have never been so jittery in my life, and that includes the one time I dropped acid with a few buddies. That was not good shit and I have stuck to weed ever since. This is . . . unbearable. The good news is, it’s only my muscles that are quivering, not my stomach. That thing is solid as a steel tank. My first run was good. Really fucking good. But not as good as Miles’s. I can’t honestly begrudge him that, but some sick part of me wants to please him by beating the pants off him.

I don’t know if that would make him happy or not. Probably not, but maybe his insides are all churned up the way mine are. Maybe he can barely tell which way is up just like me. What I do know is that I think I can make this run faster than the last. I held back some on the last one because I was afraid of getting DQ’d for wiping out. I watched it happen to two other people. To make it this far and not even get to finish because you whiffed it? That’s embarrassing, man.

But this one . . . I’ve got nothing left to lose, plus I’ve got a better handle on the course now. If I can put into practice the tips Miles gave me, I think I’ve got him. Which makes me feel like the sky is down and the slopes are up. And I don’t know if I can handle my world turning upside down like that.

What if that means I lose him, too? Not that he’s mine now, but if I win, will he be able to look at me? Kiss me? Fuck me? I don’t know, and the thought that I might never experience those things again is almost enough to make me snap my boots out of these expensive-ass bindings and fucking walk down the hill, because it’s not worth the risk. But he’d murder me with my own skis if I did that, too.

Either way, I’m dead. May as well try to secure some sponsorships on my way to the great beyond.

It’s my turn now, and I step up to the gate, seeing myself take the course by storm. Visualizing the perfect way to take the curves, picturing my skis slicing through the snow, not flying above it, starting the turns with my ankles and keeping them active. That’s some weird shit right there, but I know what he means. Now I do.

The tone tells me it’s time to go, so I close my eyes, take a breath and push for all I’m worth. Then I tell my conscious mind to take a backseat, and let my body and the beast take over. The lethal predator that wants this really badly, who has lightning reflexes and killer instinct.

It’s weird, the actual skiing. Like I can feel every bump, every skid, every turn in my body, but I’m also outside myself, watching it all happen, matching up reality with the movie I’ve been playing in my head for days. Victory. How far off from my ideal run am I? A little slip of the ski here, a tiny rise of the edge that I quickly correct, forcing my ski back into the snow, picturing Miles running his hand over my ass as he kneels behind me.

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