Page 35 of Seduction on the Slopes

And then I’m done. The last gate hit, the finish line crossed, and . . . holy fucking shit.

Chapter Nineteen

Crash

I won. But that can’t be right. That red number blinking on the board can’t be right. Is in fact, ri-goddamn-diculous. Because those big red numbers are saying I beat Miles by a second. A second may not sound like much, and it’s not. There goes another. And another. No big deal. You hardly miss it. But in sports, seconds, even fractions of a second—they mean something, and a second is practically a river. A river I’ve apparently forded.

I’m so busy being shocked and staring at the number, waiting for some official or other to come, waving her hands in the air and calming the crowd because of course it’s been a mistake. Equipment failure? Some sort of freakish distortion in the space-time continuum? I would believe just about anything other than Crash Delaney, upstart and former weed smoker extraordinaire, beating Miles Palmer, king of alpine skiing and of the giant slalom in particular. This is his event—no one should be able to touch him in it.

This was not supposed to happen. Except that according to the officials waving me over to a backdrop I’m supposed to stand in front of, it has. That time is real, and unless something truly insane happens, I’ve won a gold medal. And Miles—

He’s standing there in front of the backdrop with a big smile on his face. A giant, creepy-as-fuck smile. It won’t be creepy to anyone else but me. Okay, maybe to his parents because I know they’re here, too, with their flag and his mom’s adorable sign. That sign . . . doesn’t make any sense, but that kinda makes it cuter? At any rate, maybe they’ll recognize his serial killer smile and how it doesn’t reach his eyes. His mouth is doing the right thing, showing off those shiny teeth of his, but I don’t even know, man, because I feel like if I get any closer he’s going to murder me in cold blood in front of all these people, and not even care except if he gets blood on his uniform.

Miles is very neat. Doesn’t like it when I leave my socks on the floor, so I can’t imagine what he’d do if my blood got on his precious unitard. But I probably don’t have to worry because this is on national television and he wouldn’t want to make a scene, either.

Which is why I let Coach Miller drag me toward a freakishly still Miles. When I reach him, he pats me on the shoulder, gives me a brief dude hug, so unlike the other embraces we’ve shared—the times he’s held me, the times he’s been inside me. There’s no trace of intimacy here, only camaraderie, and it makes me feel god-awful. And cold. Fucking A, it’s cold in these uniforms. I want a parka. Miles can make fun of me all he wants, but at least my balls won’t freeze and break off. Jesus.

In the meantime, I have Miles standing next to me and watching the next few skiers who have shit all hope of beating either of us, but we’ll wait patiently until it’s all done because everyone deserves their fifteen minutes of fame—or in the case of SIG slalom skiers, more like five minutes total. And at the end of the event, I still seem to be living in bizarro world. They’re still telling me I won.

The official ceremony won’t be until later, but I follow instructions and pose for pictures with Miles and a French guy who came in third. People ask me questions and I answer them. They take my picture and I smile. I think I can’t stop smiling? I can’t even tell anymore. I feel like I’m watching a movie of my own life and the sound’s been shut off. Mostly I try not to be too bothered by the robot in the Miles suit who’s next to me.

He looks like Miles, sounds like Miles, but there’s something missing. I’d rather have him yell at me than be like this. But there’s no time to talk to him, to ask him what the fuck, because we’re both being handled like puppets. I get as far as standing on the stage, on top of the goddamn platform, a foot above my lifelong hero, with a gold medal around my neck and a silver one around his, both of us waving to the crowd and holding our hands over our hearts as our national anthem plays. And then all of a sudden, it’s over. Eventually I find myself back in the village, not entirely sure how I got here, pacing around our room.

I’m prepared for the worst, for Miles to come back and gouge my eyes out or . . . hell, anything. I’ll take anything. I take off my medal and shove it under my socks in a drawer so he doesn’t have to see it when he gets back. I just want him to talk to me. Yell at me. Fuck me, even if it’s angry fucking, even if he tears me apart. But he wouldn’t. Miles would never do that.

So I pace and pace, wait and wait. Where is he? One hour passes, two. Is he okay? Miles doesn’t really seem like the type to drink himself into a stupor—especially since he’s got another race the day after tomorrow that he sure as hell doesn’t want to lose now, nor does he seem like the kind of guy to snap and go postal. Yeah, he’s been hard on me, but the worst he’s ever done is yell, and it’s only been at me. He hasn’t taken it out on anyone else.

After three whole hours of pacing and my stomach getting more and more twisted with anxiety, I can’t take it anymore. I grab my cell and text Miles.

Where are you?

He doesn’t make me wait long, but the few minutes feel like hours.

I’m staying with my parents. Go to bed.

His parents? He could’ve, I don’t know,told me that.Would that have been too much to ask? If I’d have pulled the same thing, he’d have my ass for it. Part of me wants to call him and yell. Part of me wants to hunt him down and shake him by the collar of the stupid shirt he’s probably wearing. Stupid, clingy shirt that makes him look frigging amazeballs. Jerk.

But another part of me is sad. Disappointed. I mean, it’s not like we were dating or anything, but Miles has done more to help me than any other person on earth, and I’d kind of thought, maybe, that might mean something? That he liked me? That I wasn’t just a responsibility that had been thrown at him, but that he wanted me to succeed because I matter to him.

Maybe that was just Miles being Miles though. Guy’s got an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong, and he takes fairness very seriously, sport and honor Very Seriously. That could be all this was. What would his medals be worth if he hadn’t actually earned them? He wouldn’t be able to stand looking at the things if he knew he hadn’t won fair and square. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to hate the person who took one from him.

Well, fuck you, Miles Palmer. Winning isn’t everything and I’m going to prove it to you, you stubborn, sexy as hell, righteous son of a bitch.

Miles

I haven’t talked to Crash for two days. Because I’m an asshole.

The fucked-up thing is that I miss him like crazy. I would’ve liked to drag Crash and a bottle of champagne into our cramped shower and celebrate by dumping it all over him and then licking it off. And yet up until this morning when I headed to the mountain again, I’ve been holed up in my parents’ hotel suite trying to avoid any mention, any image, any sound of him. I’m such a coward I’ve been walking around this place with my noise-canceling headphones on, only taking them off when my parents make unimpressed gestures.

It’s possible I’m overreacting, but I’ve never had to deal with this, and I don’t know how. My brain has been focused on skiing for so long, it’s like it doesn’t have room for anything else. Like feelings. Big, scary feelings.

Hurtle down a mountain with a 350-meter vertical drop while executing barely-permitted-by-physics turns on sticks? Sure. Have feelings? Aw, hell, no. And I couldn’t start with easy ones. Or have one at a time. No, they’re all coming on at once, and they’re all mixed up together. I suspect, though obviously I can’t say for sure, that even people used to having feelings would find this was a lot to deal with.

I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that I love Crash Delaney. Being with him makes me happy, and as crazy he makes me . . . well, that’s part of the thing. Even when he’s making me crazy, I still love him. Some of it is mixed up in this paternalistic mentor thing I’ve got going on with him, but I like that. As far as I can tell, he does, too. Those two things put together I could probably handle, even though it’s out of my wheelhouse, but adding to that competition, resentment, yet still this need for things to be just and honest in competition . . .

There aren’t many places where things are fair, and I’m not going to pretend that the SIGs are perfect, but they do their best and it’s better than a lot of other places in life. Frex: I’m here, and so is Crash. That wouldn’t happen if these games weren’t about merit, because neither of us looks like a poster boy for alpine skiing. Rather, we wouldn’t have twelve years ago.

And I value that. Despite not looking like what people think elite skiers should look like, we’re both here. So I hold that commitment to objectivity close and dear to my heart, I really do. Because without it, I’d be screwed. But god is it shitty when that means I don’t win. If it weren’t Crash, I think I could dredge up some grace. I’ve lost before. Granted not at the SIGs, and not in a competition I was supposed to be a lock for, but still. Some Frenchman? An Austrian? That I could swallow. Would I be pissed? Yes. But it wouldn’t feel like this, and I wouldn’t be fucking them. Okay, in years past, I might’ve fucked themafterthe race, but not before. I shouldn’t have broken my own rules. But I have and now not only am I paying for it, but Crash is as well.

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