Page 8 of Seduction on the Slopes

Fuck.

Miles

It’s not that I thought Crash was lying precisely—anxiety is a real thing and I’ve known people who regularly throw up before races. But I had a hard time imagining how a guy who doesn’t seem to give a crap about anything could get so worked up about having a chat that he’d blow chunks. Yes, I’d been concerned about him when he seemed to go off into la-la land this morning, but that’s a long way from taking the train to Vomitsville.

He’s pretty well emptied his stomach, and people from the crew are rushing around, trying to get stuff to clean it up. In this one thing, I’ll act like a prima donna—I do not want a piece of that. And poor Crash is standing there—okay, standing is maybe a strong word. He’s hunched over, hands on his knees, face the color of mushy peas.

Dude’s gotta not only feel like his insides have been turned out, but he’s likely also embarrassed. I might go so far to say humiliated. And possibly ripshit with me, since I told him I’d help him and what did he get? Getting sick in public instead of the privacy of . . . wherever he’s been getting sick before. Probably our suite in the village.

Cautiously—because there’s a better than even chance he’s going to deck me or at least aim his next stream of throw-up for me—I lay a hand between his shoulder blades and feel his ribs heaving. Jesus, no wonder he dreads doing press if this is what he’s reduced to. He even feels smaller under my hand.

“Hey, Crash. You okay to walk? I’ll get you out of here.” Maybe to some place in the makeshift TV studio, maybe all the way back to the village, but now that I’ve forced him to do this, I’m damn well going to do what I can to clean up the mess. Other than, you know, literally cleaning up the mess.

Ted won’t be happy, but he won’t argue with me. I’ll make it up somehow, maybe offer to do a one-on-one later in the week or something. But Crash’s breaths seem to be getting slower, steadier, and he holds up a finger before straightening up. He shakes his head, sending his sandy locks swinging around like he’s a shaggy dog. Which he kind of is. A friendly, carousing, hippie-ass mutt—who happens to be one of the finest athletes in the world. He’s like a practical joke in the form of a person.

I walk him back a few steps, away from the cleaning crew and the rest of the team who are gawking. “Seriously. If you need to get out of here, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Naw, man.” He shakes his head again, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. His color’s improving already. “Boot and rally, right? I mean, that was a major party foul, but if they still want me, I can do it now.”

“Boot and what?”

“Boot and rally,” he says while giving me the squint-eye, like this is an expression people use all the time. “You know, get wasted at a party, puke, and then keep going?”

“That . . . is something people do?”

Other than when my events are over at the SIGs and other competitions, I don’t do a lot of partying. Or really any. It doesn’t particularly appeal to me, and even at my first SIGs, I got teased as the dad of the group. I was the youngest at nineteen and we were in a country where the drinking age was basically “whenever,” but still, while I had a glass of champagne to celebrate, that was about it. I’ve loosened up some, but not enough to have acquired knowledge of the boot and rally. Can’t say I’m sorry about that.

Partying hasn’t been a part of my world. I’m either training or . . . getting ready to train. I’m long done with school, but I think sometimes about going back when this is all over because I have to face it—it’s almost over. Which is not the delightful panic-inducing thought I need to be having right now. I’m supposed to be the calm, cool, and collected one, and dammit, I will be.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a giant square?”

Crash mocking me is definitely preferable to him upchucking again or sucker punching me. Also, I like the goofy look he gets on his face. He’s a baby, sure, and my responsibility, so there’s no way I’d tap that, but I’ll give him a few points in the charm department. Okay, maybe more than a few.

“Yes.”

He blinks at my deadpan answer and then busts out laughing. It’s a nice sound. “Well, they weren’t wrong.”

Oh, I’m aware. I’m not good for much other than skiing. “Were you serious about being able to get up there?”

I gesture to where the team is chatting with the anchors with my chin and Crash nods. “Yeah. I mean, it won’t be fun, but I’m not going to toss a sidewalk pizza again or anything. I’ll be all right.”

I’m very much hoping that the number of euphemisms Crash knows for puking doesn’t correlate to how often he throws up, but I wouldn’t be surprised. “Then let’s go.”

“Uh . . . Anyone got an Altoid or something?” It takes an immense amount of willpower for me not to smack my palm into my face, but I manage, and luckily one of the crew members produces a box of Tic Tacs and shakes a few into Crash’s open hand.

While I’m resting my hand between his shoulder blades again as he crunches the mints between his teeth, we walk back to where the producer looks surprised, but glad, that we’ll join the interview. Crash and I are the two biggest stories on the team this year, so I’m guessing he’s happy the ratings won’t tank completely. It’s not fair, and I’d rather it not be true, but what’s not for the media to love about Crash’s ridiculous road-to-the-SIGs story, and people get kind of nostalgic when they see me. I’m one of the few people who’ve been part of the SIG landscape for the past twelve years, and they’ve got to know this is probably my last shot.

Even though I’ve been trying my best to push the thought from my head, I’m all too aware of that as well. I’ve been lucky to avoid any serious injury, but this sport has a price to pay. At this point in the game, it’s taking that toll out of my knees. It’s not having any effect I can’t compensate for as of now, but that won’t last forever. The event horizon is coming up in a way I have to stop ignoring. However, that would mean thinking about what life will be like when I’m not skiing professionally anymore, and right now, that canvas looks blank. Completely, utterly, and petrifyingly, blank.

Chapter Six

Crash

It is a goddamn treat having as much food as I could possibly eat at my disposal twenty-four hours a day. And from the disturbed way Miles is looking at me from across the table, disposal might be the right word. Whatever. Dudes in their teens and twenties are supposed to eat like pigs, and that doesn’t even include the thousands of calories we burn during our workouts every day, so he can turn up his nose at someone else. I’m just going to keep horking down this pasta like there’s no tomorrow, because really, there aren’t so many more.

When this fairy tale is over I go back to real life, and real life for me doesn’t look as pretty as it does for Miles. It’s possible that if I rock the shit out of my events I’ll get some endorsements, but the likelihood of those being significant bank is slim. Although honestly, if I could get one of the ski equipment companies to sponsor me, that would be a vast improvement over what I had been doing.

It’s not something I’m proud of and it’s not something I like to talk about, but it makes good copy so the media’s been all over it. Suddenly my spaghetti and meatballs doesn’t taste so good.

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