Page 10 of Seduction on the Slopes

Is there any way to soften this blow? Not really, and I don’t think Crash would appreciate it if I did anyhow. “The bad news is that everyone and their grandmother will be there. All the major media outlets and some not-so-major ones. Lots of lights, and you’ll probably get a lot of questions.”

He’d been ferrying yet another fork dripping with sauce-covered spaghetti to his mouth, but at that, he stops and puts it down. “There’s no way I can get out of it?”

I shake my head. It’s not like Ted is unaware of Crash’s difficulties, but if Crash were to just stop showing up? It would raise some serious red flags with the US SIG committee, not to mention the international, and that’s not something you want. Plus, kid needs all the exposure he can get if he wants those sponsorship deals, and I know he needs them.

I’ve read the stories like everyone else. I wouldn’t call Crash’s a rags-to-riches story—he’s nowhere near riches, but the rags part is accurate. The thing most people know about him is that he used to pick through the Lost and Founds at ski areas for equipment. Not mentioned as frequently is that he outright stole from a few resorts and sports shops.

The law-abiding citizen in me clutches his pearls, but the athlete in me wants to give him a round of applause. How fucking hungry do you have to be to ski on mismatched skis and risk being arrested for shoplifting equipment? I don’t condone it, but who am I to say I wouldn’t have done the same thing in his spot? I can’t. I’ve never even been close. SIG athletes are a special breed. You don’t get here because you decide one day to be the best. You get here by being obsessed by it, by being willing to give up every other goddamn thing for it. He would’ve paid a different price than I have—likely jail time instead of a life consumed by training and competitions—but we both have paid.

Crash’s elbows are on the table, and he buries his head in his hands, his fingers twisting in that sheepdog hair of his. I want to reach out and use a fistful of it to bring his head up and away from the mess of pasta on his plate, but touching him like that could be like making promises I have no intention of keeping, even if in some other situation I might like to.

When he looks up, it’s with desperation in those hazel eyes. “What am I going to do?”

For some reason, it hits me square in the chest. Being an athlete doesn’t make you heartless, but it does put a weird barrier between you and your competitors at the same time as it makes you closer to them than almost anyone else in the world. No one else understands what you go through with your obsessive training, no one else knows what it feels like to face the bizarre challenges of being the best at something in almost any room—hell, any country you’re in. That builds camaraderie. At the same time, you’d probably sell your grandma’s walker to be a tenth of a second faster than those chumps because you deserve it.

That’s the situation I find myself in right now. The person in me, and the leader of this team, wants to fix everything for Crash. Give anything I’ve got to ease his way and to help him succeed no matter what it costs me.

But the sad fact is, itdoescost me, and I’m not sure how much I’m willing to give up. I want those fucking medals. Yeah, I’ve got six hanging in one of my trophy cases at home, but fuck, I want all eight.

I’ve given up any semblance of a normal life, worked my ass off, broken bones, gotten frostbite, and more, just to have a chance at it. It’s maybe a ridiculous attitude to have, but at the end of the day, if I don’t bring home the last two medals, what was it all for?

The glory of sport, patriotism, self-actualization, blah blah blah. The greedy asshole who lives at the bottom of my soul doesn’t give a shit about any of that. It just wants to be acknowledged as the best and it needs big, shiny external validation to prove it. Medals, magazine covers, my face on a goddamn cereal box, kids lining up to meet me because they want to be like me when they grow up. I want all of those things as a counterweight for everything I don’t have.

But even if I don’t feel like giving up anything else, I can give him the feeling that I’m right there with him. Which is what makes me say, “No, Crash. What arewegoing to do?”

Relief breaks over his face like an avalanche down a mountain and something that tastes like guilt sours at the back of my throat.

“Yeah, okay.”

Chapter Seven

Crash

On the one hand, I’m grateful that Miles told me. He didn’t treat me like some dumbass kid whose strings he can yank on and I’ll dance like a puppet. I mean, for him I’d do damn near anything, but it would be entirely different to have him know that and then take advantage. Or try. Because as much as I appreciated Miles’s efforts this morning, we all know how that ended: I liquidated my assets, almost all over his shoes.

On the other hand, I can’t sleep. Images of being in front of that many people, asking me questions, flood my head and I hate it. The things they want to talk about are the things that embarrass me the most. Yes, I get that America loves an underdog, but could they leave it alone? It’s like picking at a scab and not letting it heal.

I roll over again and try to think about something good. My happy place. The happiest I’ve ever been was one morning a couple of years ago when I was working at a resort. I got up at the asscrack of dawn, even before the lifts were open. It had snowed all the night before, and there was a good base laid down since it was later in the season. I hiked all the way up the goddamn mountain, my shit strapped to my back and using some duct-tape snowshoes I’d rigged up, and got to the top when the mountain was empty.

The view was killer, but more than that, the mountain felt like it was mine. Sure, maybe the people who were paying for their tickets and the corporation that actually owned the resort had more legal claim to it, but in that small slice of time, the whole place was at my feet.

I only got one run because it’s a damn big mountain and I didn’t have time to hike up again, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had on a pair of skis my whole life. Why can’t they ask me questions about that kind of stuff? Instead, it’s always about shit I don’t want to talk about.

How I don’t belong here. Yes, thanks, got it. That’s been made abundantly clear by . . . everyone. And I’m about to face the biggest press event of the competition having no more of a clue how to manage this than I did yesterday.

Miles

Last night, I did not sleep well. I blame it partly on all of Crash’s tossing and turning, and the rest on my brain churning through ways to keep the poor kid from puking his guts up before every damn press event. If he keeps it up, he’s not going to be in any shape to race. He needs to be 110% for a shot, and if he’s any less than that . . . I don’t want him to beat me, but I don’t want him to be the big disappointment of the Games. There’s always at least one, and hell if it’s going to be someone on my team.

I’ve gone through all the possibilities, and even after making him try my earlier suggestions like meditation or listening to music, nothing has helped. The one thing that might have a legit shot at working isn’t possible; medications aren’t an option because a bunch of them are regulated by the international SIG organization, and even the ones that aren’t are a no go because either they take too long to kick in or maybe kick in right away but who knows what the hell effect they’d have on his performance. No matter what, that has to be left intact.

By the time my alarm goes off in the morning, I feel like I’ve been running into brick walls all night, and it’s made me tight and irritable. Not to mention tired. Which is another reason I have to help him figure this shit out—so it doesn’t start having an impact onmyracing. I am not throwing away my last shot on this kid. Rolling over, I see a lump of Crash over in the other twin bed. I can tell he’s not actually asleep even though he’s facing away from me—his breathing gives him away.

I should call him on it, but I take a few minutes to make up my mind and formulate a plan. Crash may do things by the seat of his pants, but that is not my way. I’ve come to some conclusions, and though I’m not wild about what I have to do, it’s what has to be done, so I’ll do it. Now I just have to inform Crash.

“You’re not sleeping.”

The lump moves, and he draws the duvet down. First it reveals his crazy hair—how does he even fit that stuff under his helmet?—and then his face. Pale, and with dark smudges under his eyes, looks like the kid slept even worse than I did. Probably fretting about the presser this morning. I could’ve saved him a few of those hours, but no taking it back now. Only forward.

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