Page 4 of Seduction on the Slopes

I can answer the questions of what Miles Palmer’s skin feels like underneath my fingertips, what he smells like that close up, what his full mouth feels like against mine. The answers are all the same: good, good, and fucking phenomenal.

Not exactly something I can hang on the wall of my trailer, or that’ll get me a life-saving sponsorship, but it could be something just for me, that I can hold close to my heart when I’m lying in my shitty bed in my crappy-ass double-wide, trying not to freeze to death because I couldn’t pay the damn gas bill. I’ll think of kissing Miles, and yeah, probably jack off to the memory, and my life will be a little less sad for a few minutes.

Miles

Crash Delaney is gay? That’s . . . surprising. Not that I had any reason to think otherwise, but even here at the SIGs where people are pretty chill about who wants to hook up with who, everyone’s still heteronormative. But Crash being gay doesn’t change anything. The only thing that will change anything is if Crash gets his shit together.

I’m still waiting for him to tell me what the hell was that about, because kissing me—kissing me—definitely means he owes me an explanation. “So spill. If you weren’t trying to distract me and you weren’t hitting on me, what was up with that?”

“The kiss?”

“Yeah. Unless you did something else stupid I haven’t noticed yet.”

Crash cringes and I have an ounce of regret. Maybe more like half an ounce. Kid really knows how to press every single last one of my buttons.

“I . . .” He sneaks a glance at me and I raise my eyebrows expectantly.I said spill, Delaney. “I panicked. That’s why I kissed you, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I hate press. I get all . . . vomit-y.”

He’s getting green around the gills even now. But that’s no excuse.

“No one likes press. Well, a few people do. That speed skater, Blaze Bellamy? She’s never met a camera crew she didn’t like. There’s Bauer, that Austrian skier who’s been gunning for me for years, and sometimes I think he likes seeing himself on TV better than he likes skiing. Which is messed up. But aside from the odd duck, no one enjoys it. It’s just something you have to do. A case of the butterflies is a small price for being here, right?”

I probably shouldn’t because who knows what that might inspire him to do, but I reach out and chafe his arm. His bare arm, because we’re still standing in the locker room only in towels. His skin is surprisingly soft, and it covers the thick, corded muscles of his biceps. Whatever else I might think of the guy, he’s done a good job keeping himself in shape without a team of trainers, dieticians, and coaches holding him to it.

Crash gives me a look that’s heavy on the puppy-dog pleading and then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his scruffy throat.Listen. Understand me, please. His expression reeks of desperation. “I’m not talking about butterflies. It’s not jitters. It’s . . . Vomiting is not an exaggeration. I literally toss my cookies. Puke, ralph, pray to the porcelain god—”

I swear the kid would keep listing euphemisms for hurling if I let him—he doesn’t seem anywhere near to slowing down. But because I don’t feel the need to hear more synonyms for upchucking, I interrupt him. “You’re literally throwing up before pressers?”

“Yeah, they make me—” His eyes bug, and I can tell he’s suppressing a gag.

“Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“It’s not exactly a fun thing to tell people, you know?” He looks away, and blows a breath out his mouth so that it ruffles his unruly bangs.

I can imagine not. Especially when your whole team, including your coach, isn’t totally sure you should be here. Don’t want to give them another reason to think poorly of you.

“Hey, man, I get it. I do. But showing up late isn’t helping matters any.”

“Oh, I know. I don’t want you and Coach Miller to hate me, and knowing you’re going to yell at me makes it worse, so I’ve got the whole vicious cycle thing going on, you know?”

I do. At least in an intellectual way. Crash hates press, so he avoids doing press. But then Ted and I yell at him, which makes him feel worse, and the next time he has to do press he’s worried not only about doing the press, but getting yelled at. Someone oughta take my captain title away, but they won’t.

“There’s like a million things I’d rather do than do press,” he says. “Ski naked. Ski with only one ski, ski with my eyes closed—actually I’ve done that, it was fucking awesome—”

Oh my god, this man is killing me. I put up my hands in hopes of defending myself against any more of his insanity. “Stop talking. I don’t want to hear any more about the idiotic and possibly illegal things you’ve done. But, I’m glad you finally told me. Now we deal with this.”

“By not making me do press?” He’s kind of cute when he’s hopeful. Not in a baby animal way, either, but in a way that pings a hotspot in my brain which should not be lighting up for him at all. It also reminds me of exactly how freaking young he is. If he tried to grow a beard, it’d probably be patchy, so that little ping or whatever it is needs to take a hike. Also, was I this stupid when I was twenty-one? I don’t think so, but I’ll give him a bit of leeway because I certainly was at least a little stupid.

“That’s not going to happen. You still have to do it, it’s part of the whole package. You get the awesome stuff like sponsors throwing shit at you, and getting to compete against some of the baddest motherfuckers to ever strap on skis, but you also have to do crap like answer inane questions about your runs. Last time I was here, they asked me to bake cookies on a morning show. Can you believe that?”

Crash still looks too close to his insides making their way out, but his mouth curves up at one corner, so I’m calling it a win.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to put some clothes on, get out of here, and then we’re going to come up with a plan, okay?”

I can practically taste the relief that breaks across Crash’s face. Like cool water after a hard workout, it’s flavored with gratitude. “Yeah, cool. Thanks, man.”

“It’s my job.” Because Ted made it my job. But however I got it, it’s still a fact: Crash Delaney is my responsibility, and I’m not going to let him go down in flames.

Chapter Four

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