Seduction on the Slopes Read online

  But Miles isn’t wrinkling his nose, or shaking his head. He looks . . . thoughtful. “Okay. Well, I think that’s good. It’s, you know, manageable. Bite-sized.”

  That’s not how it feels. It feels like a wave of sick and shame and fear crashing over me. It’s not like a goddamn fun size candy bar or something.

  He must be able to tell that I don’t appreciate his down-playing this, because he backpedals. “I don’t mean it’s not a big deal, I mean you’re not dealing with it all the time. It’s discrete, not ubiquitous.”

  “All right, Captain Thesaurus, could you cool it with the big words? I know you grew up with fancy-ass tutors, but I barely got my GED.”

  Miles has the good manners to look a little humbled. “Sorry. I just meant it only happens sometimes, not all the time. So we just need to figure out how to get you through those times.”

  Yeah, sure, easy-peasy. Why didn’t I think of that? The unimpressed sarcasm must be dripping off of me because he hurries on.

  “What’s something that relaxes you, makes you feel settled?”

  I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “I swear to god if you say weed, I’m walking out.”

  Fuck. I mean, I knew that wasn’t an option, but he’s not even going to let me say it? “Uh . . .”

  “Come on, Crash, there’s gotta be something else. What did you do before you started smoking up?”

  Oooh. “Uh, fucked?”

  Miles plants his elbows on the table, and drops his head into his hands. Clearly, I’m hopeless. Welp, I’m totally screwed.

  Miles

  “When did you lose your virginity?” Oh, Christ, that was rude of me. But really? He started fucking before he started getting high?

  “When I was thirteen.”

  Holy shit. I know I shouldn’t judge, because who am I to say what other people should do in their sex lives? He’d probably be equally horrified because I didn’t have sex until I was nineteen. But that’s not the point. I need to tame the look on my face before he walks out. Or hits me. I’m not sure which would be worse.

  “And you started smoking up when?”

  He grins, which is unexpected. “About two weeks after I had sex for the first time. You don’t even want to know when I got drunk for the first time. There’s not a whole lot to do in Wyoming.”

  “I thought you were from Colorado?”

  “I am. Sort of. My parents moved around a lot when I was a kid. Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, even made it down to New Mexico for a bit. But since I was sixteen, I’ve been in Colorado.”

  “Parents finally settled down?”

  “No, I did.”

  His comment and the way his eyes dart to the side stab into my stomach. He’s saying . . . I think he’s saying he’s been on his own since he was sixteen, and that’s just unfathomable to me. I was a disaster when I was sixteen. Could barely keep track of my acne regimen and my training schedule, never mind anything else. And he’s been on his own? For five years? Fucking A.

  But one thing at a time. The most immediate thing we need to deal with is the press anxiety and the barfing.

  “Okay. I think we’ve gotten a little off track. Back to ways to get you to chill before press events. Meditation?”

  Crash makes a face like I just suggested he eat his ski wax.

  “Okay, no meditation. Yoga?”

  Ditto.

  “Breathing exercises? Massage?”

  “That would make me want to fuck.”

  Christ. “Listening to music?”

  He smiles, his grin apologetically lop-sided. “That’ll just make me want to smoke.”

  “Knitting? Adult coloring books?” I’m reaching and I know it, but he is not making this easy. “Nothing?”

  The look on Crash’s face is blank. Not in that goofy, stoner way either. More like a terrified way. He doesn’t have any more ideas than I do, and we’ve got another press event tomorrow. Twelve hours from now, and he’ll be facing the firing squad again.

  Anxiety isn’t something that’s ever affected me. I get pre-race jitters like everyone else, but mostly I’ve learned how to control it, channel it, harness it—use it instead of it using me. But Crash isn’t wired like that, and I don’t have a magic bullet.

  “Hey, look. This isn’t the end of the line, okay? We’re going to figure this out together. I don’t think we can solve it by tomorrow morning, but I’m going to do whatever it takes to help you. You’re not alone.”

  Crash nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes me. Probably all the yelling and the threats haven’t helped. But as much as he doubts me, I’m completely serious. I take my role to heart, and now I know Crash isn’t just being a dickhead, I’ll do everything in my power to get him through the next two weeks, whatever that might be. I mean, I’m not going to score him pot or anything—he’d know better where to find it than I would anyhow—but outside of that, I will think of something.

  “Look, I think better when I’m moving, so I’m going to go for a walk before I head back to the village. Curfew’s in two hours, so I’ll expect you back by then.”

  Crash drops his head back against the banquette and groans. “Curfew? Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. And if I’m going to spend my time trying to help you out, I feel like the least you can do is get back to the village on time.”

  I slide my coat on and zip up because it’s freezing out there. Literally, freezing. I spend a lot of time in the cold, but that doesn’t make me immune to it. I also tug on a hat because there’s not so much between my scalp and the air, and then I offer him a hand. “Have we got a deal? I’ll see you at eleven?”

  “Fine.” He shakes my hand, and I’m not entirely convinced he’s not crossing his fingers under the table, but that’s a bridge I’ll cross if we come to it. For now, I’ve got a job to do.

  Chapter Five

  Crash

  I make it back on time for eleven o’clock curfew like I said I would, and when I walk in the door, Miles drops a nod, a little smile on his face. It’s not the big, million-tooth grin he gives to the press or the fans, and maybe they wouldn’t even think he was smiling, but I’ve looked at his face often enough to know he is. And that dip of his head, that small sign of approval, makes leaving the brewery before I wanted to worth it.

  Tomorrow morning I’ll remind myself how good this feels, how much I like Miles not thinking I’m a complete and utter fuckup. It’s so much better this way.

  “I have to confess I haven’t come up with anything, but I’ll sleep on it, all right? I’m not giving up and you shouldn’t either.”

  I agree, but the queasiness is starting already and I’m not sure a nod, no matter who it’s from, is going to get me through tomorrow morning without me on my knees in the bathroom. I mean, if I were sucking Miles off, that would be an awesome way to start the day, but he decidedly didn’t offer when it came up earlier. So yeah, if I’m on my knees it will be in front of the toilet, puking up my guts.

  It’s hard to go to sleep and even harder to stay asleep, so I spend my night tossing and turning, and when Miles’s alarm goes off and he hops in the shower, I’m tempted to rub one out to take the edge off. But the dude has no hair, so he takes like five-second showers, and while I can get the job done pretty fast, I’m not that fast, especially when I’m on my way to freakout-ville. So I don’t.

  By the time Miles has got himself all spiffed up—he’s the only guy I know who can still look fancy in a tracksuit—and I roll out of bed, my stomach is . . . not happy. I’ve got that crawly, jittery feeling running from my fingers and toes, and it all seems to meet up in my gut where it doesn’t just add up. It multiplies.

  I clutch at my middle to try to keep the protein bar I downed inside instead of outside, and that seems to help. What also helps is Miles clapping a hand on my back. “Ready to hit the dining hall?”

  I want to say no, so badly, but if I do, there’s no way I’m making it to the studio on time for our interview. He knows it,
and I know it. The way he looks at me says, “Don’t disappoint me, Crash,” and I don’t want to. So despite even the idea of being near food making my nausea worse, I say okay.

  The cold air outside is actually helpful. Maybe it freezes some of the flying fish that are leaping around in my internal organs? I don’t know. By some miracle, I make it through being in a massive room full of food and noise without yakking. Then it’s time to get on the van that’ll take us to the Talk America studios, and I sit next to Miles, trying not to vom in his lap. Because nothing says you want to fuck a guy like laying a technicolor yawn on his junk.

  Miles is cool, though. He steers me where I need to go, talks quietly to me so I don’t feel like a total freak even though I’ve basically lost contact with the planet Earth. If anyone asked me something, I don’t think I could answer without blowing chunks all over them. The upside to showing up with the rest of the team is that I don’t have to. Miles does it for me.

  Until we’re set to go out on the jiffy pop set and I start to sweat and my knees feel like jelly. Not the good kind of jelly like after a badass day on the slopes that makes you want to collapse in bed with a warm body and have a nice leisurely fuck. The bad kind of jelly. Like . . . tension marmalade or some shit.

  The lights are really bright out there, the studio feels like a goddamn sauna and my hair is sticking to the back of my neck. Also, my chest is starting to hurt like I slammed into a boulder. Or a tree. Yeah, I treed myself, and that’s new. Chest pains.

  My head is swimming, and I might fall over. Fainting. Christ, that’s just what I need. But before I topple on over, I feel the familiar sensation of my meager breakfast coming up. I try, try, so hard to keep it down, but the second my foot lands on the platform, I lose it, and yodel groceries all over the corner of the set.

  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 havin
g 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.

  Miles is yammering on about his experience doing press, and while I appreciate his efforts, it’s just not the same for him.

  “Look, as much as I’d like to be, I’m not you, Miles.”

  I rarely say his name out loud and I’m reminded of why. It’s because I get a little hard just from those smooth letters rolling off my tongue, and makes me start thinking about what else I’d like on my tongue . . . At least we’re sitting down so he won’t notice the growing bro-bone I have for him.

  “They don’t expect you to be me, just be yourself.”

  “Yeah, but myself is kind of a roughneck asshole.”

  Miles opens his mouth to counter that, but I give him a go-ahead look and he shuts it. Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  He takes a bite of his own food and washes it down with a swig of water, and when he’s done, points his fork at me. “You can be charming.”

  I almost choke on the meatball I’ve been chewing. Miles Palmer thinks I’m charming? I want to record that and broadcast it all over the damn place. But more so, I want to tease him. So up my eyebrows go, and I give my best coy smile, which isn’t very good, because coy isn’t really my jam. “I can?”