by Avery Laval
He shrugged. “I take it you're a fan.”
“Not really,” she said too easily. “Well, yes, and no. I mean, I am a fan. You were amazing in the games. Just phenomenal. But that's not why I'm here.”
“No?” He asked. But he was thinking, Well, damn.
“I'm here on behalf of Brad Bradley.”
Charlie stopped smiling. Tried not to growl, though he wanted to. Turned his body back to the bar, took his scotch off the coaster, and climbed off the stool. Without another word or look, he walked over to another stool four seats down—the only one open in a long row—and took it.
Shit.
Shit hell damn crap.
Shit.
Brad Bleeping Bradley had tracked him down in Italy. How the hell? And who cared how, really, because now that it had happened, his plan to hole up here all summer long was completely shot.
“Scusi, um, mi,” he heard the stacked pixie—no, the stacked henchwoman—say in bungled Italian to the guy on the stool next to his. And then, still in Italian though it was clear to Charlie she should have given up, “May I switch your seat with my bottom?” There was a little chuckling along the bar, and Charlie had to stifle a laugh himself, but so help him, he would not turn and look at that woman. Do not look a sports agent directly in the eyes, he reminded himself. It would only encourage them.
“Si, si, by all means,” said the traitor in that lilting English the Italians spoke like it was their home language. “Put that nice big bottom right here.” Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie watched the stranger slide off his stool and step aside. The Henchwoman replaced him, now less than a foot from his elbow, waiting for the slightest invitation to strike.
Do not look, he commanded himself.
“Grazie!” she chirped to the Italian, and then leaned over into Charlie's personal space. “Their English is so adorable, don't you think? I wonder what he meant to say.”
Charlie kept his face locked on neutral, but it wasn't easy not to smirk and set her straight.
“I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here,” she said, pressing on into the void. “I know you've been lying low, and I get that. Really, I do.”
Involuntarily, his eyebrows raised just an inch. He doubted very much that she “got it.”
“Oh good, you're listening. So maybe I don't get it. Maybe I have no idea why you dropped off the jumping circuit immediately after winning the highest honor in your sport. You're not hurt, you're not old enough to retire, you're sure as hell not rich enough to quit. Frankly, I'm not sure exactly how you're paying for that scotch.”
Now he couldn't stop himself. “I'm not. You are. Isn't that the whole point of a sports agency? To wine and dine me until I give in to anything?”
Her eyebrow—just the one nearest him—popped up. “That depends. Will you give in to anything for the price of one scotch?”
“Not for all the scotch in Scotland.”
“Well, then.” She paused for a moment. “Let me see if I can find something else to tempt you with.”
His head whipped her way. He half expected—and wanted—to see her leaning over, displaying some promising cleavage or seductively reaching for his thigh. Would he trade a night with a beautiful woman for a deal with Brad Bradley? Not a chance. But she didn't know that.
But that wasn't what she meant at all. She was fishing around in her handbag, pulling out a document printed on legal paper. Of course. Some stupid contract. And why would he have thought any different? Just look at her, he told himself. Not your average do-anything-for-a-deal agency shark. Not any kind of shark at all. She looked about his age, maybe a bit younger, and well, a little sweet.
But she worked for Brad Bradley. How sweet could she be?
“Bradley got this together for you last week. We've been calling and calling. Emailing. Texting. I even Facebooked you.”
“I don't want to be reached,” Charlie told her.
“Obviously. But this will make you change your mind.” She spread out the contract. It was an endorsement deal. He'd seen—and turned down—more than one since last February.
“The thing about this is, you're kind of a has-been.” she said. “I mean, no offense,”
“Why would I be offended?” he said wryly.
“But honestly, it's been a year. You could have had your choice of deals right after the games. Could have kept the magic going on the circuit this winter. But you didn't. And now, getting anything together for you, it's a huge coup.”
He took a sip of scotch.
“And it's a decent company making the offer,” she went on. “You said no fast food. No sugar beverages for kids. Fine. This is coffee. For grown-ups. And it's a lot of money.” She pointed to something several pages into the contract. It was a number. A big number. “Brad believes in you,” she said. “Brad knows you'll be at the games killing it. This is a company that wants to be the official coffee of you and of your brand, and they want it at the next games. It's a deal with legs, with another payday down the line if you perform.”
“No,” Charlie said, and swished his drink in the glass.
She sighed dramatically. “Will you just look at me instead of gazing into that stupid glass of booze like a time-worn old sailor?”
He cut her just a microsecond of eye contact, then returned his eyes to the booze. “I'm savoring it.”
“Oh yeah? Well, savoring time is over.” She reached over, snatched the rocks glass right out of his loose grip. “The time has come to drink,” she said, “or get off the stool.”
He took it back. Set it down in front of him defiantly. And went back to gazing at it.
“Fine. You won't? Then I will.” And then, as he watched in surprise, she threw his three fingers of 18-year single malt down her throat like a sorority girl at a vodka luge.
He watched her clamp her mouth shut around the warm, potent alcohol. Watched her throat gulp and her eyes bulge a bit. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing and said, “Well. I've never seen anyone drink a thirty-dollar glass of scotch quite like that before.”
She coughed a little and took in a huge breath. Coughed a bit more. “I thought it was, like, a Jameson and ginger ale.”
“Lagavulin 16.”
“Oh. Well. Yes, I taste the difference now. Anyway, it got you looking at me.”
“In horror.”
“Good enough.” She coughed one more time, then cleared her throat. “So. The deal.”
“No.”
“Just listen to me.”
“No.”
“You don't want to miss this opportunity, Charlie.”
“I do.”
“A chance like this may not come around again.”
“Okay, then. Have a nice life.”
“You're being ridiculous. Hear me out, at least.”
“The only thing I want to talk about with you is what you've got under that parka.” There. If he couldn't get her to listen to his answer, maybe being a letch would get rid of her.
But she didn't even look shocked. Her eyes just narrowed even more sharply. “Another parka,” she said dryly. “And don't think you can scare me off with a little harassment.”
“It's not harassment if you're interested.”
“I'm not.”
“Rats,” he said with a shrug, and turned away from her, trying, but failing, to get the attention of the barkeep for another drink. “Then I'm not sure why you're still sitting here.”
She put her hand out over his, brought it back to the bar. “Come on,” she said, leaving her hand on his, as though she wasn't feeling the same zing of heat he was from the touch. “Let me take you some place we can talk. You need to think about your future. What you're going to do to salvage what's left of your Olympic notability. To get more chances to get back on the slopes, do what you love. Your career isn't over. It doesn't have to be, that is. But if you don't—”
“Spare me. I heard all this from your boss six months ago. If it moved me then, I'd be back in Colora
do doing celebrity ski lessons now.”
“But I'm just asking you to—”
“And I'm just saying no.”
“Look, if you won't listen to me for your sake, what about for mine? I know I'm nobody to you, but I've got a job to do. At least let me do that job.”
Charlie tried not to laugh in her face. “Let me give you a little piece of advice. You're wasting your life in your souless job. Do yourself a favor and quit. Stay in Sestriere on their dime for a few days, hit the slopes, eat the amazing food, I don't know, maybe find a hot ski bum, and then go home and go do something truly worth devoting your life to.”
The girl quieted down over this. No quick protest, no sassy rebuttal. Had he gone too far?
But then she spoke. “I like my job,” she said in a stern clip that felt as sharp as a slap. “But you're right about one thing. I'm not wasting my entire time in Italy sitting in a dark dingy bar arguing with a has-been who won't even listen to reason.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, though dammit, the words hit home.
“However.” And now she smiled at him as if she hadn't just called him a has-been, “If you do want me to enjoy the slopes, I could really use a guide.”
My, my, my, but the girl was determined, he thought.
“My Italian's not great,” she went on, “and my skiing's worse, so a lesson from a pro would be a huge help. As far as I can tell, you've got nothing better to do. And you sort of like me, besides.”
His eyebrows raised a bit in surprise, and the corners of his lips betrayed him. He did sort of like her, despite himself. She had something. Heart. “Well, maybe I do,” he conceded. But rather than admit any meaningful attraction, he decided to keep it light. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? I'm not going to be the only skier in Sestriere interested in taking you for a few runs.”
“I'll tell you what. If your lesson is good enough, I may even pretend to ignore your inappropriate double entendre.”
“Good luck with that,” he said, and to her credit, she laughed.
“Just say yes.” She blinked at him with her big brown eyes.
He hesitated. Knew he was going to agree, knew he wanted another hour with this girl. Okay, maybe another four hours. “Fine, I'll take you skiing. But only if you promise not to rattle on about whatever deal Brad Bradley sent you here to close.”
She twisted her lips in thought, and then said, “I'll try. But if we pass a coffee shop and I happen to note how much I like coffee—”
“No contract talk. You lay off the contract, I'll lay off the come-ons. I bet we'll actually have a good time.”
“I bet we will,” she said. And then, though he hadn't told her where he was staying or given out his number, she added, “I'll pick you up at noon. That way you can sit here and stare into space as late as you want tonight. Maybe you'll even get lucky.”
Charlie watched her walk all the way out of the bar before he heard himself say aloud, “I doubt it.”
Natalie kept her plastered-on game face in position until the bar door closed behind her, until she'd walked back to her car, tried to get in the wrong side, gone around and gotten into the right side, and started the engine. Then she'd crumpled with exhaustion and defeat. The flight had been onerous enough, crammed as she had been into row 36, middle seat, between two drooling preteen boys who kept passing their devices back and forth in front of her but refused to switch seats, because “the middle seat blows, lady.” But then getting to Turin—sorry, Torino—and finding out her hotel was neither in Torino nor the beautiful resort town of Sestriere, but instead was halfway between, had pushed her over the edge. These industrial suburbs were the only place, she reasoned, her HR department could find a motel dingy enough for the likes of her. And she found it was indeed quite dingy, with a strange prefab fiberglass shower/sink/toilet combo that had been retrofitted into the corner of her bedroom with only a shower curtain surrounding the whole affair—yikes. So much for the fantasy of bringing home a gorgeous Italian stranger one night. She could just see it: “Excuse me while I freshen up, ten feet from the bed, prison-style.” It wasn't exactly Fellini material.
But really, neither was she. In her heart of hearts she didn't mind having an excuse to come back home without an Italian conquest. Her dry spell was becoming more of a lifestyle choice than a temporary downturn. A depressing one, but still. So long as the real reason she came was successful and she escaped Davis for a few more days, she could call the whole trip a success.
Only now, she'd met the real reason she'd come. Sitting in a bar drinking very expensive booze and, she assumed, hitting on everyone who moved. And all hope of success had flown right out the window.
Cursing Charlie Ahlers wouldn't help, she told herself as she drove awkwardly back to her Italian version of a Super 8 (Super Otto?). But she cursed him anyway. She cursed whatever brain malfunction kept him from seeing reason, whatever idiotic decision he was sticking to that was keeping him broke and anonymous. An Olympic gold medalist, anonymous! It hurt Natalie just to think of it. She knew the ways of the world, knew the long-suffering bobsledders and biathletes probably couldn't expect more than fifteen minutes of fame and the weight of their medal as rewards for their athletic excellence. It wasn't fair, probably, but it was what it was.
But, ski jumping. That was a primetime sport, with prime-sized endorsement deals. And Charlie Ahlers was letting all those opportunities—chances his fellow athletes would leap at—slip through his fingers.
Idiot.
Back at the hotel, Natalie powered up her laptop and turned her phone into a hotspot, since this fleabag joint didn't even have WiFi. Good thing the agency paid for her unlimited data plan. It was just after lunch in Vegas and thanks to the prepubescent bookends on the flight, she'd gotten exactly thirty minutes of sleep in the last 24 hours. She felt like hell but she figured she must look a little better, considering how thick Charlie Ahlers had laid it on.
Something stirred in her at the thought. Charlie. Thick.
Um, no.
“Don't fool yourself,” she heard herself say aloud. In the six hours she'd been in Sestriere before tracking him down, she'd already heard plenty about the guy's reputation. Emotionally untouchable. Heartless. Great in the sack.
That she could totally believe. Even in his bearded, unwashed state, he was hot. There was no ignoring how good that guy looked when she'd first walked in. No missing the way his lips played around words, curled in a sly smile, and tempted her with every sip of scotch. It was hard to keep her mind in line even before she'd had half a glass herself. The whole point of kissing stupid Davis back home was to ease up her dry spell. But that dumb, ill-conceived kiss had just proven to remind her how a bad kiss was worse than no kiss. Her dry spell went on, and it seemed to be making her stupid.
Or was it how stupid hot Charlie Ahlers was that was numbing her mental powers?
Mind. On. Business. She was here to do a job. Not a skier.
Power up, log on, call Brad.
Ten seconds later, he picked up her video call. “Natalie!” he shouted, like she was in the other room as usual. He wasn't facing the screen, but then, Brad made this big show of the personal touch with his clients, and never had his computer right in front of him on his desk. The computer was a prop, not a tool to him, mostly pushed to the side while he ran numbers on paper and made call lists on a pad of graph paper in his chicken scratch. An old school system, but it worked, and Natalie got it. She was a visual thinker too, after all. “Ciao! How's Italy?”
“Hi Brad,” she said to the side of his face. He was writing something on the graph paper with one hand and flipping through a file cabinet with the other. She hoped he wasn't also on the phone. “You alone in there?”
At that he turned to actually face the webcam. “Jesus, Natalie, you look like hell.”
Rats. More proof Charlie would hit on anything that breathed. “That's because I just spent 14 hours in the air and three more in a rental car that has the steering wh
eel on the wrong side.”
Brad laughed. “Did you find him?”
“I did.”
“That's my Natalie! I'm a proud papa.”
“So's my real dad,” she said wryly. Oh well. Brad treating her like a daughter was a lot better than him treating him like someone who was young enough to be his daughter, which was pretty much his only requirement in a girlfriend. “Anyway, you're not going to be happy. Charlie won't sign.”
“Don't be silly. Of course he'll sign. Did you show him the zeroes?”
“I did,” she nodded.
Brad looked momentarily stumped. “All of the zeroes?”
“He still said no.”
“And you told him this was the last train out of Schmucksville?”
“Not exactly in those words, but yeah, I said this might be the last deal we could bring him that amounted to anything.”
“And you told him about the South Korea potential?”
“I did.”
“And then he said yes?”
“No.”
Brad said some words that Natalie had last heard strung together in a Quentin Tarantino movie. She winced.
“Natalie. Honey. Look at me.”
Natalie brought her eyes up from the menacing looking hotel carpet back to the screen.
“Ugh! Never mind. Look away. It's like your plane went down on Eye-bag Island. Did you at least wear lipstick for the meeting?”
“Brad. I am not going to whore myself over some six-figure deal for a snow jockey.”
“And if you did I'd fire you. That's not why I'm asking. I'm just saying—you look like shit.”
“You said that already. Maybe I should show you the so-called hotel your minions booked me into.”
“What's your game plan?” he said, as though she hadn't spoken.
“I got him to agree to a couple hours with me tomorrow. Figure I'll get him on skis, try to get him back into that place where he can remember the joy of the sport, the exhilaration. And yeah, I may flirt a bit. He's the flirting type.”
