by Avery Laval
“I like it. He skis, you attempt to ski, you both hit the hot tub, expense some booze, then get out the signing pen.”
“That's about it. But I'm not sure it's going to work, Brad. He doesn't want to be in this world anymore. I don't know why, but he seems done with the whole game.”
“What? Done? After all—what the hell—” Brad sputtered. “That so-called retired skier was nobody and no one before the games. I got him the sponsorships, I got him to Telluride, I got him the skis, I got him to Sochi. He owes me some freaking commission!”
“I don't think he'd see it that way,” Natalie said frankly. “I think he'd say he introduced you to three high-value slopestyle boarders, made a lot out of very little in prep for the games, and added the name of a gold-medal Olympian to your client roster. Your first one, too.”
Brad heaved a huge sigh. “Dammit Natalie. It always seemed like a good idea to hire a straight shooter as an assistant, but in retrospect, well.” He trailed off.
Natalie laughed, then shook her head. “More reality for you to check: I'm only scheduled to be here for two nights. It's not much time. I'll do what I can.”
“Do more than that.”
“I'm not sure how you expect me to—”
“Listen, Natalie. Love you like a daughter, you know that.” Natalie rolled her eyes just a bit, but only for his sake, because it's what a daughter would do. “But your job. Not stable. Not stable at all.”
Her eyes bulged in surprise. “What?” she blurted.
“Don't give me that wide-eyed ingénue thing. You and I both know you're not going all the way. You're not a tiger. Never will be. It's just not who you are.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “But you need this gig, and I need you. So give me something to show the other partners.”
Natalie blinked. “And if I don't?”
“I'm sorry, but I can't keep dragging you around the country if you don't. I've got to find someone who at least looks like the future of the business.”
Natalie was quiet. This trip. The one she thought of as a chance to get away from the awkward rejection she'd have to deliver to her roommate, the stall tactic. The escape.
But it wasn't an escapist jaunt. It was a test.
A test there was no way to pass.
She put her head in her hands.
“Don't be like that,” Brad said. “Don't admit defeat yet.”
“I can't get this guy to sign.” Wasn't it enough she had found the guy? In less than a day? Now they wanted her to perform a miracle?
Brad put his hands up. “Then you'll find another job.”
“But I need this one—”
“Then get him to sign.” In the background, Brad's phone buzzed. “Natalie. I know you can do this.” The phone buzzed again. “Eh, this conversation is so awkward. You know I hate awkward. I'm hanging up on me so you don't have to. Bueno luck-o, mi amore!”
“That's not even Italian!” she called, but the screen was dark, and she was talking only to herself.
3
Noon the next day came too fast. She'd done everything she was supposed to. Slept, for one thing, slept the sleep of the over-traveled, and kept sleeping until she was sure her puffy eyes were at a level even Brad Bradley wouldn't comment on. Now her brain would be in fighting shape. She had a fight on her hands, all right, but damn if she ever backed down from one of those.
Brad was right. Natalie was no tiger, no kind of large predator at all. But she was tough. She didn't dream of becoming a full-blown sports agent, of wheeling and dealing herself into fancy cars and flashy jewelry. But this job did exactly what she needed it to do, and opened all the doors she needed to make her dreams come true. She wasn't ready to be without it, and she would do just about anything to save it.
So she spent a couple hours cramming Charlie Ahlers's life story for the umpteenth time, crawling over his Facebook and Instagram for any hint of what might be motivating him, and then got herself to a mirror. Time for some war paint. Charlie had clearly liked what he'd seen after a trans-oceanic flight in steerage. What would he say after a good rest and the full faith and backing of Laura Mercier, Bobbi Brown, and Trish McEvoy?
Made up to the hilt, the next stop was an outfitter store. Sure, she'd brought her belted white parka, a silly little purchase that, while snuggly as could be, wasn't exactly suited for her day to day life in corporate Vegas. But she needed more than that. She needed a fitted pair of Roxys that didn't add too much puff to her already juicy booty. A pretty, lightweight cowl that she could layer loose in the lodge or doubled outside, and some kind of flattering hat, if such a thing existed. And, since the sun was out in force this beautiful day, maybe she'd need to treat herself to a pair of pretty Ray Bans too, while she was at it.
She walked out of the shop feeling ready for anything. Sleek black snow pants, her faux fur lined parka, a gray cashmere scarf, black ski gloves, a pale blue bobble-topped cap, and killer goggles. Say no to this, Charlie Ahlers, she thought as she pulled up to his basement apartment.
But when he came out, every piece of store-bought hubris fell away.
The guy at the bar last night. The shaggy slope rat with the perfect line for everything? That guy was gone. In his place, in the full glinting-off-spring-snow light of day was the man she'd crushed on during the games. Off the barstool and raised to his full height of six-foot-sexy, he'd showered and shaved off that raggedy beard, revealing a beautiful jaw, dark pink lips, still-wet strawberry blonde hair and an irresistible smile. He was dressed in baggy tan board bibs with no jacket or scarf, just a beautifully toned chest shown off to maximum advantage by a dark blue base layer emblazoned all over with the stars and stripes of the U.S. men's ski team uniform.
God. Bless. America.
To hell with skiing. To hell with this job. One look at this Olympic god and what she wanted to do didn't require a signed contract, or a special wardrobe, and it certainly didn't require goggles. All they needed was a private place and an hour. Maybe she could get the seat down on the passenger side, wriggle out of these snow pants, get her hands under that shirt of his.
“Shove over.” With a start, Natalie returned from hot-dreamland to real life, and real life was Charlie Ahlers standing in the open driver's door of her rental car telling her to climb into the passenger seat. Wait. Was hot-dreamland becoming real?
“Excuse me?” she said, flustered, imagining him thinking the same thing as her, sizing up the potential in this little rental Fiat and coming to the same conclusion.
Tricky, but worth it.
“I'm gonna drive. If it's all the same. I know these mountains, and I'm terrible at giving directions.”
Oh. Of course. Damn. “Sure. Yeah, that's a good idea. Why else would you want me to move over to the passenger seat. Ha ha. You drive.” Shut up, Natalie, her brain ordered her. Good idea, brain, her pounding heart agreed.
She took the hand he'd offered to help her out of the car, forced herself not to wrap it around her, and headed around the front to the other side. Felt his eyes following her all the way. Was he feeling anything like what she was feeling? Or was it just the same suspicion he'd shown her the night before that had him tracking her moves like a wild animal on the hunt?
When she got into the car, he said, “I borrowed a girlfriend's skis for you. I figured you two were about the same size, but now I see you're lighter. So they'll be fast.”
“A girlfriend?” she said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her, one eyebrow cocked on that beautiful face of his. He knew, then. Well. Probably he had that effect on all women. Why should she be any different?
“A girl who's a friend,” he said. “A woman, really. Anyone who can shoot a kiwi fruit-sized target at 100 meters after skiing ten miles is a woman, even if she's 19.”
“Agreed,” Natalie said with a smile. Biathletes were her girl crushes. It was a dumb thrill to share skis with one, but a thrill nonetheless.
“They're around back,” he s
aid, and turned the car around on a dime, going to the side of the house where an open garage stood waiting, pair after pair after pair of skis leaned against the inside wall. “Pop the hatch, would you?”
In about thirty seconds, eight skis and assorted poles speared through the space between passenger and driver in the tiny car. The back seat was full to bursting with boots. So much for car sex, Natalie thought sadly. A person would get impaled.
“Do we really need all this stuff?” she asked when he got back in. “I'm a competent skier at best. Having two sets hardly seems necessary.”
“I'm with you on that, but you'll thank me, I think. Here we go.”
With that he threw the car into reverse and expertly, if terrifyingly, maneuvered it backwards up a long driveway and back onto the road before pausing for a millisecond, throwing the car into drive, and shooting off down the mountainside on the highway.
“Oh wow. So you drive like an Italian.”
“Only in Italy,” he said. “Back home I drive like an American. Luckily I don't drive like a Frenchman anywhere.”
“You've traveled a lot, I take it?”
“Anywhere there's snow. My dad, you know.”
“Oh right.” Though less successful in the Olympics, Gordon Ahlers had won a few very important ski jumping competitions of his own about twenty years prior. “So this all runs in the family.”
There was a long silence that made Natalie wonder if she'd stepped in something. Finally, Charlie spoke. “Sort of.”
Natalie couldn't resist nosing in. Maybe this way she could find out the reason behind his decisions. And help change them. “Does your mom jump?”
“God no. She hates the sport. Loves cheering for us, though. No secret there. She's always been that sports mom, you know, with the rows of buttons with your picture on them and the hand lettered signs and the Olympic rings tattoo.”
“Like the commercials.”
“Exactly like that. She's the one you should be tapping for an endorsement.”
“Except without you, she'd be just another mom.”
“Without her, I'd be just another punk,” he said sharply.
Natalie couldn't help feeling warm toward him—his quick and sincere appreciation was endearing. “That's sweet.”
He shrugged. “It's true. Ski jumping is basically falling off a hill with style. Anyone with a good support team can do it.”
“Well, that's going a little far, don't you think? I mean, you did work at it a little.”
“Maybe a bit,” he said with a sideways smile. “But I hardly think I deserve all the clamoring.”
Natalie smiled back. “You won't hear any clamoring from me.”
Charlie responded with nothing but a raised eyebrow.
“What?”
He shrugged. “Isn't clamoring exactly what you're here to do?”
“I'm here to ski.”
“You're here to get me to sign something. By convincing me that I'm God's gift to athletic endeavors and also that you'd like to jump me in the back seat.”
Natalie's face turned bright red. “I never said that! I mean, no.” She sighed. This was not going how she'd hoped it would. “How much further to the mountain?”
“Ten minutes. Why?”
She sighed again, heavier this time. There was no point in this charade. She was a terrible liar and Charlie was hot enough to make her even less crafty than usual. “Look, I'm going to level with you. Yes, I'm probably supposed to flirt with you, and bat my eyes, and wear lipstick and act like you're—what did you say? God's gift to athletic endeavors? That.”
“Your plan was to fall down a lot on skis and make me feel like a genius, right? And under that parka, is there some kind of super-hot, low-cut sweater you intend to reveal at the lodge over a perfectly cooked steak and a good bottle of wine?”
Natalie blushed even deeper. “I don't know about super-hot. But low-cut? Yes.”
Charlie shook his head. “Brad Bradley,” he said like it was a swear word. “Even when he takes the form of a gorgeous woman, I can smell him a mile away.”
“He's not as bad as all that.”
Charlie sighed, then nodded. “I know. You remember what I said about having a good support team? Brad was part of that. He did well by me, and I did well by him too. But that's over now. I'm retired.”
“Retired? You're twenty-nine!”
“Thirty. And it's as good a time to hang it up as any.”
Natalie coughed. “If you want the best days of your life to be behind you, sure. If you want to live in rentals with six other ski bums for the rest of your life, and eat ramen noodles for dinner until you get scurvy, and slowly sell off all your good gear to weekend warriors to pay for lift tickets.”
There was a long pause. “Obviously that's not what I want,” Charlie said softly. He didn't go on, and Natalie could sense she shouldn’t push him. She wanted to, oh yes. Wanted to ask him what it was he did want.
Before she could figure out a way, the car slowed a bit. “This is it.”
Natalie waited as he pulled into a tiny little plowed inlet just next to the road and parked the car. No ski lodge. No chair lift. “This is what?”
Charlie popped open his car door and stepped out, stretching his long body out in the sun. “This,” he announced over the car roof after Natalie had followed his lead, “is one of the most stunning cross-country loops you'll ever ski, even in a lifetime of skiing nothing but. This is the quiet beauty that will make you forget the idea of plummeting down a hill with thousands of other tourists, and make you fall in love with the mountains for real. This is heaven.”
Natalie made a face. “It really sounded like you said cross country. But I can't ski cross country. Do I look like a Norwegian snow queen?”
Charlie raised that dangerous eyebrow of his and shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe we should wrap you up in furs and find out.”
Something shivery traveled from the back of Natalie's neck to the base of her spine, lighting up a path between with molten desire. She tried, and failed, to ignore it.
“I brought the alpines, in case you insist on being a spoilsport,” he went on. “The most popular resort on the mountain is ten minutes straight up from here. We can spend the afternoon on the slush trying not to get skied over by amateurs in hot pink snow tights. Or,” he waved one muscular arm towards the trail, “we can get lost in pristine, untouched, unfettered wilderness, moving only on the power of our own making. It's up to you.” Even as he was speaking, he was popping the hatchback, reaching inside, unsheathing a pair of long, narrow skis with only the tiniest toe bindings.
“Your skis are all waxed and ready,” he said, and somehow even that sounded dirty coming from his beautiful lips.
“OK,” Natalie said, apparently having checked her common sense at the airport. Sure, she'd never been on Nordic skis before. Sure, this was an ungroomed trail crosscutting a mammoth mountain in the middle of a foreign country. Sure, this was the opposite of persuading Charlie to sign some deal over a steak dinner or in a Jacuzzi, the opposite of using her sex-appeal to talk him into something he didn't want to do. Even if that something could open so many doors for him, help him start his life over and get him back into the sport she knew he loved more than life.
But then, there was no chance of her talking him into that anyway, though hell if she knew why.
“OK,” she said again. “Let's do this. Pass me those skis.”
Charlie had to hand it to her. She made falling look fun. And she fell a lot. The very first downhill, right behind him, skiing in his tracks, she made the cutest little eek sound and by the time he'd gotten to a flat and turned, she was sitting there with skis akimbo looking sheepish. She seemed undaunted though, and after he'd gotten her to her feet, she’d brushed the snow off her pants and started again. Her early stride looked much the same as his had, when he’d first gotten the idea to try cross-country. Basically, it was walking on skis. But soon she was leaning into it, bending her kn
ees and throwing one foot in front of the other, letting the glide carry her uphill, sitting into downhills when she wanted to slow down, which wasn't very often. A more cautious skier wouldn't have fallen so much, but a more cautious skier wouldn't have had nearly the fun she had either.
“This is great,” she called to him about five kilometers in, when they were about to round a bend of skyscraper-tall firs. “But can we stop here so I can die of exhaustion?”
Everything she said either made him laugh or think. It was a dangerous combination, after a year of intentionally avoiding both laughter and thought in general.
“Of course, but maybe I can revive you?” He pulled his daypack off his back, felt the cold air rush in to attack the sweat that had accumulated there. He smiled. If he was breaking a sweat with a first-time skier, she must be working her cute little butt off.
“I've been dying to know what you had in there. Please tell me it's a Saint Bernard with a barrel of whiskey.”
“No doggie, but what about a nice crusty loaf of bread and a good salumi?”
“Sold. What did you bring for yourself?”
He laughed again. Dammit. He liked this girl. Liked everything about her.
“Don't fill up,” he told her. “We're about halfway around, and when we get back I have something in mind.” Oh, did he ever. “A restaurant, I mean,” he added, after he'd gotten a good satisfying blush out of her.
They popped their boots out of the ski bindings and he showed her how to balance her skis in a V cut into the snow, so they'd be sure to still be there when they got back. Then they trekked about ten meters straight up the mountainside, to a way station where some intrepid regular had thought to polish two large stumps into perfectly matched little benches.
From this ideal perch, they looked down on the scene. They were high enough for the good snow even this late in the season, but the sheer face of the mountain was on the opposite side. This side was gentle, more hill than slope, meandering and blocked from the whipping wind. That meant heavy forestation below, then, through the firs in the valley, the beginnings of a green wet spring. Above them, winter still loomed large, pristine, and untouchable.
