Seduction on the Slopes

by Tamsen Parker

  Miles glares at me and stabs another bite of food. Heh, got him. “You know you can.”

  Oh, this is fun. I wish I could tell if he were blushing. I bet he is. I want to lean over and put my cold hands to his cheeks to find out, but he’d smack me away, no question. So instead I have to sit here practically squirming with covert pleasure—Miles thinks I’m charming. “Yeah. I can be charming as fuck.”

  He rolls his eyes but smiles, and nudges my foot under the table before slipping more tofu off his fork and into his mouth. “Well, do that. Pretend you’re on a date.”

  “I don’t think you want me doing that exactly.”

  All of his considerable attention turns to me, and I feel pinned to the dining hall chair by his dark eyes. Is he wondering what it would be like to be on a date with me? He’d probably be disappointed.

  I’d try hard—like plan an actual date and not just take him to some party in the woods I know about—and it wouldn’t be good enough for him. Hard to see a guy like that at the movies, or god forbid bowling. I think Miles would rather die than wear a pair of shoes hundreds of other people already have. Or maybe he’d plan it, and I’d end up embarrassing him. Either with my terrible table manners at some fancy-ass restaurant or by falling asleep at the opera or some shit.

  He’s still staring at me when he asks, “Why not?”

  I’m not an expert at reading people—usually it’s better for people to use a sledgehammer than words when trying to get something through my thick skull—but the slow, deliberate way he says it is . . . kinda sexy? Did he mean it to be sexy or is it just me thinking he’s walking talking sex and that clouds my judgment?

  So instead of answering in a sexy way, or what passes for sexy for me at any rate, I make a joke. Because even if he laughs at me, it’ll be because I meant him to, and not in a mean way. “Because that pretty much always ends with boning.”

  Everything about him goes stock still. He’s good at staying still, Miles is. Not like me. I can’t sit still to save my life, but even so it’s weird. How still he can stay and for how long. Dude isn’t even blinking. It’s starting to freak me out.

  Finally he takes a breath and his eyebrows sort of crunch in the middle, like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know what. Before he can decide, he shakes his head and takes up another forkful of kale. “Does anything involving you ever not end in sex?”

  “Only stuff with girls.”

  Miles rubs the bridge of his nose. I wonder if I could make him do that after every conversation we have? My track record so far isn’t bad.

  Miles

  “Jesus, never mind. We need to focus.”

  “I was focusing.”

  “Not on sex.”

  “Oh.”

  This kid . . .

  “Yeah. So, the next press event is day after tomorrow. The good news is, it shouldn’t take long.”

  We’re not a big enough deal to rate a lot of time, not like the figure skaters and the men’s hockey players. But more than some. I don’t know if the biathletes were even invited . . .

  “And the bad news?”

  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, it does cost 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 are we going 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 on my racing. 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.

  “No. Couldn’t really.”

  “Worried about this morning?”

  His face goes from fish-belly pale to a green that resembles the hydrangeas in my mom’s garden. Apparently so.

  Note to self: don’t remind Crash about the shit he doesn’t want to do.

  “So, here’s the thing, I haven’t really come up with a solution—”

  He groans and pulls the covers back over his head. It’s kind of adorable in its childishness, but I need him to listen to me. So I haul out of bed, settling my pajama pants that have gone askew so they sit right on my hips. It’s stupid to bother with a shirt, because hell, he’s already seen me naked in the locker room, but I feel like I could use even a thin layer of protection from the all kinds of awkward this is going to be so I pull on the one I’d left folded on my nightstand.

  The floor is cold against the soles of my feet so I don’t take my time to mosey on over to his bed, but more skitter and then plop myself down beside him, drawing the covers down from his head again.

  “You didn’t let me finish my sentence. Patience, Crash. You need to develop some patience. Sometimes going fast is about going slow.”

  He looks like I’m spouting some psychobabble bullshit, but I’m not. In this one thing, I know what I’m talking about. But this isn’t a lecture about technique. That I can do in public, and what I’m about to say can very much not.

  I expect Crash to shove me off the bed, or wrestle me for the covers, but he doesn’t. I’ve bared his shoulders, and I study the slope of them, the way his pulse beats hard in his throat, the angle of his jaw. He’s not a bad looking kid, but he needs to fill out more. If he hit a tree, he’d snap like a twig.

  “What I was going to say is that I haven’t come up with a solution, but we have to do something, because this is not tenable. You can’t keep puking your guts up before pressers. It’s not healthy and it’ll impact your race performance sooner or later, and I won’t let that happen.” When I beat this upstart of a kid, it’s going to be fair and square, not because I let him make himself sick over this shit. “So I’ve decided we’re going to try it your way.”

  “My way?” he echoes.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to let me smoke?”

  “No. That’ll get you thrown out of here, and I’m not taking that chance. We are not taking that chance. I’m not going to have one of my teammates, maybe the best raw talent I’ve ever seen, get booted off the team because he smoked pot. That would be stupid.”

  “Okay. But that only leaves—” His eyes go wide, so wide I can almost see the whites all the way around. It makes him look like a goddamn Muppet. Which he sort of is. Crash the stoner alpine skier, with his crazy hair and his drawly but still somehow fast way of talking. Somehow, I don’t think that’s flying with Disney.

  “Sex. Yes.”

  His mouth gapes, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and use a finger to tip it closed. That foolish look does make me feel better about one element of my plan at least.

  “We’re . . .” He swallows, his eyes still bulging. “We’re going to fuck?”

  “No! No, no, Jesus, no. I was hoping maybe you could just, you know, take care of yourself?” That was about as delicately as I could’ve suggested the guy masturbate, right? It’ll be bad enough that when he’s taking an extra-long shower I’ll know what’s going on, and . . . Ugh. I only have to have a roommate once every four years for like a month. How do people who go to college deal with roommates who rub the occasional one out? Because they totally do.

  “I mean, I guess I could try walking my own dog.”

  “Are you kidding me with this?”

  “Dude, it makes as much sense as “spanking the monkey.” Maybe more. I mean, who actually spanks monkeys?”

  We do not need to discuss this. In fact, I’d really rather not. So instead of responding, I glare at him. Even Crash can’t be so thick as to not take that hint. I’m hoping that’ll be it, that he’ll go on his merry, jerking off way, but no. Crash looks at me, the corner of his mouth tugging to the side. He doesn’t look relieved.

  Why doesn’t he look relieved? This should help.

  “It’s uh . . . it’s not as good. By myself. When I’m really anxious, I have a hard time . . .” He flushes this absolutely brilliant red then and I’ve got to know what he was going to say. Crash has ver
y little shame so if he’s roughly the color of a tomato right now, it’s got to be for a damn good reason.

  Kid doesn’t look at me and stammers but I can be patient. “If it’s just me, and I’m all twisted up inside, sometimes it’s hard to stay, you know, hard.”

  He scrubs hands over his face and into his hair and mutters some curses. Yeah, I can see why he wouldn’t want to say that. Not being able to keep it up is something no man ever wants to admit to.

  “I think too much, and then I get distracted, and then all of a sudden, I don’t have . . . I’m not . . .”

  Then his hands flail all over the place in a floppy, sad way, and I get it. Yes, unfortunately that provides all too vivid a picture. This is so far above and beyond my responsibilities as team captain it’s not even funny. I should ask Ted for hazard pay.

  I can’t say I’m entirely shocked though. If a guy gets so worked up that his last meal makes an encore, it’s not surprising that he’d get so preoccupied with his worries that he wouldn’t be able to keep an erection, never mind beat off. But if a twenty-one-year-old dude can’t keep a stiffy? This is serious business.

  Why can I not be one of those athletes who will take every advantage, win by any means necessary, even if those means are less than honorable? Why must I have a conscience, and why must my parents have drilled morals and sportsmanship into my brain? Could I not be unscrupulous in this one thing? But no. It may be a curse, but it’s mine and I know every time I look at those medals, knowing it wasn’t a fair fight, that I’d get a sour taste in my mouth and they wouldn’t be worth as much to me. It’s not worth anything if you didn’t come by it honestly. It’d be worse than outright stealing them. So though it is so wrong, wrong, wrongity wrong, my moral compass is pointing me to this as the only solution.

  “Well, that’s not going to work.”