Seduction on the Slopes

by Tamsen Parker

  Before I can call him on weirdly personal bullshit though, he goes on.

  “Don’t you see that for everything you’ve lacked, you’re not walking out of here with nothing. You have friends, you’ve had boyfriends. I’ve never had that.”

  “You’ve never—”

  “Dated anyone? No. Hooked up with people, yes, been on a couple of dates, but no matter how much I’ve liked some of the men I’ve been with, I didn’t like them more than skiing. Who wants to come in second place all the time to a bunch of sticks and a mountain? No one. No one worth being with anyway. And watching my parents—they’re devoted to each other. They pay attention to each other. Do little things to make each other happy. I would’ve been shitty at all that, and I didn’t want to be, so I’ve done without.”

  Damn. I mean, not like I always have a boyfriend, but sometimes. Even when we were moving around all the time, I managed to have a couple of relationships. I had no clue Miles thought I was better or luckier than him in any way. I don’t get any satisfaction from his envy though. It makes me sad for him. I kinda want to hug him and tell him I’ll teach him how to be a real person once this is over, and I can be his friend or his boyfriend or whatever he wants. But I think he’d smack away any try at comfort, so I’ll stand here while he’s heaving with anger and confusion and some things I don’t recognize and probably he doesn’t either.

  “I’m sorry, but I—”

  “Hey, I’m not telling you to throw the race, I’m not telling you not to do your best. In fact, I will hunt you down and stab you with my own poles if you do something as bone-headed as that, but you can’t expect me to . . . to . . .”

  Miles doesn’t say “fuck.” Not about fucking anyway. He waves his arms again, but this time he’s only talking about what goes on behind our closed door. “—when we’re racing. I just can’t. I’m sorry if that’s going to make things uncomfortable, I really am, because you know I’ve only ever wanted you to do well, but I also need to do well, because this is my last shot. This is all I get, Crash, and if I can’t have this, then what was it all for? I traded my life for empty hands?”

  I want to point out how ridiculous it is that he’s happy trading his life for a circle on a string, but then he might go into a spiral of existential angst or some shit, and I have no idea what I’d do with that. I’m surprised Miles doesn’t have a plan for when this is over. That’s something they talk to us about: having a back-up plan because you can’t be a SIG athlete forever. Whether you think you want to coach, or go back to school or whatever, have a plan. And it seems entirely unlike Miles not to have done that.

  Although maybe that was part of his strategy. It was certainly part of mine. If I don’t have any other options, then I can’t fail. There is nothing else. I suppose for Miles, he’s got that whole trust fund thing going on, so it’ll be easy for him to take his time and figure his shit out, and then do what he really wants. I think he’d be a great psychiatrist, although the AMA or whatever other governing body they have probably frowns on a lot of the methods he’s used with me. But the point is, he’s going to be okay.

  For some of us . . . we have to figure shit out a lot more quickly than that. Because if I, for example, don’t? I don’t eat. Or have a roof over my head. I think the ski area will take me back, because why the hell wouldn’t they, but what if I can’t do that anymore for some reason?

  Miles might feel like he has nothing, but if I lose skiing, I’m well and truly fucked. He’s not the only one who has a lot riding on these races, and all of a sudden, that competitive part of me that’s been curled up like a lapdog, and enjoying the belly rubs Miles has been doling out, wakes up and growls.

  “What the hell do you think is going to happen to me if I finish out of the medals, huh? No one puts a SIG athlete on a magazine cover just for showing up. My face is not going to be on a Wheaties box. No one is going to pay me to use their gear and talk about how great it is. No matter what happens, you’ll be fine. You’ll go home to your parents’ big-ass spread in Greenwich and maybe you’ll be depressed for a while, but you can do it in the lap of luxury, with your champagne fountains and your diamond-soled shoes and you’ve probably got servants to stroke your ego when they’re not cleaning your toilets or making you a goddamn sandwich. I don’t have any of that. I blow this? I go back to Cast Iron Peak with my tail between my legs and a few duffel bags worth of new gear.”

  We’re both breathing heavily as we face off. I don’t like yelling at Miles and I sure as hell don’t like him yelling at me. This . . . this was not a good idea. If I had known this was how things would turn out, I never would’ve agreed to this. Started it. However you want to think about it.

  I can barely look at him right now, because it hurts. I get it, I do, but I want for him to get my side of it, too. He can’t see it, though, because he can’t look beyond his fear. Can’t focus on anything except Miles. I get why his world is shrinking when he needs every ounce of focus he possesses, but I’d kind of hoped his competition blinders wouldn’t make him blind to me. No dice.

  There’s still a couple of hours left before our team meeting and even though I don’t have anywhere in mind to go, I can’t stay here. So I grab my coat and my hat and mittens, even though it can’t possibly be chillier out there than it is in here. Only difference is that the cold outside I can defend against with layers, but the chill in my heart is going to stick, no matter what I do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Miles

  This is it. I’m standing at the top of the slalom course, wind stinging my eyes. I’m freezing my ass off because all I’ve got on is my skintight suit and the boots that hug my feet perfectly, sculpted around every curve and offering the perfect amount of structure and support, but lacking in the warmth department. Soon it’ll be time to lower my goggles over my eyes, glide up to the gate, and then . . . go.

  It’s strange to be doing this, knowing it’s my second-to-last chance at glory. Here in the giant slalom, the space between the gates is bigger, the course wider. Also, it’s called “giant,” which is kind of cool. Makes me wish I had a shot at the super-G, because that’s an even cooler name, but that’s never been my strong suit.

  This is the first of two runs and I’m doing my best not to pay attention to anyone else’s results. Racing against myself is the only thing that matters, because if I can do this run even a fraction of a second faster than I have before, I’ll be skiing this course the fastest it’s ever been skied. That also means everyone else has their eyes squarely on me.

  With a gesture from one of the officials manning the starting hut, I know it’s my turn. Breathe, Palmer. You do this every day, there has never been anyone alive who has been better at this than you. A little voice in the back of my brain pipes up and volunteers, “Maybe there hasn’t been, but—”

  I don’t want to think about Crash, for a whole heap of reasons. Bottom line is the dude needs to get out of my head. This is my time to shine, and I am going to motherfucking glow.

  Pulling my goggles over my eyes, I push up to the start gate and focus. Speed. Style. Technique. Now is not the time to catalogue all the things I need to do, though. Now is the time to trust my body to do what it’s been trained for. I know this. I was built for this. I’ve sacrificed for this. All I have to do is take it.

  The tone sounds, and I feel it down to the marrow in my bones. Every particle of me responds, and I shove off. Poles, skis, limbs and core, all working to hit that first gate as fast as humanly possible. And there it is, that satisfying thwack against my guards.

  No more shoving off, only taking advantage of gravity and my own ability to shift my weight precisely, angle my skis, use the tools I’ve been given to go faster. And faster. Yes, the turns slow me down, as does recovering my balance, but then I always speed back up again.

  I like to think of it like flying: wings out to recover my balance, wings in to recover my speed and hit the gates as fast as possible. Unlike flying, I’m keeping my skis
in the snow, becoming intimately acquainted with the terrain as I slice through the course, using the guidelines that are spray-painted through inches of snow. At this speed, they’re blurs.

  And then . . . then I hit the second to last gate and all I have to do is tuck and go, go, go. Skis slide over the finish line, and that’s it. My work here is done.

  One of my favorite parts of this sport is the mini victory lap you get to do at the end. The circle is big and there’s space to crash, if that’s your style, or give a wave to all the people who’ve been standing out in the freezing cold to watch you for a few minutes. The biggest minutes of your life, but still. Lucky for them, they’re bundled up to within an inch of their lives, but we’re not afforded such luxuries—warmth is for suckers. Or at least not world-class slalom skiers.

  I smile and wave, lifting my arm, the pole still clutched in my hand, and people cheer. Wave flags. Hold up signs. Jump up and down as if my victory is theirs. Sure, it is. There’s no way they’re as invested in my success as I am, but yes, I can spare a few grains of glory. Sprinkle it over them like confetti.

  My parents are here, and as two of the only black faces in the crowd, they’re not hard to find. Plus, my dad has brought the same flag to every single one of my SIG races, and my mom is holding a sign that she painted herself: “Miles Can Go the Distance!”

  If I were a bigger jerk, I would point out that I’m not a marathoner. Finishing is only a question if I’m overly aggressive. Two of my competitors have wiped out already, and I know better. Yes, I’ve got to go fast, but I also need to be in control, otherwise speed does me no good. It’s all about balance.

  I make sure to pass my mom and dad as I make my way out of the finish circle. Hug my dad, kiss my mom’s cheek. There will probably be pictures of this in the papers tomorrow, come what may. My mom squeezes my shoulder, and like she always does, smiles at me.

  “We love you, Miles.”

  Her face is so familiar, so beloved. Times like this I get this overwhelming gratitude for my parents, who put me on skis in the first place so I would fit in with the other kids in our ritzy Connecticut suburb. Neither of them can ski at all. But they spent hours upon hours in ski lodges, driving and eventually flying all over the place so I could train and race, spending untold amounts of money on my equipment and my coaches and not regretting even a little bit that the one thing they set out to do—make me fit in—was something they didn’t accomplish.

  But how mad can you be when your only child has turned out to be exceptional? I know she’d say the same thing if I were a teacher or an investment banker, hell, she’d love me even if I were a custodian, as long as I was the best damn custodian there’d ever been. Her kind eyes tell me she wouldn’t care a lick, which is going to come in handy when this is over and I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  Not one to be outshone, my dad offers me a solemn nod. “Proud of you, son.”

  He’s a tougher nut to crack than my mom, but once you break the shell, he’s just as squishy on the inside. He’s cried every time I’ve won a medal. Softie.

  “Thanks, Dad. For everything.”

  I give them a big smile, one that’s just for them. Not for the crowds, not for the press, and I hope someday I can find a way to express just how much their support has meant to me. Along with a flood of warmth that reaches all the way down to my brittle toes, there’s a sharp prick of . . . what even is that, my conscience? Whatever it is, it’s whispering Crash’s name, and I have a vision of him standing on a street corner with a duffel bag and not much else, in a town he doesn’t want to leave, while his parents pull away in that goddamn van to destinations unknown.

  Are they here? They were here earlier, but when I’d asked if they’d be at the races, Crash had shrugged. “I’ve given up guessing what they’re going to do.”

  Part of me wants to hunt them down and drag them here, tie them to one of the posts that holds up the barrier of the finish circle. He would see them, know they were here, that they’d showed up for him. Another part of me that’s selfish and stupid wants to hoard that giant smile he’s going to have on his face when he finishes. It’s mine, you assholes. I earned it, and what the fuck did you ever do for him?

  That, alas, is crazy talk and I know it. I’ve got to head back up the mountain and prepare for my second run, because this isn’t over. Not only that, but there’s some guilt I can’t quite get rid of because I want to beat him. I would give Crash anything, but I’m not going to give him this. Not if I can help it, although it might not be mine to give.

  Crash

  I have never been so jittery in my life, and that includes the one time I dropped acid with a few buddies. That was not good shit and I have stuck to weed ever since. This is . . . unbearable. The good news is, it’s only my muscles that are quivering, not my stomach. That thing is solid as a steel tank. My first run was good. Really fucking good. But not as good as Miles’s. I can’t honestly begrudge him that, but some sick part of me wants to please him by beating the pants off him.

  I don’t know if that would make him happy or not. Probably not, but maybe his insides are all churned up the way mine are. Maybe he can barely tell which way is up just like me. What I do know is that I think I can make this run faster than the last. I held back some on the last one because I was afraid of getting DQ’d for wiping out. I watched it happen to two other people. To make it this far and not even get to finish because you whiffed it? That’s embarrassing, man.

  But this one . . . I’ve got nothing left to lose, plus I’ve got a better handle on the course now. If I can put into practice the tips Miles gave me, I think I’ve got him. Which makes me feel like the sky is down and the slopes are up. And I don’t know if I can handle my world turning upside down like that.

  What if that means I lose him, too? Not that he’s mine now, but if I win, will he be able to look at me? Kiss me? Fuck me? I don’t know, and the thought that I might never experience those things again is almost enough to make me snap my boots out of these expensive-ass bindings and fucking walk down the hill, because it’s not worth the risk. But he’d murder me with my own skis if I did that, too.

  Either way, I’m dead. May as well try to secure some sponsorships on my way to the great beyond.

  It’s my turn now, and I step up to the gate, seeing myself take the course by storm. Visualizing the perfect way to take the curves, picturing my skis slicing through the snow, not flying above it, starting the turns with my ankles and keeping them active. That’s some weird shit right there, but I know what he means. Now I do.

  The tone tells me it’s time to go, so I close my eyes, take a breath and push for all I’m worth. Then I tell my conscious mind to take a backseat, and let my body and the beast take over. The lethal predator that wants this really badly, who has lightning reflexes and killer instinct.

  It’s weird, the actual skiing. Like I can feel every bump, every skid, every turn in my body, but I’m also outside myself, watching it all happen, matching up reality with the movie I’ve been playing in my head for days. Victory. How far off from my ideal run am I? A little slip of the ski here, a tiny rise of the edge that I quickly correct, forcing my ski back into the snow, picturing Miles running his hand over my ass as he kneels behind me.

  And then I’m done. The last gate hit, the finish line crossed, and . . . holy fucking shit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Crash

  I won. But that can’t be right. That red number blinking on the board can’t be right. Is in fact, ri-goddamn-diculous. Because those big red numbers are saying I beat Miles by a second. A second may not sound like much, and it’s not. There goes another. And another. No big deal. You hardly miss it. But in sports, seconds, even fractions of a second—they mean something, and a second is practically a river. A river I’ve apparently forded.

  I’m so busy being shocked and staring at the number, waiting for some official or othe
r to come, waving her hands in the air and calming the crowd because of course it’s been a mistake. Equipment failure? Some sort of freakish distortion in the space-time continuum? I would believe just about anything other than Crash Delaney, upstart and former weed smoker extraordinaire, beating Miles Palmer, king of alpine skiing and of the giant slalom in particular. This is his event—no one should be able to touch him in it.

  This was not supposed to happen. Except that according to the officials waving me over to a backdrop I’m supposed to stand in front of, it has. That time is real, and unless something truly insane happens, I’ve won a gold medal. And Miles—

  He’s standing there in front of the backdrop with a big smile on his face. A giant, creepy-as-fuck smile. It won’t be creepy to anyone else but me. Okay, maybe to his parents because I know they’re here, too, with their flag and his mom’s adorable sign. That sign . . . doesn’t make any sense, but that kinda makes it cuter? At any rate, maybe they’ll recognize his serial killer smile and how it doesn’t reach his eyes. His mouth is doing the right thing, showing off those shiny teeth of his, but I don’t even know, man, because I feel like if I get any closer he’s going to murder me in cold blood in front of all these people, and not even care except if he gets blood on his uniform.

  Miles is very neat. Doesn’t like it when I leave my socks on the floor, so I can’t imagine what he’d do if my blood got on his precious unitard. But I probably don’t have to worry because this is on national television and he wouldn’t want to make a scene, either.

  Which is why I let Coach Miller drag me toward a freakishly still Miles. When I reach him, he pats me on the shoulder, gives me a brief dude hug, so unlike the other embraces we’ve shared—the times he’s held me, the times he’s been inside me. There’s no trace of intimacy here, only camaraderie, and it makes me feel god-awful. And cold. Fucking A, it’s cold in these uniforms. I want a parka. Miles can make fun of me all he wants, but at least my balls won’t freeze and break off. Jesus.