Daddy Boss (A Boss Romance Love Story)

by Bishop, Claire

  “I’ve got all your magazines. Seriously,” Nick says, “you’re living with Rob now, man. You really need to get your porn out of my hou—oh, hey!” he says, acknowledging Mia’s presence. “I’m Nick, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Nick, Ian’s attractive friend, and you are…?”

  “I’m Mia,” Mia answers, extending her arm to shake Nick’s hand.

  Exactly how the two of them have never been properly introduced eludes me, but the farther I can keep Nick from Mia, the better. It’s not that I don’t like the guy, I just don’t want either of them exchanging embarrassing stories about me.

  I’m really not so worried about Mia. Apart from my vert troubles, of which Rob and Nick are very aware, Mia’s never really seen me do anything to humiliate myself.

  Nick, on the other hand…

  “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be checked in and all that shit already?” Nick asks.

  “He’s probably just trying to bitch out of it,” Rob says.

  “What exactly does it mean to ‘bitch out’ of something, Rob?” I ask. “What’s the etymology on the phrase?”

  “Are we really that close to time?” Mia asks. “I knew my dad didn’t set the clock for the right time.”

  He didn’t. I set it ahead ten minutes when I was loading up my gear and she was finishing getting ready to go.

  “What time is it?” Mia asks.

  Rob looks at his watch while Nick looks at Mia, and I can see the little fucker salivating over the chance he thinks he’s going to get to make me look like an idiot in front of her.

  “A couple minutes after four,” Rob says. “You’re fucked, bro.”

  “Nah,” Nick says, still looking at Mia with that crooked little smile he gets when he’s about to spill something. “I got it.”

  “Got what?” I ask, but Nick doesn’t answer. He just pulls out his phone.

  “Hey, slut, what’s up?” he asks, and I’m turning to Mia, mouthing an apology.

  She waves me off and looks back toward Nick.

  “Yeah, I got a buddy who was supposed to get his ass here like an hour ago, but he’s… Yeah, he’s signed up and everything, he just needs to get checked in,” Nick says. “Any chance you could do us a favor?”

  “It’s already after four,” I tell Mia. “I’m sorry I took so long in the car like that.”

  “Yeah, his name is Ian Zavala,” Nick says. “Z-A—hey Ian,” he says, turning to me, “how do you spell your last name?” Before I can go to answer, though, he presses his phone harder against his ear, saying, “You’ve got it? Awesome, we’re coming through the front now. Just hold the start. You’re the best, mom.”

  “That was your mom?” Mia asks.

  “Yeah,” Nick says. “When I started getting into boarding, she started looking around for inroads. That’s my mom’s thing, man,” he says. “She may not be an expert at most things, but she can dig her way into any business and, once she’s there, she always gives me the hookup. She’s been an outside investor in this place for years, man. She says the word and shit gets done, you—”

  “I think she was asking because you started the conversation with, ‘slut,’” I interrupt to tell him.

  “Dude, don’t call my mom a slut,” Nick says, shaking his head and taking one too many steps toward me. “That’s not cool.”

  He’s about an inch from my face, and I’m not sure whether he’s serious or not—it’s often difficult to tell with him.

  “Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya,” Nick says and pats my cheek. “Now get your ass in there.”

  “He hasn’t signed my balls yet,” Rob says.

  You know, apart from his willingness to let me crash at his place even after we beat the crap out of each other, I’m really having a difficult time remembering why I’m still friends with Rob.

  As much as I’m dreading the vert portion of the demo—why the hell did I even sign up for it?—I don’t think I’m going to be able to stall my way out of this any longer.

  “Go,” Mia says. “I’ll see you when you’re done. You’re going to do great.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter and get on my board.

  I can do this. It’s not such a big deal.

  As long as I just keep telling myself that, maybe it’ll become the truth.

  Once I’m through the gate, it’s easy enough to see where I need to go and so I skate over to the start area while a woman’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, seeming to thank everyone that had ever made any sort of contribution—financial or otherwise—to the skate park.

  That must be Nick’s much-fabled mom.

  Even knowing the guy for years, I’ve still never met anyone in his family, though apparently he has a big one.

  I get to the start area and a big guy, also with a clipboard, stops me, saying, “I’m sorry, this area’s for skaters only.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “I’m on the list: Ian Zavala.”

  “Check in for skaters ended almost ten minutes ago,” the man says. “Sorry, bud. You missed your chance with this one.”

  Well, I tried. Not only that, but Mia tried, too. Even Nick and his mom tried, but oh well. I guess that’s that.

  “Wait,” the guy says. “What was the last name?”

  “Zavala,” I answer. “I know I’m late. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

  “No, man,” he says, stepping out of the way, “I’m sorry. Yeah, Kara told us you’d be coming. Your number’s right here,” he says and lifts the top page of his clip board and producing two squares of paper with the number 2311 on them.

  “You just carry that around on your clipboard?” I ask.

  “Nah, man,” the guy says. “Kara called on the radio and had someone bring it over. Better get ready, though. They’re about to start and you’re not even in your pads.”

  Shit.

  As I’m walking past the man with the clipboard, I can hear the beep of his walkie-talkie. “He’s here. You can tell Kara she can stop reading names out of the phone book,” he says.

  Nick’s mom is certainly tenacious.

  “Please, a big round of applause for all of our friends here at the Richfield Community Skate and Ride!” the voice on the loudspeaker declares. “Are you ready for some skating?” Nick’s mom says to thunderous applause.

  I check the board to see the skating order.

  My name is crossed out near the top, but it’s scribbled in again at the bottom.

  Last.

  I love being last.

  Nick’s mom’s voice comes over the loudspeaker one more time, declaring, “Here we go!”

  The first skater rolls in and we’re getting started.

  First, we’re going to do the street demo, then the vert. The scoring, as this is technically not a competition, is a little lazy: Everyone gets three runs, only the highest scoring run counts and whoever’s got the best score “wins.”

  It’d probably seem a lot more like winning if I was actually going to get paid for being their poster boy, but I guess getting my face out there isn’t a bad thing.

  It is a rather nice face, after all.

  My first run comes up and I start off a little easy, taking my time between tricks, only bothering with one gap and basically just trying not to make the other skaters want to kill themselves before they’ve had a chance to take their other two runs.

  If I was as confident on vert as I was on a street course, I’d probably already have my own video game series.

  I finish my run only five points up on my nearest competitor.

  This is too easy.

  The next round goes by and I’m actually outscored by a particularly determined guy with vampire teeth affixed in his mouth.

  I’ve really got to stop doing the local demos.

  When my second run comes up, I do just enough more to put myself back in first place and I wait for everyone to shit their pants on their third run.

  I think they know I’m toying with them. This pleases me.

&
nbsp; Still, as skater after skater takes their final run, I’m becoming acutely aware that I’m not going to have long to enjoy my runaway victory on the street course because the vert course is about to make everyone forget that I could ever skate.

  Vampire kid—who I’m reasonably certain has never even heard the name Peter Steele—has a solid last run and he takes first place.

  He’s up by three points.

  Now it’s time to turn it on.

  This is why I love being last. When you’re first, it’s all business because you don’t know what everyone after you is going to do. There’s always someone who can knock you off the top of the mountain.

  Being last, though…

  They call my name for my final run and I’m on my board, coming down the roll-in ramp, feeling a mix of complete control and absolute helplessness.

  Just push it out of your mind, Ian. You’ve got this.

  I start with a varial heelflip, decent enough on its own, but as I land, I bring down my front foot a little sooner than my back foot, sticking the nose manual. Still on my front two wheels, I nollie into a back foot impossible and I can almost feel the blood draining from the faces of my competitors already.

  Problem is, my foot comes down on the side of the board and I botch the landing. I’m running out of time and I have nothing to put on the board but a failed combo.

  Shit.

  I get back on my board and put a little extra into it as I push toward the ledge, a pop shove it into a Smith grind on the ledge and a 180 out.

  At least I stuck that one.

  I still have some time, but I’ve got to step it up or I’m going to be out of this thing before I even get to the vert.

  Rolling up the halfpipe, I 50-50 the lip, but all I’m really looking for right here is the speed of dropping in, and I get it. Coming up to the fun box, I’m riding switch relative to the rest of my run, and a quick backside 180 into a 5-0 on the rail, and I manage to kick out a double kickflip, revert on the landing and I just might be back in this thing.

  The clock says ten seconds now, and the revert hurt my speed coming off the fun box, so I’m pumping as hard as I can up the roll-in and, when I get to the top, time for only one more line, I come back down the roll-in hard.

  The sweat is dripping into my eyes and all I can hear is my heartbeat and the sound of the wheels beneath my feet, and I’m crouched as I come up to the kicker.

  I catch the clock running down out of the corner of my eye: 6, 5, 4…

  One more quick push for that little bit extra I’m going to need and in the air, I’m spinning 180, 360—I finally get comfortable in my mute air—540…

  The ground is coming up fast as I pull my free hand into my body, trying to get just that final touch and my wheels come down smooth out of the “switch” (ha!) 720 mute, and I don’t really care if winning doesn’t mean anything, I’m off my board, hands at each side of my mouth and I’m shouting, “Woo!”

  I take a look back at the kicker and just start laughing. Coming off my board early in the run may have damaged my score enough that I don’t come in first, but getting a 720 off that kicker is enough of a feather in my cap.

  After collecting my board, I climb back up to the starting area and wait for the score.

  “What was that?!” Mia shouts, coming up to the barrier between the crowd and the skaters.

  I walk over to her, grinning so much my cheeks kind of hurt, and I pull off my helmet.

  “When I saw I had ten seconds left, I tried to think of the most crack-headed idea I could think of, and trying to pull a 720 off that two-foot kicker when I absolutely couldn’t afford to screw it up seemed like a pretty stupid option,” I tell her.

  “Stupid or not,” she says, pointing up to the board, “it worked.”

  I turn around and look up at the board.

  Half a point: that’s all that separates me and my closest competitor, but I eked out the first-place spot.

  “How long do you have?” Mia asks, pulling on my shirt sleeve.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “About five ‘til,” she says.

  “Five ‘til five?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Then I guess I have about five minutes,” I tell her. “Do me a favor: If you see Nick, tell him that his mom should really start scheduling more than five minutes between events.”

  “Are you up for this?” she asks.

  “What are you doing?” I return.

  “What?” she asks, looking up at me with a furrowed brow.

  “I’m pretty sure I was a hundred percent up for it until you asked me if I was up for it,” I tell her. “Now, I think I’m closer to seventy, sixty-five percent.”

  “You got this,” she says, changing tactics.

  I smile.

  “Fifty-five, fifty…” I say.

  “Oh, just shut up and get over there before we have to listen to Nick’s mom thanking the cast of the A-Team again,” she tells me.

  “She what?” I chuckle.

  “When she was stalling for you,” Mia says. “I wasn’t entirely sure until she actually thanked Mr. T for his very generous donation, but yeah, she was going through the cast of the A-Team.”

  “What’s most impressive about that,” I tell her, “is that you’re that familiar with 80s gonzo crime shows.”

  “It’s not a gonzo crime show!” she protests, but stops. Her hand almost goes over her mouth, but she compels it down to her side.

  Apparently, I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Go,” she says.

  I go.

  There are a couple of people, including myself, who are doing both street and vert. I’m happy for all the wrong reasons that vamp kid is one of them.

  I wonder what happens if he crashes. You’ve got to think those teeth, even if they’re made of shitty plastic, would end up going right through one or more of his lips if he were to come down wrong.

  Hilarious.

  The way the competition is scored, from what I understand, is the result of a compromise. There were those in whatever meeting where they decided these things who thought the two contests should be scored completely independently of each other as not everyone who signed up for street signed up for vert and vice-versa.

  This was thought unfair by the other curiously dedicated fashion who believed that the competition should be scored by taking the combined score on both vert and street, and that those who wouldn’t compete in both would just take the hit of scoring a zero in one or the other disciplines.

  The consensus, was that they would take the best individual score and add that to the overall score, then divide that by two. This, of course, produces a number that has no real meaning, other than it happens to still favor someone with a decent score in both vert and street (which are scored using a different method even than each other,) thus accomplishing none of the original goals and convoluting the whole process.

  I just love the fact that it’s going to take someone with a calculator to figure out whether a skater is doing well at any given time after the vert scores start coming in.

  My focus snaps back to the present moment and what’s actually happening as I climb up to the top of the vert ramp.

  I’m really doing this.

  After that initial drop in, I seem to have pretty effectively broken through my mental block. I’ve only come off the board a couple of times since.

  That said, I now have to do it in front of a shitload of people who are more than capable of ruining my future by posting videos of me breaking my leg before actually getting around to catching any air.

  No pressure.

  As I won the street competition, I’ll be the fourth person to go.

  I have no idea. This whole demo structure is a train wreck.

  When I was on the street course, all of my competitors looked so inept, so green. There’s a lot of potential, but it’s years from fruition for most of them.

  As the first three skaters go ahead o
f me on the vert ramp, though, everyone looks like a pro.

  I’ve broken with my tradition of freestyling my runs at the last minute, and have meticulously planned out all three of my vert runs, even going so far as to plan out what to do if I finish a run faster than expected.

  It’s just a matter of actually being able to do it.

  There’s nothing huge on the docket, and I don’t expect to come away with an overall win today, but as the clock resets and I get into position, the tail of my board on the lip, it’s not an idle moment.

  The world around me seems to go silent as I put my front foot on the board and start leaning in.

  The front wheels come down and I’m to the bottom before I can even think about it.

  I’m still on the board as I reach the flat, and I’ve got good speed coming up the other side.

  I physically can’t breathe as I catch my first few feet of air, and I do a simple indy grab, coming down switch.

  The landing doesn’t scare me in any way like the drop in does, and I land smooth enough, pumping my body, trying to get that extra bit of speed.

  Air beneath my wheels, I’m pulling for a lien 540, but I don’t have enough speed, so I have to drop it down to a 360 on the fly.

  I’ve spent so much time worrying about how to start a vert run that the other relevant points have taken a bit of a hit, and I’m in my head as I come down and try to remember every tip I’ve ever heard or read on getting more speed on a vert ramp.

  Next, I’d planned an easier 360 heelflip for my next up, but after coming out a half-turn early on the last one, I kick a 360 kiwi flip into a tail grab, pulling my hand off the back of the board what can only be a foot or two before I land.

  Time’s running down quickly, but I’m starting to feel a little more confident as I work to maintain my speed coming up the other side, and I’ve got decent air coming into my first and only 720 of the run, and I manage to land the 720 melon before the buzzer.

  It was nothing groundbreaking, but it was decent, respectable.

  I’m up to the top of the ramp, coming off the board at the top and grabbing it as I walk to the far edge, and it’s not until this moment that, with all of the pride I’m feeling at actually completing my first full vert run in a sort-of competition, I’m competing against kids five, even six years younger than me.