The Winter Games

by Sharp, Dr. Rebecca

  These were all pretty standard traits of ninety-nine percent of the male, snowboarding population. So, if snowboarders were your thing, my best friends—and brother - would be at the top of your ‘want to fuck’ list.

  If you wanted the blonde-hair, blue-eyed, golden-boy look, you went for Chance. If you wanted the dark-eyed, dangerous asshole, Emmett was your top choice. And Nick, well, it didn’t matter what you wanted, it only mattered what he wanted.

  Ok, that wasn’t quite true. My perception of them was slightly blinded by the fact that I saw them all as my brothers. The reality was that they were a little more than obnoxious and most days, a lot more than assholes. The SnowmassHoles were kind of like the Three Musketeers, except boards instead of swords, and the only people who needed saving were the ones they set their sights on. As much as I tried to keep them all in line, I was only one person and so ignorance was bliss.

  As much as I insisted that snowboarders were my thing, there was a growing part of me that suggested that they might not be—as least not in their classical appearance. Truth be told, I hadn’t been around any other kind of guy long enough to consider anything else.

  But, technically, Wyatt was a snowboarder… So, there was that.

  I shook my head slightly, trying to stop that gorgeous smile from invading my thoughts again.

  As Chance’s twin, I guess saying that he took the cake on looks was saying something about me, too. It was one of the multitude of reasons why I tried to make myself like one of the guys for as long as I could remember—boy hair, boy clothes, boy hobbies, boy friends; if today was any indication, the slightest hint of makeup and a piece of women’s clothing was drawing far too much attention to all the wrong parts of me. I wanted to be a part of the pack, not a piece of ass. Not that Chance would have let that happen.

  I watched my friends approach before Emmett made a show of stopping abruptly in his tracks, squinting his dark eyes at me.

  “What the hell is on your face?” he asked in mock disgust. “Are you… wearing makeup again? Don’t you remember what happened the last time you did that?”

  Nick begin to laugh beside him and I rolled my eyes at the two of them. Thankfully, I was used to their attitude.

  “Shut up, Shaun White.” I said. “It’s just for work.”

  Those black eyes flared at me. He hated when anyone made reference to him and Shaun White—the one famous snowboarder who also happened to have bright red hair. Don’t get me wrong—Shaun White was like a god in the Religion of Ride. But Emmett still hated being compared to the guy. He liked to think that he was better—he probably was, but I wasn’t going to inflate his ego any more.

  “Um, we’ve visited you at work before, Lil. You never fucking wear makeup to work.”

  What the hell.

  My name was… unique. Also on the masculine side. And it was a pain to shorten. Ally called me ‘Chan,’ but that was deemed too lame by the SnowmassHoles back in… seventh grade? Maybe sixth. Basically whenever Emmett had joined our group. I believe his words were: ‘There’s no way you can ride with us with a name like Chan.’ Therefore, a shortened version of my middle name, Lily, was chosen. It also served a second purpose since I was just a few minutes younger than my dear brother; ‘Lil’ was their abbreviation for ‘little.’

  I sent him a glare that said he needed to watch his language and his volume in this place and then quickly made up a lie to justify my answer.

  “It’s because of the Games. There are a bunch of very wealthy people who are going to be staying here; they want the appearance of their bartenders to reflect the fact that this is their most upscale bar.” I poured the drink from the shaker into a chilled martini glass. “They also are going to be stricter on removing anyone who is creating a scene, so don’t make me report you,” I teased.

  “Whatever. Looks like you touched something that you shouldn’t have though.” Emmett snickered, gesturing towards his right eye. I turned, trying to look into the mirror that was behind the decorative alcohol bottles. “So where were you today? I thought we were riding this morning.”

  Sure enough, I smeared some of the mascara off underneath my right eye. This was the problem with wearing makeup when you never wore it—I continued to rub everything as though there was nothing to mess up.

  “I know, I forgot to text you. I had some things that I had to take care of.” Translation: when I woke up with this idea on my mind, I needed the morning to figure out how to make it work. I usually sent them a message if I wasn’t going to make it so that they weren’t waiting for me. “Not to mention, Ally didn’t have a morning shift at Cup of Joe, so I had to take her in anyways.” I passed the martini to the man sitting in front of me, smiling when he gave me a tip; I tried to ignore the look in his eyes that said he was hoping for some more attention from me.

  This must be what happened when you wore make up… and clothes that fit. I’d been getting looks like that all night.

  “All right, all right,” Emmett said, giving up on his interrogation. “I’m assuming you’ll be out tomorrow though, right?”

  “It’s going to be a fucking disaster with all the competition riders coming in,” Nick grumbled. “The next few weeks are going to suck.”

  Two bar stools opened up around the back so we moved into my territory and they took a seat.

  “What beer do you have on tap tonight, Lil?”

  I peered over my shoulder trying to see if I could make out what was written on the taps around the corner of the bar. “I think we just got in something from the East Coast. Hold on, let me check.”

  I walked back around to the front where the row of beer taps was located and sure enough, they’d just installed one for Magic Hat Number 9. I looked up, about to head back down to where my friends were sitting, when I saw a group of guys walk into the bar.

  Son of a biscuit. I groaned louder than I should have.

  Normally, I didn’t notice the comings and goings of anyone in Breakers unless they were coming to sit in front of me and going to ask for a drink. However, when said group contained one Wyatt Olsen, my entire body was immediately on high alert, forcing my attention to the new arrivals. I immediately did a one-eighty and walked back around the bar to Emmett and Nick. I hoped that Wyatt and his friends would stay on the front side of the structure so that I could stay safely hidden in the back; I still hadn’t recovered from earlier.

  Can’t a girl catch a break?

  “We have a new Magic Hat on tap,” I said to my friends who were still looking through the beer menu.

  “Yeah, ok. I’ll try that.”

  Nick echoed, “Make that dos, senorita.”

  Crap. I hadn’t thought this through. A quick glance back towards the door told me that Wyatt’s group hadn’t made it to the counter yet, but they were definitely headed in that direction.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t the only bartender tonight. Friday nights there were usually two of us, sometimes even three, one normally working the front of the bar and one working the back and then someone floating.

  Tonight, I was working with Andrea who had chosen to cover the front - like she always did. Usually whoever worked the front ended up with a few more clients since people would walk straight in and order, but I wasn’t going to argue with her for it. She was a bitch to everyone, but honestly, I didn’t mind working with her because she was gorgeous and she liked to flirt with any and all male customers - no exclusions applied - and for me that meant that I was left in relative peace.

  Tonight, I prayed that that would still be the case—that Wyatt and his friends would be preoccupied with her.

  I ducked my head and quickly scooted around to the front of the bar, grabbing two beer glasses and standing directly behind the tap machine. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Andrea giving me a weird look as I crouched down slightly to better hide behind the handles of the machine. I ignored her - like I usually did—filling the glasses as quickly as I could with the Pennsylvania beer. I didn’t even l
ook to see where Wyatt was at the risk of being seen. Holding the beers for my friends, I turned and moved back around to the far side of the bar, releasing the breath that I’d been holding when no deep, seductive voice called after me.

  “Do you know what trails they are taking from us?” Emmett asked as I sat their beer down in front of them.

  “Why would I know what trails they are closing off to the public?” I stared at him, immediately wondering if they knew what I had done. But how could they?

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you fuckin’ work here, Lil?” Emmett laughed before he took a huge swig of the pale ale I’d brought them.

  Crap.

  I cringed. That was a stupid comment my part.

  “No. I… uhh… I think we probably get them tomorrow, so I’ll let you guys know.”

  “Have you heard anything?” Emmett asked.

  I didn’t have to clarify to know that he was talking about Chance. By now I thought they knew that I would tell them if I’d heard from my brother, but maybe with the competition starting soon he’d been hoping for a different answer this time.

  I wished I had a different answer to give him.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Shit. Sorry,” he mumbled, realizing that he, too, had said something stupid.

  I shrugged and attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So, what did you guys hit this morning? I’m pissed that I didn’t get any time out on the slopes today. I can’t remember the last time that happened.”

  “Mostly the park. Trying to get our last runs in before these assholes come in and take over. Although we hit a couple regular runs to get some of the fresh pow still in the glades from last night; it was pretty good.” He stopped and began to laugh. “But the highlight of the day was when this dickhead here had the grand idea to try a triple cork off the kicker and ate it so fu--freaking hard.” At least he caught himself the second time. “You should have seen him lying there—all yard-saled out. Fucking hysterical.”

  That time he didn’t catch himself. Still, I laughed at the story. Thankfully, they were really the only people on this side of the bar, otherwise their Shred—also known as the language of snowboarders—tended to draw eyes. I couldn’t count how many times I’d had to translate for Ally what our friends and I were saying. Now, she knew some of the basics; ‘kicker’ or ‘booter’ meant jump and ‘yard-sale’ meant a particularly bad fall, usually involving loose pieces of clothing or gear flying off of you from the impact.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up, Emmett.” Nick rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his beer.

  I laughed at the two of them. They were excellent riders; they’d each won their own slew of competitions and medals and could definitely hold their own in the park. But there were only a few in the country who could successfully pull off a triple, let alone a quad cork; and Chance and I had been two of them.

  Although, no one except Chance had seen me accomplish it. He’d helped me learn the trick—spent hours out on the slopes with me practicing before the Open last year. It would have been the first time a woman attempted it. And then, I’d screwed it up and I hadn’t attempted it since.

  Another obstacle that I would have to overcome if I was going to do this.

  “Sounds like you two really need me out there to give you some pointers.”

  “Holy shit!” Nick exclaimed, hitting Emmett’s arm with the back of his hand to get his attention. “Do you see who the fuck is sitting over there?” He quick glanced at me and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  “No fucking way!”

  I rolled my eyes even though neither of them were paying attention to me, assuming they were checking out some chick, as was usually the case. Meanwhile, I decided to accept the fact that their language was not going to be curtailed tonight.

  “Channing, seriously; it’s fucking Wyatt Olsen,” Emmett whispered way too loudly.

  Oh God, no.

  I’d hoped he would have been gone by now.

  Just breathe, Channing. It’s not like they’re going to call him over here; it’s not like they know him.

  “I wondered if he was going to be here. I heard rumors that he was retiring after last year,” Nick said in awe; the two of them staring like fools.

  “Dude’s gotta push his fucking luck,” Emmett replied.

  I’d heard the rumors too; that last year might have been his last, even though he was only thirty or thirty-one. He’d taken gold in the Olympics—what more could you want out of your career? It was the old ‘quit while you were ahead’ mantra.

  For Chance’s sake, I’d hoped that it was Olsen’s last year. But if he was anything like my brother or myself, it would take a lot more than age to get him off the mountain.

  Before I could make any efforts to regain their attention I was forced to turn and leave the conversation for a moment because someone else had taken a seat at the bar and was waiting to be served. He was a younger guy wearing polo shirt and he had that whole prep school vibe going on.

  Translation: He was a skier.

  “What can I get you?” I watched as his gaze swept over me and I tried to contain the nausea that rolled through me.

  What the hell? This is exactly what Andrea was here for - to enjoy the skeevy attentions of all the rich brats who came up here for a drink.

  “How about a phone number?”

  “How about a drink?” I returned saucily.

  “Dirty martini. Extra dirty.” And then he winked at me and I desperately wished I could let Emmett spit in his drink before I gave it back to him.

  I made quick work of the cocktail, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible—not just because he was a creep, but because God only knew what my two friends were doing at the other end of the bar. As I reached for the olives, I glanced down to them and saw that their gazes were still trained around the corner of the bar—and probably still on Wyatt.

  “Do you want to open a tab?” I asked the creep as I put his extra olives into the glass.

  He just smiled at me in a way that made my skin crawl. Whatever. I was going to assume that that was a yes and be done with him.

  I set the glass down, realizing I’d forgotten to put a napkin down first. Mistakenly, I held onto the glass as I reached for a napkin with my other hand. A second later, sweaty fingers closed around mine digging firmly into my skin.

  I immediately sent him a hard stare. “Let go of my hand.” My demand came through clenched teeth and then, because it was my job, I added, “Please.”

  “Give me your phone number,” he demanded.

  I would have just pulled my hand away except that would have caused the drink to spill all over him, which I knew he would then report to the manager and, with my luck, he was probably some rich, important person’s kid, and I would end up in big trouble.

  I quickly glanced down the bar to see if Emmett or Nick were looking over to see what was taking me so long hoping that maybe they would come to my rescue; they didn’t even have the chance.

  “I think you should let her hand go.”

  My heart fluttered at the familiar deep, lilting voice.

  Wyatt.

  I TURNED AND SUCKED IN a breath to see Wyatt standing behind the jerk with his hand on the other man’s shoulder applying what looked like pretty significant pressure. The younger guy scowled and looked like he wasn’t going to comply in spite of the discomfort he was obviously in. But then Wyatt’s one finger pressed slightly into what must have been a pressure point and immediately my hand was free. The jerk yanked his hand back against him.

  Wyatt sent me that smile again, saving me and ruining me all in one shot. I was definitely going to have to get rid of these panties when I got home.

  “I think I’ll buy my friend here his drink. I know he has some very important places that he’s in a rush to get to.” The emphasis in his words made it clear to the preppy creep that he needed to take his drink and go before there was a problem.

  Creeper gr
abbed the glass off of the counter, some of the liquid sloshing up over the side and stormed off around the bar.

  I bit my lip, giving my handsome rescuer a small smile. “Thank you,” I murmured softly. Recognizing the blush that was rushing to my cheeks, I turned to use the sink behind me to wash the feel of that asshole off of my skin.

  “Just glad I could help.” He took a seat at the bar and I noticed that he was no longer wearing the jacket; his shirt had the top two buttons undone. The man must be really letting loose. “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Not usually,” I said. “Not up here.”

  “Good.” Was that a hint of possessiveness I detected?

  I dried my hands and then remembered that I was working and asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, I’m good, thank you. I’m going to be struggling enough tomorrow with the jet lag - I don’t need a hangover to complicate it.” He laughed, the smooth rumble caressing my skin in a way I wished I could ignore, but more in a way that had me wanting more.

  “Sounds like a reasonable plan.” I smiled and gave him a glass of water.

  “You know, when you said that I might see you around, I didn’t expect it to be so soon.” He rested his elbows up on the bar, putting his chin on top of his clasped hands. The pose accentuated just how well-tailored his clothes were, straining in all the right places - leaving both too much and not enough to my imagination.