by Piper Rayne
Chapter Four
“Hear me out.” Candice sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders.
“We have to train,” Mia says, and though I won’t voice it, she’s right.
“Are we going to cause you to become an alcoholic?” I ask, the corner of my lips quirking up.
“Can you be serious for once?” Mia spits out.
I tilt my head. “Relax. They can't make us do anything we don't want to do.”
Mia disregards me and challenges Candice, who is back to sipping her champagne.
“No, I’m just going to need a little buzz to deal with the two of you.” Candice waves her hand between us. “Now, be quiet and let me get this out.” Her hand falls back to the table and neither one of us says anything. “You are the best in the women.” She looks from Mia to me. “And you're the best in men.” Her gaze volleys between the two of us. “You'll still have time to train, but you were going to be doing promotions anyway, the only difference is, you'll be doing them together.”
“But—” Mia tries to interject.
Candice shakes her head. “You'll model the outfits the team will wear when they’re competing, you'll do the interviews. It’s an honor to represent your country and your team this way. I'm sorry you guys, but did you really think that either one of you would get out of these Winter Classics without having to face one another?”
“A girl can dream,” Mia quips with eyes narrowed in my direction.
“Well, I'm not a genie in a bottle, so you'll have to suck this up. Most of your appearances will be around the other qualifiers, but you'll be traveling to New York and L.A., too. Together. In every interview, the two of you will be seated side by side. So, might as well practice your smiles and non-verbal body language now. We have a photo shoot planned in a week when we head to Utah.”
She leans back in her seat, lets a big sigh escape and reaches for her champagne.
I want to argue, but she’s right. It is an honor and once upon a time I didn’t think anything like this would be possible for myself, so I’ll have to make the best of it.
“Send me the itinerary, I'll get it handled, but every moment I'm not with the press, I'll be training.”
Mia slides out of the booth. “Me, too.” She walks away without so much as a goodbye. Like I'd expect any less. She acts like she’s the fucking queen and she's yet to prove herself in a Winter Classics.
“Thanks, Candice. You ready for weeks of exploring your parental disciplining skills?”
She downs the remainder of her glass of champagne. “I told them it was a bad idea, but” —she looks back to the doors and my way— “there's more that I didn't tell Mia.”
The beer sits heavy in my stomach. The only thing worse would be to add Mia’s brother, Brandon to this mix.
“They like the angle of you two being a love match. You know…a couple.”
I laugh sardonically. “There's no love match.”
A soft smile creases her lips. “They'll be prying in the interviews. The two of you are unattached attractive young people with a history—”
“Of hating each other.”
Her hand grabs mine and in the last few months I've known Candice, I’ve never seen her so intense. “I don't think you hate her.”
Maybe not, but self-preservation insists I do.
“She needs to grow up. Is there anything else?”
Her smile widens. “There is. I have good news.”
“Finally. You were starting to be my biggest buzz kill.”
She laughs and her hand leaves mine, the moment of seriousness fading.
“Norton is building you a halfpipe to train.”
I smile. I hoped they would, but it takes being on top to make it happen. I may talk a good game and the standings might say I’m on top, but I can’t help but wonder sometimes.
“It will be ready when we get to Utah. Just an FYI though, they only built one.” Her perfectly done eyebrows arch up to her hairline.
“Sucks for Mia I guess.” I slide out of the booth. “I better go practice while I have the time.”
“It’d be a nice gesture if you allowed her to practice on it, too.”
I place my hands on the edge of the table and narrow my eyes at Candice. “Would she do the same for me?”
Her shoulders sag. We both know the answer.
“Have a good afternoon, Candice. It's a great day to be out on the slopes.”
She laughs. “I'm good with the bar. I'll leave the powder to you and Mia.”
I should be ecstatic about having my own personal halfpipe to train on. I'll have a leg up to practice but for some damn reason the fact that Mia won’t have one dampens that excitement. She's been back in my life for forty-eight hours and already her presence is stripping me of my happiness.
* * *
I hitch a ride up the lift wishing I had more than just a beer in my stomach. Spotting my buddy Beckett waiting to use the halfpipe, I slide up to him.
“Rogue, what's up man?” A skier I don't know says as he passes.
“Great ride last night,” his buddy says with his fist out and ready. I knock knuckles and they carry on their way.
“What's up, Hoff?”
Beckett glances over his shoulder and nods. “Hey, saw you in the restaurant.” The cocky ass smile on his lips makes me wish I didn't seek him out.
“Yeah, turns out princess is my agent’s client as well.”
His mouth hangs open. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “Why are you at the halfpipe?”
Beckett is a slopestyle boarder, meaning he does all those fancy tricks but not in the halfpipe like I do.
“Change of pace. Trying to reenergize myself.” He prepares himself as he moves up in line. “Why are you changing the subject?” His eyes hold that glint of curiosity they always do whenever the Salter name comes up.
Beckett and I became friends at the Winter Classics four years ago. He was my roommate, so all he knows are the rumors. He’s a good enough friend not to pry and bother me for details, so I have to assume he only knows whatever Dax has told him.
“Because I don’t want to talk about the fact that I’ll be spending the next six weeks sitting next to that subject while we promote the snowboarding team around the country.”
His mouth opens wide enough for an entire snowman to fit inside. “You're shittin’ me?”
“Nope.” I adjust myself on my board, preparing to ride right after Beckett.
He clamps me on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. That sucks, but maybe it’ll help you all heal and put the whole thing behind you.”
I mentally scoff. There’s no getting past the events I put into motion.
“Save your California beach bum one love bullshit for yourself.” I push him lightly in the chest.
He laughs, sliding backward to his starting spot. Seconds later he’s off.
Beckett's from California, and even though he doesn't have blonde hair everything else about him screams ‘hey, brah, surf on.’ Hence the reason we call him Hoff—like from Baywatch.
“He's nailing it,” the rider behind me says.
He's right, Beckett should be competing in the halfpipe and the slopestyle. I place my earbud in my ear and ready myself for some fun.
Once he reaches the bottom, he waves his hands in a challenge my way.
“Get him, Rogue,” the guy behind me says so loud I can hear him over my earbud.
Snow crunches under my board as I drop into the halfpipe, but this time the music isn't enough to push my past away. My mind envisions sitting next to Mia at all the interviews. Plastering a smile on our faces so people don't suspect what they should. That four years ago, the Salter and the Kale families flipped from friends to enemies faster than a tossed coin. And I’m responsible.
I'm high up in the air, turning my double cork when my mind finally decides to get with the game, but it’s too late. My shoulder hits the hard ice first, but my body follows, sliding down until I lay
limp in the middle of the halfpipe.
I shake my head and stand to my feet, holding my shoulder while I continue down the slope. When I reach the bottom, a medic is already approaching.
“I'm good.” My hand grips my shoulder.
“Let's just do a mobility check on it,” the girl says.
“She's right.” Beckett unstraps himself from his board, helping me off mine and grabbing it to follow me and the medic.
A crowd of onlookers watch, half probably wanting me to be hurt and the other half scared that I might be. Only one face in the group stands out like the sun is shining above her head alone. Mia's eyes don't hold their usual anger as she watches the medics escort me to the first aid station. But there's no way they can be holding compassion. Snow must have gotten in my eyes because she loathes me.
And she has every right to.
Chapter Five
“Grady, gonna win gold?” Mr. Kettle asks, positioning the mini chalkboard listing the specials outside his door. The butcher slaps me on the back as I walk by his shop.
“I hope.” I smile and continue my way down the small downtown street of my hometown.
A ski town would best describe where I grew up. Growing up everyone was either a skier or snowboarder because there isn't much to do in this town. Cedarwood, Vermont is known for small bed and breakfasts, small lodges. During the winter, the streets line with tourists who love Mr. Kettle's beef jerky, or Ms. Greer's chocolates. Kids skate in the square while their dads drink coffee under the heaters and their moms shop in the boutiques that are really just rows of overpriced homemade goods that help to keep the town alive.
I should know how much the people of Seasalt depend on the tourists. My parent's own Cozy Cocoa Cottage, a ten-bedroom bed and breakfast which paid for all my equipment and training before any sponsors came aboard.
“Grady!” Mr. Ecker screams from across the street. His arm up in a wave with his pipe in the other free hand.
“Morning, Mr. Ecker.”
“I heard you and Mia are the hot tickets this year. Do our town proud.” I give him a wane smile and he heads back into his tobacco shop.
Hoping to dodge anyone else, I duck into the Cup of Beans coffee shop, crossing my fingers they'll be too busy to recognize me, or at least to corner me into a conversation.
“GRADY KALE!” A voice booms from the back of the small cafe and before I can even gather my senses, two big burly arms wrap around me and lift me up off the ground.
“Hey, Olson,” I say, looking at the small group of customers obviously not understanding why this, six foot six, three-hundred-pound guy is excited enough to bear hug me.
“When did you get back? How long are you here for?”
“Hey, O, mind putting me down?”
His deep laugh rumbles and my feet land on the cement floor. He ruffles my hair like I'm ten and he’s the uncle I haven’t seen in ages.
“Just the weekend. Injured my shoulder, so I took the time to come home.”
“Shit. Did I hurt you?” He eyes both my shoulders, but I wave off his concern. It’s a sprain which just needs rest—still it sucks.
“Nah. I'm good.”
He smacks me on the back. “Always are. Hear you're gonna represent Seasalt Springs again in the Winter Classics.” He rounds the corner of the counter, grabbing a cup and pouring me a coffee. Without asking, he opens the back of the pastry display case, reaching toward the last of their famous Spandauers with chocolate pouring from the middle.
“No way, O, I'm training.”
He glances at me from behind the case, crinkles his bushy eyebrows and then grabs two with the wax paper in his hand.
“You're on a break,” says the man who samples too many of his own goods.
Not that I'd say that to my Danish friend.
Handing me the plate and the coffee he nods to the back of the cafe at an empty table.
“Here.” I balance the plate and the cup to pull out my wallet.
“It’s on the house.”
“Come on, let me pay.”
He shakes his head. “Think of it as my congratulations.”
My shoulders deflate. “I haven't won anything yet.”
The bell rings over the café door and his gaze shifts to over my shoulder, the easy smile that's always plastered on his face falling short.
I glance over my shoulder and a long stream of air leaves my lungs. “Fuck,” I murmur.
“Want me to sneak you out back?” O asks me, and without an answer, he steps in front of me, blocking me from the intruder.
“I'm sorry, you're not welcome here,” he greets them in a foreign manner.
“It's fine, O.” I look the unwelcome customer in the eye. I'd remember him anywhere. Mr. Weazel, the man who pointed a finger at me as an asshole who doesn't have the character a snowboarder is supposed to possess. Like the fact that I want to win is a bad thing. The man uses his keystrokes and small blog like a gun or knife to injure people.
“Olsen, I need you,” a cook from the back calls out to him, but Olsen ignores him in favor of towering over the small beady-eyed man in front of us.
“I'm good,” I tell Olsen and he wavers slightly before ultimately heading to the back to help out his staff.
“So, Mr. Kale, I wasn't expecting you to return until after the town holds the parade.”
“Well, as I'm sure you've heard, I injured my shoulder. Might as well see the fam before I head off to Korea.” I sip my coffee and walk by him deliberately leaving my shoulder inches from him. I lean in close. “You going to write some more bullshit stories to try and get some eyeballs on your little blog?”
He backs away to gain a few inches of space. Without his computer, he's like a skittish kitten.
“Tell me, you ever head over to the Salty River Lodge? It’s not lost on me that you haven’t been by Brandon’s place since shortly after the accident.” His voice holds an arrogance that's begging my fist to gut check him.
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
His eyes narrow and he locks gazes with me. He has no idea yet that Mia is my sidekick for the tour and I wish like hell I could be there when he finds out that the gossip he's profited off of the last four years is about to die.
“You and Mia at the same Winter Classics will be…classic.”
“Is that gonna be your headline? Real original.”
“How about Is Mia Salty on Grady? The Tell-All Story.”
“You don't even know the story so don't pretend you do.”
A smug expression creases the corners of his lips. “Well, Brandon Salter has granted me an exclusive. He should be here.” He weaves by me to check out the clock behind the counter. “Any minute now.”
My throat closes up and my body warms from something other than the coffee. Hearing my former friend’s name from this weasel’s lips steals my confidence.
After the accident, this creep wrote all about how irresponsible Brandon was with taking risks and how anyone could have seen it coming. I didn’t find out about it until I had returned home from the previous Winter Classics months later. Maybe Brandon finally had enough and is willing to talk about who’s really to blame for what happened.
I'd search for the nearest exit if this guy wasn't watching my every move like he's a vulture about to eat roadkill. I'll never grant him the satisfaction of knowing he's getting under my skin.
“Like a guardian angel, O hollers from the back. “Grady, your mom called. Can you bring back a pound of coffee and some danishes for her?”
I nod and wave my hand at Olsen. He has no idea how much he just saved my ass. “See you, Weazel. Keep publishing crap no one gives a shit about and I’ll keep doing what I do. Maybe I’ll wave to you when I roll by on my float in the town parade this year.” I wink just to irritate him.
I head to the back, grab the box O hands off to me.
“Thanks, man.”
“Saves your parents a trip.” O stuffs another bag in there and hands me a
fresh coffee. “Since the weasel ruined your first order.”
“Thanks, O, you're the best.”
He nods. “Come back though, okay. I need an updated picture with your signature for my wall.”
I laugh. “Got it.” I head out the back door determined to push Weazel to the back of my mind, along with everyone else. It’s too painful to dwell on.
* * *
It’s late and my parents, along with all the guests have gone to bed for the night, so I make myself comfortable in the quiet and dark bed and breakfast and use my phone to catch up on my emails and social media. The incident with Weazel is still rattling around my brain and before I can convince myself that what I’m about to do is a bad idea, I find myself on his blog page.
A picture of Brandon sits front and center. An Athlete's Family Legacy is the title of the post. Fuck Weazel and his insane notion about that night. I click off quickly before reading anything else. Brandon and I might not be friends anymore, but I know him and the last person he'd ever confess my sins to would be Weazel.
Chapter Six
The following week I’m back in Utah, heading into the photo shoot, my nerves on edge. I just got clearance to go back to training which is a good thing because sampling O’s wares for the past week hasn’t done me any favors. I’m itching to get back on the hill and not here doing a photo shoot like a damn Ken doll.
“Hey, Grady Kale, right?” A cute, blonde approaches me, glasses resting on the edge of her nose, an iPad in her hands.
“Yeah.” I switch my coffee to my other hand and hold my free hand out in front of me.
She shakes my hand and shoots me what I imagine is her best flirtatious smile. “If you want to follow me, I'll take you to wardrobe.”
She swivels on her plaid Converse and heads down the hall. At least the eye candy isn't bad here. All hope is not lost.
We reach a door halfway down with a piece of paper taped to the outside that says “Snowboarders.” “Here you are.” She stops and turns to face me, arm extended toward the door.