The Winter Games Box Set

by Rebecca Sharp

  “We’re going for fun.” I sagged a little at his response, taking it as a ‘no’. I felt relaxed after a week away; looking down the slope, I didn’t feel the weight that the pressured anticipation of needing to nail this trick had put on me before. It had been a long time since I’d looked at this slope as something just for fun instead of something that I needed to be better at—something that defined me.

  “Alright, let’s start with the double.”

  “But I can do that one.” For some reason, I insisted on protesting.

  “Right.” He nodded up at me from where he sat. “But you don’t practice until you get it right, you practice until you can’t get it wrong; and I’ve seen you get this one wrong.” I huffed, but I couldn’t argue with him about that. I didn’t land the double every time, not that that was what he was implying, but my double wasn’t as solid as it should be. “I’ll be at the landing.” He pushed up and off down the trail, casually carving alongside the first kicker before coming to a stop.

  I shook my arms at my side, suddenly nervous about doing something that I knew I had a decent chance of landing. Adjusting my goggles, I angled my board and took off towards the lip.

  Spin. Flip. Land.

  As soon as my board planted firmly on the snow beneath me, I smiled at my success and turned over to where Wyatt was waiting. I pulled to a stop, planting my hands on my hips. “Well?” I asked confidently.

  “You start the flip too late.” What? My spirits sank. It was one thing to be critiqued when I fell or when it was clear that I’d messed something up, but I was always easily annoyed when I felt like I had something and was told that it was still wrong. It was that annoyance that had gotten me into trouble the last time.

  “I landed it,” I retorted.

  “I never said you didn’t,” he answered, standing back up onto his board. “And it’s fine for the double, but when you try to turn that into a triple, that’s where you are going to run into problems; if you start the flip too late here, that means you won’t have enough time for three rotations when we move on.”

  “Ok…” I crossed my arms, waiting for him to tell me what I was supposed to do about it.

  “As soon as you come off the lip, your hand needs to be grabbing the edge of your board. I think you are waiting a second or two into the jump before doing that and it’s putting your entire timeline behind,” he continued. “For the triple, you need one rotation on the way up, one at the top, and one on your way down. You’re waiting until you’re too far up before starting.” He nodded to the next jump. “Again.”

  I waited until he was next to it before starting to gain momentum, remembering what he had told me.

  “Better, but not quite,” was the feedback I received after another successful landing. “Again.”

  I huffed, my frustration rising, as he rode off, waiting for my third attempt.

  This went on for another forty-five minutes and another complete pass and a half down the park. I pulled up to him, just like I’d done the past twenty-some times, only this time my patience was worn thin.

  “You know you put a signature on your tricks?” He asked, amused as I slid to a stop beside him.

  I made a face. “What are you talking about?”

  “A signature. A tick.” He laughed. “Every time your left hand lets go of your edge and you land, that hand immediately brushes the side of your pants, like it got dirt on it from touching the bottom of your board.”

  What? I just stared at him. I’d never noticed. A fact that made me more annoyed. Here I was, like a trick monkey, doing the same thing over and over and over again, feeling like I wasn’t making any difference in anything important.

  “It’s not a problem, obviously,” he reassured me when I didn’t respond. “Just wondered if you knew. It’s cute.” His gaze immediately broke from mine as he uttered the words, realizing that for the first time in four days, he’d come within the vicinity of the line he was determined not to cross. Clearing his throat, he looked down at the last jump. “You’re almost there. Do it again.”

  He’d gone to turn and ride down to the next jump when I determined, “No.” I was tired of doing the same thing. I was tired of him critiquing a jump that I’d never asked for help with. I was frustrated that I’d wasted a whole week of not attempting the triple when the Games were only two short weeks away. “I’m done with the double, Wyatt. I’ve nailed it every damn time. Whatever is wrong with it, isn’t important anymore. It’s almost been a week of this crap. I’m going for the triple.”

  “Channing,” he growled, his expression, one of knowing concern, was familiar to me, but I ignored it. “I can’t stop you; you are a free woman. But you asked for my help, you asked me to teach you, and I’m telling you that you aren’t ready.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I returned defiantly, tears brimming in my eyes, his words an echo from my past. And before he could say anything else, I swung my board around him and headed for the last jump, determined to prove myself right—determined to win.

  Sometimes angry frustration is a great motivator. Other times, it blinds you to the facts of reality. And those facts were that Wyatt knew what he was doing and I should have listened to him.

  I gained speed, not because I needed it to fly, but because I needed it to flee. Wyatt’s words had reminded me of what happened between Chance and me the night before I competed in the Open last year and I so desperately needed to run from the memory.

  Everything felt perfect—the drop, the grip, the take-off, the spin, the rotat—.

  They always said that ‘pride comes before the fall.’

  This time, the ‘thump’ that connected on the landing wasn’t the hard wood of my board, but my hard, stubborn head.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I groaned loudly, feeling pain radiate from my head down throughout my body. The tears that welled in my eyes though, those were not only from my embarrassment, but my disappointment in myself for not listening to someone who was looking out for my best interests. Again.

  I peeled my eyes open to see Wyatt running towards me. He’d unstrapped and I couldn’t even see where his board was. Stupid man abandoned it on the slope to get to me; I was fine.

  “What the fuck were you thinking, Channing?” He roared at me and my eyes widened in shock. I’d been expecting concern, not anger. I was the one who had tanked, after all. He knelt in front of me, carefully but efficiently pulling my googles off of my face, unstrapping my helmet and lifting it from my head. “I fucking told you, you weren’t ready.” He took my face in his hands, tilting it slightly from one side to the other, swearing underneath his breath. “Did you black out? Do you feel lightheaded at all?”

  I tried to shake my head ‘no,’ but he held it steady, forcing me to rasp the word out over the lump in my throat and through my dry lips. I wasn’t lightheaded; if anything my head felt heavy as it pounded from the impact.

  “Christ, you landed right fucking on your head.” No shit, Sherlock. His hands moved into my hair, rubbing around my scalp to feel for any bumps, I assumed. Tears began to slip down my cheeks.

  “I’m fine. I had my helmet on.”

  “Thank fucking God.” His gaze returned to mine, noticing the trails of water on my face. “What’s wrong? What hurts? Tell me what hurts.”

  My pride.

  It wasn’t that I’d wanted to show off, but after this entire week of doing what Wyatt suggested, we’d arrived at the park earlier and I’d felt so at-ease, completely confident that I could do this; until I couldn’t. It was just like what happened before the Open and then he’d said just what Chance had—and I ignored him just like I’d ignored my brother. And now, his part-angry, part-tortured, part-caring question sent me over the emotional precipice that I’d been straddling.

  “Nothing,” I said forcefully, turning my face in his hands, trying to get them off of me. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I twisted out of his grasp.

  “Channing…” His hands moved to my shoulders, bu
t trying to calm me right now was like trying to talk down a hurricane.

  “No!” Now, I was yelling, my frustration derailed by the tears I couldn’t stop. I pushed him away and pushed myself up, almost falling again as my head protested the sudden movement.

  “Channing!” He reached for me, his tone sharp with anger. “Don’t fucking move like that. Jesus Christ, you just landed on your head. You need to sit.”

  I shook my head even though it made the pain worse, hardly hearing him. “No… I can’t… I have to go…”

  “Absolutely fucking not. You need to stay here so I can go get someone to make sure you’re ok.”

  “No!” I yelled again, barely able to see him through my tears. I turned my board and began to move; I felt Wyatt reach for me but my jacket slipped from his grasp.

  “Channing! Fuck!” His curse echoed down the mountain. I needed to get out of here. I didn’t know why he was so upset, we were almost at the bottom anyway. My legs wobbled a few times as my balance faltered, but I kept going knowing that it wouldn’t be long before Wyatt was back on his board and coming after me.

  Sure enough, I just made it to the bottom, stopping off to the side where there weren’t too many people congregated and unstrapped my bindings when he flew up in front of me.

  Yanking his feet from his board, I stared into his eyes that burned with vehemence. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” He was yelling and I stood there frozen, my brain hurting too much to move. “What the fuck is wrong with you! You could have a concussion and you’re fucking riding down the mountain like it’s no big deal!”

  “I’m fine, Wyatt!” I yelled back, his body swimming every so often in my gaze. “I’ll be fine, I just need to sit. I just need to be. Alone.” My vision blurred again and not from my tears. I groaned, bringing my hand to my head.

  “Bullshit, you are not fine.” He kicked his board out of the way, his hands gripped my shoulders and tried to pull me against him. I pulled away again, but this time, I stumbled as a wave of dizziness overcame me. Maybe I wasn’t exactly fine…

  All I knew was that I’d just relived a memory that I’d been trying to forget—and not only had I relived it, but I’d succumbed to it in front of Wyatt. I didn’t know if it was the head injury or the fear of disappointing him that made me feel nauseous, but I knew I needed to get away.

  I tried to push past him, completely forgetting all about my board lying in the snow. I was about a curse and a half away when my vision started to go black and I was grateful for the vise-like grip that clamped down on my shoulder before I was hoisted into his arms. I wanted to protest, but even though the quick movement had probably saved me from falling on my face, it also jarred my already traumatized brain.

  I groaned and tried to push against him with no avail.

  “Please, Channing,” his voice was suddenly soft like velvet against my head and I could have sworn that I felt his lips brush against my scalp, “please let me take care of you.”

  No, I thought. Not him. He couldn’t. I couldn’t let him get that close. My senses began to calm down to the point where I could press harder against his chest, staring up at him through watery eyes. “No. Please, no.” I started to shake my head, feeling the sobs I wanted to let loose building in my throat. “No, Wyatt! No,” I insisted louder, knowing I was probably drawing stares from the people we were walking past.

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing, Olsen?” Thank God. Emmett’s voice resounded from somewhere off to the side.

  “Emmett!” I yelled and then he was in front of Wyatt, blocking his path. I reached for my friend, catching Wyatt’s pained expression along the way.

  “What the hell is going on?” Emmett demanded again.

  “Damn woman fell on her head and then proceeded to continue riding down the mountain before anyone could check her.” Emmett stared at me and I silently pleaded with him to help me. “After which, she almost collapsed over there, hence why I’m carrying her to the damn first aid station.”

  “I’m perfectly fine, King,” I tried to say confidently. “I fell; it happens all the time. He’s being overbearing.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you!” I could feel the fire in his tone as it washed over me. “Christ, and I thought when you’d decided to go for the triple that you were being an idiot, but this, right now, puts that whole stunt to shame.”

  Now, I was crying and I refused to do it in front of him. I writhed in his arms, forcing him to set me down where I immediately wrapped my arms around Emmett—not that we particularly hugged a lot or that I needed a hug, but my head wasn’t right and I was afraid if I stood on my own I would end up proving Wyatt right.

  I hazarded a glance over to him and my heart ached with the hurt and concern that I’d etched into the strong lines of his face. I wanted… well, it didn’t matter what I wanted; I couldn’t have what I wanted.

  “Take her to get her head checked,” Wyatt demanded, his eyes boring into Emmett. There was a dark undercurrent in his tone that suggested doing anything to the contrary would be ill-advised.

  I closed my eyes as another wave of nausea and dizziness spread through me and when I opened them again, Wyatt was gone.

  “What the hell have you done, Lil,” Emmett grumbled as he turned, keeping one arm firmly around my shoulder, guiding me towards the first aid station. Whatever beef he had with Wyatt and his brother was momentarily forgotten as he was determined to obey Wyatt’s demand.

  This time I didn’t protest. I did feel like something was wrong with my head.

  More concerning to me though was how I felt like there was something wrong with my heart.

  “ARE YOU SURE I CAN’T get you anything else?” Ally asked for probably the fiftieth time.

  “No!” I insisted with a sigh. “Go get ready.” I was lying on the couch, preparing for movie night number two, wondering when the last time was that I’d had two nights off.

  Emmett had taken me to have the doctor on staff check my head. Dr. Lam had said that, at worst, it was a minor concussion, but that I should take it easy through the weekend, which translated into: no teaching, no bartending, and definitely no riding. Yesterday, I’d had no problem agreeing to it; I had felt like shit and Ally had insisted on babying me - which provoked an argument between her and Emmett over whether or not I could take care of myself. I was actually in the room, but it seemed that neither of them wanted my opinion.

  Today, though, was a different story. My head felt a thousand times better—unless I stood or turned it too quickly—but Ally still insisted on playing nursemaid. I said a silent prayer to the gods when she’d told me that she had a date scheduled with Zack, but that she could cancel if I needed her.

  I vigorously assured her that I didn’t.

  Bless her heart, but I was counting down the minutes until Zack showed up to take her away; she was like a helicopter parent. Meanwhile, I dreaded the prospect of being alone with my thoughts which would only be occupied with one thing—Wyatt.

  Guilt gnawed at me, making me far more uneasy than the head injury for how I’d treated him. I didn’t know what I’d been thinking in the moment, but now when I looked back, all I could see was his face as he came up to me. He’d been white as a sheet, afraid that I’d really hurt myself and even though that fear had turned to anger, I’d thrown his feelings back in his face. The one that killed me though was his face when I reached for Emmett. I shuddered at the memory.

  I needed to talk to him, to apologize. But first, I needed to get through the weekend without doing any more damage to myself. And then I would figure out a way to make amends to the man whose only crime was caring about me—a man who probably had no interest in speaking to me ever again.

  The clicking of Ally’s footsteps flew down the stairs and she jogged awkwardly in her thigh-high boots around the couch, coming up behind me to plant a kiss on my head. “Zack’s here. I gotta go! I’ll be home later. Call me if you need me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Go.”
I shooed her away, hearing the tapping of her heels slowly disappear as the front door opened and shut. I looked at the TV, wondering what I was going to watch tonight. About to reach for the remote, I heard the front door open and close again.

  She probably forgot something; that was so Ally.

  It took me a few seconds to realize that the footsteps weren’t being made by someone wearing heels and when my gaze flew towards the hallway, my heart jumped into my throat.

  Wyatt.

  And roses.

  And take-out.

  In my periphery, the soup that Ally insisted on making me—because a head injury must be the same as a cold—no longer looked as appetizing as the sight in front of me.

  “Hey.” The rumble of his voice warmed my body, feeling like I’d been deprived of heat since I’d last seen him. Tonight, he looked tortured—as much if not more than on Friday.

  I pushed myself to sit up straighter against the side of the couch, licking my lips. “Hey,” I answered quietly.

  He looked down at the flowers and back at me. “I’m just going to give these guys some more water,” he murmured as he walked over to the kitchen sink to fill a vase with water. While his focus was momentarily elsewhere, my hands quickly rose to run through and smooth my hair that I hadn’t given two seconds of thought to for days.

  “I’ll just set them here if that’s ok?” My hands dropped, hoping I looked marginally decent as I nodded; he set the vase of flowers on the countertop.

  I didn’t respond, too distracted by the gorgeous man who had clearly come to grovel even though I couldn’t fathom for what. His dark, fitted jeans followed his muscled legs effortlessly over to the middle of the kitchen. He was wearing a crew neck sweater underneath a blazer and looked like he was about to take his girlfriend out on a nice date, instead of bringing food and flowers to the crazy, careless tomboy who had not only treated him poorly, but looked like a complete disaster in my semi-tight sweatpants, t-shirt, and sweatshirt.

  My stomach clenched with desire as he walked towards me, still holding the bag of take-out boxes. The intensity on his face broke me.