by Audrey Bell
I play with the hat, adjusting it.
“Aw, man, you ruined the turtle effect.”
“What do I look like now?”
He ignores the question and glances up to the race and the large leader board. “Ooh. That sucks.”
“What?”
“It’s the final, isn’t it?” he nods up at the leader board, where my last name is underneath Lottie’s.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m probably going to get knocked out anyways.”
“Not if one of these bitches falls.”
I laugh.
“Who are you most worried about?”
“Penelope Graham and Laurel Bates.”
“Ahhh….I know Laurel.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I know Laurel.” He squints. “I don’t recognize her with her clothes on. Bates?”
“Jesus.”
“She’s sort of a psycho,” he says. “Actually. She might not be a psycho.” He’s squinting. “I really can’t tell if I slept with her. Definitely slept with some skier chick named Laurel. I don’t know if she was that blonde.”
“Are you serious right now?”
He chuckles, pleasantly. “Dead serious, Pippin.”
When I glance over, he’s looking right at me, green eyes blazing with warmth. I look back down flushing. “About the other night, I—I wasn’t trying to spy on you.”
He nods, gives me a little shrug. I can’t get a read on his feelings. Maybe he’s just indifferent. “Right on. Well, good luck, Phillippo.”
“Pippa.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I really don’t like that nickname,” I say.
He shrugs. He smiles. “You could stop talking to me and then you’d never have to hear it.”
I smile. “Pretty sure you came over here and started talking to me.”
“You looked like you needed someone to talk to,” He grins. “You want me to leave you alone?”
I don’t want that at all.
“Maybe you just want a new nickname.”
“Pippa works.”
“I don’t like Pippa. What about Philly? Can I call you that?”
“You can call me Pippa.”
“Philly has a nice ring to it. Plus you get your own city and your own sandwich if you go with Philly. And a whole baseball team,” he cocks his head. “Probably some other shit too.”
He pushes himself off the railing and picks up his snowboard and backs away, keeping his eyes on me and a playful smile on his lips. “I’ll pray for Laurel to fall.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Sounds like I might…if you want to medal. I don’t talk to God for anyone, but you know, I have a soft spot for lost causes,” he says, backing up cockily, turning away to swagger off towards the lift.
I watch his bright blue fleece disappear. The best athletes don’t bother with waterproof jackets, particularly when it’s this warm out. You really only need them if you fall. And Hunter’s fleece is definitely not waterproof so he definitely doesn’t plan on falling.
I turn my attention back to the race. I stay in second place until Penelope goes. She takes second and I move to third.
Fuck, I mutter. Hunter was right. I probably will need divine intervention to finish third.
Hunter’s presence lingers in my mind. How quietly he flirts. How hot-and-cold he can be. How angry he sounded on the phone, how sexy his laugh is, the way he smelled. How badly I wanted his elbow to stay next to mine, touching. I have a soft spot for lost causes.
I know that this is wrong. Joe insisted he was bad news, and I acted like there was no chance I was ready to move on. But I can’t help but think that there might be a chance. Because he makes me forget. Just for a few seconds, but I’ve never been with him for more than a few seconds.
I’m so wrapped up in Hunter that I don’t notice Laurel’s start. My attention jerks back to her in full. I blink and she crashes out through a gate and wipes out.
“Shit,” I say, more shocked than happy that she fucked up. She gets to her feet, kicks off her skis, and tosses her poles angrily and my phone vibrates in my hand.
It’s Mike.
You should probably get back here for medals.
I duck back to the hill quickly, wondering if there’s any chance the last two competitors are strong enough to knock me out of third place. But, by the time I reach the hill, the race is over and I’m still in third.
I won a medal. Holy shit, I won a medal.
The three of us—Lottie, Penelope, and me—step up onto the podium, beaming. I look out at the handful of people who have stayed behind to watch. I smile so hard I almost start to tear up.
Mike wraps me in a big bear hug when we meet back in the parking lot that separates the mountain from the lodge.
“I am so, so proud of you,” he says. He smiles at me, as I stand, bronze medal around my neck, fingering the yellow ribbon.
“So, what did you think?” he asks cautiously. “Do you want to think about it? Try another race in a few weeks? I mean, there’s a little bit of time before you have to decide for this season, but…”
“I’m in,” I say quickly. I start to laugh. “I’m definitely in.”
He gives me a high-five. “Had me worried for a little bit.”
“Yeah, no, I am definitely, definitely in,” I repeat. “I feel…I don’t know. I feel great. I feel…almost normal again.”
“Good.” He grins. “I’m so glad you’re back, Pippa.”
“Me too,” I nod and mean it. I don’t know how I ever lived without this.
Chapter Ten
Lottie dresses me to the nines, taking one look at my jeans, t-shirt and boots and shaking her head. “Fuck no, fuck no, and fuck no.”
“Lottie,” I whine, when she tosses a short black skirt and high-heeled booties at me.
“What?”
“I’m not trying to attract any attention.”
“Well, you’re Pippa Baker. You medaled. You have those legs. You don’t have any choice in the matter,” she says. “And even if you’re not looking for boys…”
“I don’t think I am.”
“I’m not saying you should be—take your time. But there’s no reason Laurel Bates should be given an opportunity to make fun of your outfit.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Well, it’s not that good either.”
I roll my eyes and change.
“Happy?”
“No, but you look better,” she says.
“Are you excited?”
She nods. “Yeah, I am.” She breathes. She’s won a lot of small races now. It’s not a big deal for her anymore. “I’m kind of worried about Penelope. She keeps getting faster.”
“She’s amazing. How old is she?”
“Seventeen,” she shakes her head. “I know I shouldn’t worry about the competition but…”
“Hard not to?”
“Exactly.”
She’s snuck a few travel-sized bottles of vodkas into her suitcase and we throw them back before walking down to the lobby for our cab to the nearest bar—which is twenty minutes down the mountain and will be crawling with drunken skiers.
“I’m so happy you’re back,” Lottie says in the cab.
“Yeah?”
She nods. “You know how Laurel is about her social life. I hang out with Joe a lot—but he doesn’t race as much as I do. At a lot of these races, there’s nobody to talk to.”
I nod. “I know the feeling. How’s Joe been?” He was one of the boys hit hardest by Ryan and Danny’s deaths. One of the crew they ran with, that got so broken after that awful day.
“He’s okay. You know? Doing a lot better. I think competing helped him get over Danny and Ryan,” she looks at me, like she’s asking permission to talk about the avalanche. “You should watch him race sometimes. He’s having an amazing year. It’s just, like, he’s perfect.”
I pause, looking at the dreamy look in her eyes.
“Wait, Lottie, do you like Joe?”
She ignores my question with a wave of her hand, “I bet Hunter will be there.”
“So?” I ask, too quickly and too harshly.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Nothing. God, Pippa. You don’t need to jump down my throat every time I bring him up.”
“I think he has a thing with Laurel.”
“Everyone has a thing with Laurel,” she shrugs. “Plus, I think he kind of likes you.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I mean, I think he maybe kind of likes you. He’s sort of hard to read. But so are you.”
“Jesus, you really don’t want to talk about the fact that you like Joe, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” she says flatly.
“Why not? He’s cute. I love Joe—you guys could be great.”
“I’m not his type.”
“What’s his type?”
“Not me.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” she sighs and gives me a look. “Trust me. I’m not his type.”
I put up my hands. There are some things I know not to push. Even with good friends. Nerves you shouldn’t touch, even if you think it would help. I let it go.
I see him right away. Standing by the bar, with Laurel and a beer.Hunter Dawson. He looks bored. She looks trashed. I want to go over to him. I want to say something charming, turn his head, make him stare at me with that cocky grin. Instead, I follow Lottie to where Joe sits with Parker and Ben, skiers and friends of Danny and Ryan’s.
“I told you,” Joe says when Parker swears as I walk towards them.
“I hear you didn’t miss a beat,” Parker says, sweeping me up into a hug. I hug Ben with one arm, feeling the warm crush of his body against mine. “Congrats,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“You’ll be back to number one in no time,” Parker promises.
“Well, Laurel crashed,” Lottie points out. She looks annoyed. She probably should be. If I had finished first, I wouldn’t want any of my friends making predictions about how someone else would soon eclipse me.
I look at Lottie, wondering if she’s reconsidering whether it’s a good thing that I’m back. The competition is tough enough as is—and I might just be another skier to worry about. That’s the thing about this sport. Your competitors turn into friends. And you love your friends until they stand in your way.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” I say, badly wanting something to ease the nerves and excitement of being back here. The last time I saw most of these faces was at Ryan’s funeral. I shake that unpleasant, searing memory. Parker had been a pallbearer. Joe had practically collapsed outside of the church. I shudder. Center myself in the present.
You’re in a bar. Almost a year later.
I look around for a bartender, and find Laurel instead.
“Hey!” she slurs enthusiastically.
“Hey, Laurel.”
“Lucky break today, huh?” she asks.
“Yep. You okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I was so fucking pissed.”
“It happens to everyone,” I say with a shrug.
“Not to me,” she tosses her hair. “So, you’re like back or whatever? For real?”
I nod. “I’m back.”
Hunter leans further on the counter and looks down, past Laurel to me. “How’d you do?” he asks. His eyes are locked intensely on mine. It’s a gaze that I can’t hold for long.
“Third,” I say.
“Not bad,” he smiles mischievously. “Told you I’d pray for you.”
Laurel shakes her head as if she’s noticed that Hunter and I are talking for the first time. “Oh. Hunter, this is Pippa.”
“Hey,” I say.
“We know each other,” Hunter says automatically.
“How?” she demands.
“We were on the same plane here,” Hunter says. He watches me. He answers Laurel’s question, but his eyes don’t leave me. “Philly, can I get you a drink?”
“Ah…” I glance at him and at the bartender and at Laurel.
“Her name is Pippa,” Laurel says.
“What do you like?”
“Gin and tonic.”
He grins. “Country club girl, huh?”
Laurel looks at him and scowls. “Hunter, don’t leave without me. I’m going to say hi to all of my friends.”
She disappears over to Brooke and a few of the men’s Alpine skiers. I watch her, curiously, while a few of the male skiers let their eyes roam over me. They’re not checking me out. It’s more of a haunted look. Like, I’m the ghost of a bad memory they try to forget everyday.
They were the ones who were Danny and Ryan’s best friends. The guys they grew up with, fought with, all of that stuff.
And I’m the girl who somehow didn’t die when both of their buddies did. I swallow. I know they can’t look at me without thinking of them. I know that’s true for so many people here.
“Hey,” Hunter says softly, getting my attention. He has a beer and my drink.
He pushes the glass towards me and leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.
He steps closer, sits down on a stool near me, and leans close, so I can feel the heat of his body and smell his aftershave. I like being near him. It’s warm. It feels dangerous.
“So are you always this happy with third place?” he teases.
“No. Not usually.”
He nods. “Better than second.” He rubs his chin. “Someone once told me that there’s nothing worse than fourth place, because you’re the best person not to get a medal. But I don’t think that’s true. I think second is the worst.”
I nod. “You finish second a lot?”
He laughs. “Nah. I finish first or I don’t finish at all.”
“You race?”
“Used to,” he nods. “Not anymore. I do some freestyle stuff, half-pipe.” He smiles. “I actually started snowboarding because I hated racing—when I skied. When I was a little kid.” He bites his lip and cocks his head. “But, I like to compete. Plus, I wasn’t any good on skis.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“No, it is…” he shakes his head. “I raced your ex-boyfriend for a while. Danny?”
I nod. “Oh, yeah?”
“Back in middle school. Ryan, too. Ryan was fucking good. Everyone always told us to try and do it like Ryan.”
I flutter my eyelashes briefly, remembering how quick and graceful Ryan was. Even my dad, who knew little about competitive skiing, said so when he watched him race.
“The Snow Cat.”
“Huh?”
“Ryan the Snow Cat. That’s what Danny called him—always landed on his feet.”
Hunter nods. “You don’t want to talk about this.” He moves a little closer.
“We can talk about it.” I don’t mind telling Hunter about them—he barely knew them and he seems barely curious.
“But you don’t want to.” His hair is combed back, in soft dark waves, and his eyes are big, green and glassy. The color of celery. He lifts the dark Budweiser bottle to his mouth and takes a long sip of beer. God, he looks good.
He wipes the back of his mouth with one hand, a lazy, athletic gesture that makes me look at lips, soft and…shit, Pippa, you cannot be doing this right now.
I finish half of my drink in one swallow.
“Thirsty?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Nervous.”
He raises an eyebrow. I wish I could do that. “Yeah? Do I make you nervous, Pippa?”
I blush. Stupid admission. Yes. “You’ve decided to call me Pippa?”
He smiles. “I feel weird buying someone named Phil drinks.”
“Ah, got it.”
He leaned forward onto his arms. I smell the alcohol on his breath; he’s more than a little bit tipsy at this point. “So, did you feel it change?”
“What?”
“Everything.”
“When?”
“Tod
ay.”
“I didn’t feel anything change.”
“When you finished third,” he bites his lip and slides even closer to me. He leans and whispers in my ear. “You know, nobody feels sorry for you anymore. Now that they think you might be in the way again.”
I look back, over the people I know, and then up at Hunter. “Everyone here is an adult. We all want the same thing. We know that.”
He laughs. “You think Laurel’s going to go quietly if you keep beating her?” He shakes his head. “I saw you go today. You weren’t even trying. If I could see that, then I’m sure everyone else could”
“I was trying.”
“Not like you used to.”
“You never saw me ski before, so…”
“I know what playing scared looks like. Trust me. I was that guy for a long time,” he nods. He looks down at the bar.
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs: “You seem like a cool girl. And I know what it’s like. One year I was the down on his luck kid and everyone was happy to see me win. The next year, I was just the competition. And I couldn’t figure out why people I thought were friends weren’t my friends anymore. Things change when you win. When it’s you, you’re the last person to realize what’s happening.”
I nod. “Oh, and you’re just looking out for me?”
“You don’t have to believe me.”
“No,” I say. I step back. “I never said I didn’t believe you. Thanks, I guess.”
“Laurel hates your fucking guts, by the way.”
“Yeah. So I’ve heard.”
He shrugs, not saying anything back to me.
“So, what’s your deal with her? She’s your girlfriend?”
He takes a long sip of beer, buying a little more time. He swallows and smirks. “I guess it depends on whether you want to come home with me.”
A flush rushes to my face. I didn’t think I seemed that easy. Or like I wanted him that badly. “Excuse me?”
“Do you want to come home with me?”
I stare at him. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not that much,” he shrugs. “Interested?”
“No,” I say indignantly.
“Yeah, then, sure. I guess she’s my girlfriend.” I stare at him for a few seconds.