Seduction on the Slopes--Snow & Ice Games

by Tamsen Parker

  In the meantime, I have Miles standing next to me and watching the next few skiers who have shit all hope of beating either of us, but we’ll wait patiently until it’s all done because everyone deserves their fifteen minutes of fame—or in the case of SIG slalom skiers, more like five minutes total. And at the end of the event, I still seem to be living in bizarro world. They’re still telling me I won.

  The official ceremony won’t be until later, but I follow instructions and pose for pictures with Miles and a French guy who came in third. People ask me questions and I answer them. They take my picture and I smile. I think I can’t stop smiling? I can’t even tell anymore. I feel like I’m watching a movie of my own life and the sound’s been shut off. Mostly I try not to be too bothered by the robot in the Miles suit who’s next to me.

  He looks like Miles, sounds like Miles, but there’s something missing. I’d rather have him yell at me than be like this. But there’s no time to talk to him, to ask him what the fuck, because we’re both being handled like puppets. I get as far as standing on the stage, on top of the goddamn platform, a foot above my lifelong hero, with a gold medal around my neck and a silver one around his, both of us waving to the crowd and holding our hands over our hearts as our national anthem plays. And then all of a sudden, it’s over. Eventually I find myself back in the village, not entirely sure how I got here, pacing around our room.

  I’m prepared for the worst, for Miles to come back and gouge my eyes out or . . . hell, anything. I’ll take anything. I take off my medal and shove it under my socks in a drawer so he doesn’t have to see it when he gets back. I just want him to talk to me. Yell at me. Fuck me, even if it’s angry fucking, even if he tears me apart. But he wouldn’t. Miles would never do that.

  So I pace and pace, wait and wait. Where is he? One hour passes, two. Is he okay? Miles doesn’t really seem like the type to drink himself into a stupor—especially since he’s got another race the day after tomorrow that he sure as hell doesn’t want to lose now, nor does he seem like the kind of guy to snap and go postal. Yeah, he’s been hard on me, but the worst he’s ever done is yell, and it’s only been at me. He hasn’t taken it out on anyone else.

  After three whole hours of pacing and my stomach getting more and more twisted with anxiety, I can’t take it anymore. I grab my cell and text Miles.

  Where are you?

  He doesn’t make me wait long, but the few minutes feel like hours.

  I’m staying with my parents. Go to bed.

  His parents? He could’ve, I don’t know, told me that. Would that have been too much to ask? If I’d have pulled the same thing, he’d have my ass for it. Part of me wants to call him and yell. Part of me wants to hunt him down and shake him by the collar of the stupid shirt he’s probably wearing. Stupid, clingy shirt that makes him look frigging amazeballs. Jerk.

  But another part of me is sad. Disappointed. I mean, it’s not like we were dating or anything, but Miles has done more to help me than any other person on earth, and I’d kind of thought, maybe, that might mean something? That he liked me? That I wasn’t just a responsibility that had been thrown at him, but that he wanted me to succeed because I matter to him.

  Maybe that was just Miles being Miles though. Guy’s got an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong, and he takes fairness very seriously, sport and honor Very Seriously. That could be all this was. What would his medals be worth if he hadn’t actually earned them? He wouldn’t be able to stand looking at the things if he knew he hadn’t won fair and square. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to hate the person who took one from him.

  Well, fuck you, Miles Palmer. Winning isn’t everything and I’m going to prove it to you, you stubborn, sexy as hell, righteous son of a bitch.

  Miles

  I haven’t talked to Crash for two days. Because I’m an asshole.

  The fucked-up thing is that I miss him like crazy. I would’ve liked to drag Crash and a bottle of champagne into our cramped shower and celebrate by dumping it all over him and then licking it off. And yet up until this morning when I headed to the mountain again, I’ve been holed up in my parents’ hotel suite trying to avoid any mention, any image, any sound of him. I’m such a coward I’ve been walking around this place with my noise-canceling headphones on, only taking them off when my parents make unimpressed gestures.

  It’s possible I’m overreacting, but I’ve never had to deal with this, and I don’t know how. My brain has been focused on skiing for so long, it’s like it doesn’t have room for anything else. Like feelings. Big, scary feelings.

  Hurtle down a mountain with a 350-meter vertical drop while executing barely-permitted-by-physics turns on sticks? Sure. Have feelings? Aw, hell, no. And I couldn’t start with easy ones. Or have one at a time. No, they’re all coming on at once, and they’re all mixed up together. I suspect, though obviously I can’t say for sure, that even people used to having feelings would find this was a lot to deal with.

  I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that I love Crash Delaney. Being with him makes me happy, and as crazy he makes me . . . well, that’s part of the thing. Even when he’s making me crazy, I still love him. Some of it is mixed up in this paternalistic mentor thing I’ve got going on with him, but I like that. As far as I can tell, he does, too. Those two things put together I could probably handle, even though it’s out of my wheelhouse, but adding to that competition, resentment, yet still this need for things to be just and honest in competition . . .

  There aren’t many places where things are fair, and I’m not going to pretend that the SIGs are perfect, but they do their best and it’s better than a lot of other places in life. Frex: I’m here, and so is Crash. That wouldn’t happen if these games weren’t about merit, because neither of us looks like a poster boy for alpine skiing. Rather, we wouldn’t have twelve years ago.

  And I value that. Despite not looking like what people think elite skiers should look like, we’re both here. So I hold that commitment to objectivity close and dear to my heart, I really do. Because without it, I’d be screwed. But god is it shitty when that means I don’t win. If it weren’t Crash, I think I could dredge up some grace. I’ve lost before. Granted not at the SIGs, and not in a competition I was supposed to be a lock for, but still. Some Frenchman? An Austrian? That I could swallow. Would I be pissed? Yes. But it wouldn’t feel like this, and I wouldn’t be fucking them. Okay, in years past, I might’ve fucked them after the race, but not before. I shouldn’t have broken my own rules. But I have and now not only am I paying for it, but Crash is as well.

  Because I’m an asshole.

  I am, however, an asshole who can ski, and I owe it to myself, to my parents who have given up so many things for me to do this, to Ted who’s been my coach and my friend for ten years, to my teammates, to my country, and yes, to Crash, who deserves a hard-driving competitor so he’ll never doubt himself, never doubt his talent or his worth, and maybe let go of some of that anxiety that still plagues him about how he got here.

  So I take the signal from Ted, who’s standing next to me, that it’s my turn to step up to the gate for my last run in the slalom. Crash and I were within hundredths of a second of each other on our first runs, but about a second away from everyone else in the field, so it’s likely down to the two of us. I make my way to the gate, hand my headphones over to Ted and slip on my helmet, pull down my goggles, do one last check of my equipment, and then I skate up to the start gate.

  This is it. My last shot at glory, my last SIG race. I like the giant slalom, but slalom’s my first love. It’s faster, finer, demands complete attention and total dedication, and I’m even more heavily favored to win this than I was the giant slalom. Good thing, because I don’t have a gold around my neck yet, and I goddamn want one.

  One last breath, one last wish that I ski the ever-loving hell out of this course and bring home that last frigging medal. Then off I go, a shorter start with my poles than for the giant, and then it’s on: at the top th
e course weaves more while I pick up speed, and I know it well from earlier. Studied it, have it practically tattooed on my brain. My legs do the work without me having to think about it all that hard. What I do have to do is clear my brain of all other thoughts. Just imperative sensory input, letting my muscles do their thing so I get down the mountain in one piece and as soon as possible.

  The gates thwack against my guards and the bar on my helmet that keeps the damn things from stabbing me in the face, and then I see it: the line spray-painted at the end of the course. Last few gates, and then I tuck and lean, getting the toes of my boots across before I stand and check my time.

  I did it. I motherfucking did it, and unless Crash has the run of his life, there’s no way he’s taking this from me, too. The thought makes me want to do penance somehow, because it’s a jerkwad thing to think. Especially about Crash who deserves someone so much better than me. I’m a selfish person, though, and I want it all.

  Now I only have minutes more to wait to see if I’m going to get it. Two more competitors to go, and then it’s Crash. Teammate, mentee, erstwhile lover, man I will always love even if I have fucked this up beyond repair, even if I don’t deserve to lay my hands on him again.

  He’s brought things to my life that I will be forever grateful for, like a sense of perspective and the glimmer of an idea that not everything has to be life-and-death, that I might be able to, I don’t know, enjoy myself when this is over instead of falling off a cliff. He’s done it without expecting anything in return, with no ulterior motives, despite me being kind of a cantankerous prig. I don’t think it will ever be possible to repay him, not even if he forgives me enough to let me try.

  Crash

  Miles. I could watch that man ski all day. He’s . . . I don’t even know, something cheesy as hell, like poetry on skis. He’s got grace and style to spare and I can only hope some of that has rubbed off on me. I won’t need those things to pull this off—never needed them before—but at some point it’d be nice to look like less of an amateurish dick when I’m racing. Maybe that’s something Miles can help me with?

  If he’s still talking to me after this is over.

  Up here, I’m kind of in an impossible spot. If I win, he’s going to feel like a failure, even though he’s going home with at least the silver. I’m last up in this round because, of the two guys who were supposed to go after me, one took a spill that wasn’t so bad, just fucking embarrassing, and the other one missed a gate, so he’s done. This is it.

  I’m not like Miles. Giant slalom is more my game, and I’d love to be competitive in super-G. I like the big arcs, the speed. Miles might turn up his nose because it’s more a speed event than a technical one, but I bet he’d help me anyway. If he’s still willing to help me at all. The thought gnaws at me, but it’s not like the guy gave me a chance to ask him which he’d prefer. Even if I did ask, he’d give me the honorable answer.

  Him and his goddamn pride and sportsmanship, valuing everything over his feelings. If he’s even figured out he has them, but I bet he has and is just hiding from them. Much as he’s hiding from me at the moment. Not for long, Palmer. I’m coming for you.

  And, like the seventy-six guys before me, I line up at the gate, helmet and goggles in place, poles over the trip so I’m not starting behind everyone else. And thank god for this slick helmet the SIG committee hooked me up with. Way better than the football helmet I tagged from a high school I briefly went to in Idaho and spray-painted so it wouldn’t be quite as obvious . . . not that anyone who knows anything about the sport was actually fooled.

  Look at me now. I am official as fuck. Until I start to ski, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. These gates—which are patented, who the hell knew?—are a little different than the sticks I used to plant on the trails I would practice on. Even so, I’ve got a shot. And some of that is thanks to the man whose heart I suspect I’m going to break no matter what I do. But my choice will tell him everything he needs to know, whether he likes the answer or not. He doesn’t have to listen to me, but he’s going to pick up what I’m putting down. He is going to smell what I’m cooking. Fucking right he is.

  Here I go, pushing off with the poles for only a couple of strokes and then they’re not good for pushing anymore, only balance. Forget eyes on the prize: every single particle of my body needs to be focused on the snow under my skis, the shift of my weight, the bend of my knees. Although if I think too much it all goes to hell. But in the movie playing in my head, I’m hitting gates even faster than I did in the last round. Which means . . . which means I’ve got a shot.

  I’m using everything Miles has ever taught me and I’m skiing better than I ever have in my whole life. It’s such a goddamn beautiful run, it makes me want to cry. Just a few more seconds, a few more measly seconds and then this is over.

  As I approach the last four gates, I seize my opportunity. I let my outside ski lift off in a turn. Not a lot, and it’s the kind of thing I would’ve done thoughtlessly before my talk with Miles. But it takes a surprising amount of will to force myself to do it now. It feels wrong in my body and my muscles and most of all my brain. They’re all screaming at me. What are you doing, you crazy person? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Are you really throwing this away?

  I’m not, though. I’m exchanging it for something more precious. Then it’s over, and my gaze flashes to the big red numbers that tell me my mission’s been successful. I’ve come in second. My little trick took off more than I’d intended—I’ve cut it pretty fucking close to a guy from . . . Norway, I think? Too many flags, and geography’s never been my strong suit. Too many names of too many places when all I ever needed to know was how close I was to a ski resort I could talk or sneak my way into.

  Not that I would’ve cared all that much if I didn’t place, but hopefully this way Miles will only want to kill me a little bit instead of using his ski pole to choke me to death in front of all these people.

  When I’ve looped the finish circle, I see him. Standing in front of that same goddamn backdrop, and his parents are behind him, jumping up and down, hooting and hollering. Mine are probably halfway to who - the - fuck - knows - where by now. Who knows if they even stopped to see my event on a TV in a diner or something. Probably not. Unless they were going to stop anyhow.

  I skate up to Miles who’s taken off his helmet and put on a hat, my stomach heaving so hard I feel like it’s throwing itself against my other internal organs—why would you do that? But the thing is, Miles doesn’t look mad. Well, okay, now that I’m closer, he does kind of look like he’s spoiling for a fight. Or maybe a fuck? I don’t know.

  I’m happy to give him whatever he wants as long as I get to be with him at the end of the day. One thing Miles is, though, is conscious of his obligation to make the team look good. And yelling at me, or seeming anything but ecstatic isn’t going to cut it. So as soon as I’m out of my skis, he meets me halfway and takes me in his arms.

  It’s enough to make my throat get tight, enough to make me feel like I can’t breathe, like I might cry if I could just get some air into my lungs. I’m so fucking angry at him right now, but I can explain to him how much he hurt me by staying away, by not calling, after I’ve given him some more basic lessons on how to be a person. I understand why he did what he did, even if it was childish. He might not understand himself why he was hiding, because that’s what it was. Closing his eyes and putting his hands over his ears and humming for all he was worth because it was too much for him. It’s okay. We’ll take baby steps. Because as much as he’s taught me about skiing, I’m going to teach him about life outside of skiing.

  With an extra hard squeeze, he turns his head, his lips nearly brushing my ear as he says, “You pull a trick like that in a race ever again, and I will murder you so hard. As it is, I want to wring your scrawny little neck. I don’t need your damn pity medal, and let me tell you I’ve got a place where you can shove—”

  I pound him on the back a few times to ext
end the farce that this is just a really long dude hug. “It wasn’t pity, you self-centered jerk-off. After all you’ve done for me, after all you’ve done for this team, for this sport, you’ve earned that medal. I wasn’t trying to be a martyr and throw everything away for you. If I’d wanted to do that, I could’ve tanked the whole thing. Woulda been easy. I didn’t, and you know why? It’s because I wanted to make you proud of me and I wanted to be a role model for you in this one thing after you’ve taught me so much. Winning isn’t everything but if you want to take home that silver instead of the gold after this is over by all means do it, you pompous asshat.”

  He stiffens in my arms and I hope this isn’t the moment he walks away and never speaks to me again. I hope he doesn’t find some way to refuse this medal or act like he hasn’t earned it. For once in his life, I want him to swallow his goddamn pride and take this in the spirit that it’s meant. I wasn’t trying to embarrass him and I wasn’t trying to undermine him. I had an impossible choice and I made the best one I knew how.

  I’m holding my breath, aching for his answer when he finally speaks, his voice stiff and reluctant.

  “Thank you. I know what you gave up to do that for me. I want you to know you didn’t need to. I’ve been a total jackass for the past couple of days and I apologize. I would’ve wanted to be with you no matter the outcome. It’s just, feelings are hard. So don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again or I will end you. Are we clear?”

  “Can we at least fuck before you do that? Then I can die happy.”

  “Gladly.”

  He lets me go because this hug is bordering on suspicious. Instead, he takes my gloved hand in his and raises them both into the air and the whole crowd goes absolutely wild. Including Miles’s parents who are standing super close.