Seduction on the Slopes

by Tamsen Parker

  I back him up further against the wall with a finger at the center of his chest. “What do you have to say for yourself? I put my ass on the line, took responsibility for you, and you seem to have this intrinsic need to screw up. You’re not only making yourself look bad, but me, too. So what do you have to say?”

  He looks to the side, his mouth tightening, and it makes the rage bubble up inside of me. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help shove him in the chest with a hand again. Maybe getting physical will help get my point across. Nothing else has. “You owe me, Delaney. Maybe not an explanation because the truth is I don’t care what your problem is as long as you show up where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there, but you owe me something.”

  For a second, I don’t think he’s going to say anything. He’s still got his face turned away, his wet hair falling in limp waves around his face, his jaw tight. But then he turns to face me, eyes fever bright, and his hands come up. I brace for the inevitable shove and for him to no doubt tell me to get out of his face, but what I get is the most surprising thing in the world.

  Crash’s hands come up, but not for a blow. He grabs me by the face, his fingertips digging roughly into my jawline and his thumbs pressing into my cheeks, and then he . . . kisses me. The fucker kisses me.

  What the fucking fuck?

  Crash

  Whoa.

  I am kissing Miles Palmer. Miles Palmer, six-time SIG gold medal winner. Miles Palmer whose picture graced my childhood bedroom. Miles Palmer who is possibly—in addition to being the most dominant downhill skier in the world for the past twelve years—the sexiest man on the planet, and I am kissing him.

  At least for a few seconds. Then he’s got a hand around my throat, and my dick goes from chugging to a chubby to barreling toward a full-on hard-on. Jesus, don’t tell me this man likes it rough. Because I needed another element to add to my fantasies of him. But that’s not a sexy hand, that is a righteously pissed-off hand. Which I can only tell because of the wrath sparking in his dark brown eyes.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I thought you were—”

  “Gay? I am. Everyone knows that. It’s the worst kept secret in downhill, partly because I’ve never really bothered to keep it a secret. But just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I want to fuck everything with a dick in my general vicinity.”

  He hasn’t loosened his hold on me, and what I’d really like to do is close my eyes, sink into that grip and just forget about everything for a while. That’s not an option with him grinding out more words in my face, his already deep voice gravelly with restrained rage.

  “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

  Mocked? Does he think this is some whacked-out strategy to get out of trouble? I mean, I’m pretty good with my mouth, but even I’d need more than a kiss to make someone not angry with me. Drop that towel and let me get on my knees and I might have a shot, but that’s not what I was going for. At all.

  “Dude, I’m not mocking you. This isn’t a straight kid trying to get out of trouble by seducing the gay guy who’s ripshit at him. I . . . I am gay. I like the D. I fuck dudes. I’ve had boyfriends.”

  Miles drops his hand and some of the fury has burnt out, but it’s still stoking underneath what I’m going to go ahead and say is shock. Yes, dude. For reals. I know I don’t look like the dance club twinks, or the guys who bought brownstones in bad neighborhoods where they’re now pushing around obscenely expensive strollers, or the leather bears, or probably any other gay guy he’s ever run into, like those wax-chested other athletes he’s probably banged at every single goddamn SIGs he’s been to. Not my fucking fault.

  “Still not okay. Just because we’re the two gay guys on the team doesn’t mean we’re automatically going to sleep with each other. That’s messed up. I’m not saying a person needs to outright ask before they kiss someone, but maybe you should since you read a situation for shit.”

  Dammit, because I need Miles to think I’m more of an incompetent fuckup. Now he thinks I can’t even hit on someone properly? “Hey, I will have you know I am awesome at hitting on people. That just wasn’t my best work, because I wasn’t hitting on you.”

  “Then what the hell was that, if it wasn’t a creepy way of trying to distract me from being pissed off with you and you weren’t hitting on me?”

  Okay, so maybe kissing Miles wasn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had, because now he’s distracted by the kissing and me being gay instead of being laser-focused on being ticked off with me. Also, even if I go home empty handed, feeling like a let-down because of course some kid from Nowheresville in the Rockies couldn’t hack it alongside people who’ve had their whole lives and ridiculous amounts of resources to hurtle down a mountain just a little bit faster, at least I’ll have that.

  I can answer the questions of what Miles Palmer’s skin feels like underneath my fingertips, what he smells like that close up, what his full mouth feels like against mine. The answers are all the same: good, good, and fucking phenomenal.

  Not exactly something I can hang on the wall of my trailer, or that’ll get me a life-saving sponsorship, but it could be something just for me, that I can hold close to my heart when I’m lying in my shitty bed in my crappy-ass double-wide, trying not to freeze to death because I couldn’t pay the damn gas bill. I’ll think of kissing Miles, and yeah, probably jack off to the memory, and my life will be a little less sad for a few minutes.

  Miles

  Crash Delaney is gay? That’s . . . surprising. Not that I had any reason to think otherwise, but even here at the SIGs where people are pretty chill about who wants to hook up with who, everyone’s still heteronormative. But Crash being gay doesn’t change anything. The only thing that will change anything is if Crash gets his shit together.

  I’m still waiting for him to tell me what the hell was that about, because kissing me—kissing me—definitely means he owes me an explanation. “So spill. If you weren’t trying to distract me and you weren’t hitting on me, what was up with that?”

  “The kiss?”

  “Yeah. Unless you did something else stupid I haven’t noticed yet.”

  Crash cringes and I have an ounce of regret. Maybe more like half an ounce. Kid really knows how to press every single last one of my buttons.

  “I . . .” He sneaks a glance at me and I raise my eyebrows expectantly. I said spill, Delaney. “I panicked. That’s why I kissed you, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I hate press. I get all . . . vomit-y.”

  He’s getting green around the gills even now. But that’s no excuse.

  “No one likes press. Well, a few people do. That speed skater, Blaze Bellamy? She’s never met a camera crew she didn’t like. There’s Bauer, that Austrian skier who’s been gunning for me for years, and sometimes I think he likes seeing himself on TV better than he likes skiing. Which is messed up. But aside from the odd duck, no one enjoys it. It’s just something you have to do. A case of the butterflies is a small price for being here, right?”

  I probably shouldn’t because who knows what that might inspire him to do, but I reach out and chafe his arm. His bare arm, because we’re still standing in the locker room only in towels. His skin is surprisingly soft, and it covers the thick, corded muscles of his biceps. Whatever else I might think of the guy, he’s done a good job keeping himself in shape without a team of trainers, dieticians, and coaches holding him to it.

  Crash gives me a look that’s heavy on the puppy-dog pleading and then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his scruffy throat. Listen. Understand me, please. His expression reeks of desperation. “I’m not talking about butterflies. It’s not jitters. It’s . . . Vomiting is not an exaggeration. I literally toss my cookies. Puke, ralph, pray to the porcelain god—”

  I swear the kid would keep listing euphemisms for hurling if I let him—he doesn’t seem anywhere near to slowing down. But because I don’t feel the need to hear more synonyms for upchucking, I interrupt h
im. “You’re literally throwing up before pressers?”

  “Yeah, they make me—” His eyes bug, and I can tell he’s suppressing a gag.

  “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

  “It’s not exactly a fun thing to tell people, you know?” He looks away, and blows a breath out his mouth so that it ruffles his unruly bangs.

  I can imagine not. Especially when your whole team, including your coach, isn’t totally sure you should be here. Don’t want to give them another reason to think poorly of you.

  “Hey, man, I get it. I do. But showing up late isn’t helping matters any.”

  “Oh, I know. I don’t want you and Coach Miller to hate me, and knowing you’re going to yell at me makes it worse, so I’ve got the whole vicious cycle thing going on, you know?”

  I do. At least in an intellectual way. Crash hates press, so he avoids doing press. But then Ted and I yell at him, which makes him feel worse, and the next time he has to do press he’s worried not only about doing the press, but getting yelled at. Someone oughta take my captain title away, but they won’t.

  “There’s like a million things I’d rather do than do press,” he says. “Ski naked. Ski with only one ski, ski with my eyes closed—actually I’ve done that, it was fucking awesome—”

  Oh my god, this man is killing me. I put up my hands in hopes of defending myself against any more of his insanity. “Stop talking. I don’t want to hear any more about the idiotic and possibly illegal things you’ve done. But, I’m glad you finally told me. Now we deal with this.”

  “By not making me do press?” He’s kind of cute when he’s hopeful. Not in a baby animal way, either, but in a way that pings a hotspot in my brain which should not be lighting up for him at all. It also reminds me of exactly how freaking young he is. If he tried to grow a beard, it’d probably be patchy, so that little ping or whatever it is needs to take a hike. Also, was I this stupid when I was twenty-one? I don’t think so, but I’ll give him a bit of leeway because I certainly was at least a little stupid.

  “That’s not going to happen. You still have to do it, it’s part of the whole package. You get the awesome stuff like sponsors throwing shit at you, and getting to compete against some of the baddest motherfuckers to ever strap on skis, but you also have to do crap like answer inane questions about your runs. Last time I was here, they asked me to bake cookies on a morning show. Can you believe that?”

  Crash still looks too close to his insides making their way out, but his mouth curves up at one corner, so I’m calling it a win.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to put some clothes on, get out of here, and then we’re going to come up with a plan, okay?”

  I can practically taste the relief that breaks across Crash’s face. Like cool water after a hard workout, it’s flavored with gratitude. “Yeah, cool. Thanks, man.”

  “It’s my job.” Because Ted made it my job. But however I got it, it’s still a fact: Crash Delaney is my responsibility, and I’m not going to let him go down in flames.

  Chapter Four

  Crash

  That could’ve gone better. But it also could’ve gone worse. And now I’ve got my secret off my chest, there’s a chance Miles might actually be able to help me. I’m not so optimistic, but it’s better than what I’ve been doing about it myself, which is nothing. It’s weird that ignoring a problem didn’t make it go away . . .

  I’m sitting in a microbrewery near the SIG village, and I was early for once since I basically threw my gear into our room and then headed out, while Miles was looking scrunch-faced at his cellphone and told me he’d see me at eight.

  Well, it’s eight o’clock, and there’s no sign of . . .

  Ah, there he is. I would’ve ragged on him so hard if he’d been even a minute late. But, of course, he’s not.

  He thanks the waitress, throws her one of his uber-charming white-teethed smiles. No wonder the guy doesn’t mind doing press. He’s charismatic as fuck. And of course even though she didn’t recognize me, she asks Miles to sign a coaster to add to her collection. He generously points out that I’m also on the SIG team, and she hands over the coaster with some reluctance, like my grimy paws touching it might make it less valuable. Which it might. But I sign the thing anyway, and try to look charming as I hand it back. The waitress’s wrinkled nose says I’m not terribly successful.

  I fidget with my hands as Miles slides into the other side of the booth, and I look for something, anything to say. “Well aren’t you Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot, showing up precisely at eight?”

  Miles looks at me from across the table, his sporty and probably expensive zip-up sweater clinging to him in kind of a ridiculously hot way, and with a crease between his brows.

  “I . . . was supposed to meet you at eight. I’m here at eight. Why is that remarkable?”

  This guy has got a ski pole wedged so far up his ass I’m surprised I can’t see it when he opens his mouth.

  “Never mind. So you’re going to cure my press anxiety, huh?”

  He gives me one of those don’t-be-an-idiot-Crash looks. It kinda looks the same on everyone, and I know it well. “I never said that. I said we’d try to figure something out. But I’m not a therapist, and my understanding is that anxiety is something that takes significant amounts of time, energy, and in some cases medication to overcome. Plus, even if I had the training, we don’t have the time.”

  He’s cute when he takes everything so damn literally. “Okay, Freud.”

  His whole face crinkles in a frown. No, crinkle isn’t the right word, more like his smooth brown skin forms lumps and ridges where there shouldn’t be any. Like when you’re on a slalom course and suddenly there’s a mogul in the middle. His face shouldn’t look like that—Miles is never confused. He’s always in control, always knows exactly where he’s going, and how and when he’s going to get there. Uncertainty is for lesser men.

  “You understand that Freud was the father of psychoanalysis, and—”

  “Oh my god, I was making a joke. Aren’t you impressed I know who Freud is at all?”

  He tries not to laugh. He tries so hard. But the thing is, I’d feel better if he laughed. If people are laughing, it means they don’t hate me. I’m used to people thinking I’m not that bright, and maybe I’m not. If people aren’t going to think I’m smart, at least they can think to themselves, Yeah. Crash Delaney, I know him. He’s not a giant ass-muffin. And one of the ways you get people to like you is to make them laugh.

  I’m hanging on the edge, hoping he’ll let it go—even just a reluctant bark would be better than nothing—but he swallows it and tries to look stern. Which is its own kind of sexy, but not what I was looking for. Maybe next time.

  “This is serious. I’m not sure you understand what’s at stake here. It would be difficult but not impossible for Coach Miller to replace you on the roster. Sully is here, and it’s not for the microbrews.” He eyes my half-empty pint glass meaningfully, and I feel the urge to tug at my collar but resist. He’s not my nanny, though I bet he had one growing up in that big-ass house in Greenwich. Even from pictures I can tell his childhood home is bigger than everywhere I’ve lived put together, and my parents moved around a lot. Though to be fair, we stayed in the van in most places . . .

  Then what he’s said hits me. Hard like a kick to the stomach when you’re not expecting it. “That’s why Sully is here? In case I fuck up so badly Coach wants me off the team?”

  Miles’s eyebrows quirk in this annoying way that make me want to punch him. But then Sully would really get my place.

  “I didn’t realize . . .” I don’t know what’d I’d thought Sully was here for, but never had I considered that it was to replace me.

  “Look, kid, you have to follow the rules. You can’t behave like some prima donna. You haven’t earned it yet.”

  “Not like you.”

  He points a finger at me, which makes his sleeve pull up enough to bare some of his forearm. His sculpted
forearm that I’d like to bite. Not hard, just appreciate the muscles. With my teeth and, yeah, some tongue. “I am not a prima donna. I’m staying in the village, aren’t I? I show up on time, do the full workouts if not more than that. I don’t ask for special treatment even though I could probably get it. So don’t pull that shit on me.”

  Whoa. Okay then, hit a sore spot. “No, you’re right. You’re not a diva.”

  “Damn right I’m not. And this is about you, not me. So let’s get to work. Is this just about press or is it bigger than that?”

  I feel like I should be lying back on some leather coach while he jots notes, nods, and asks “How does that make you feel?” But I answer him anyway, because I feel like he really is trying to help. “It’s the worst with the press. It happens other times, too, but I can handle that. It’s not that bad.”

  Basically any time I come into contact with people who treat this SIG stuff like it’s second nature. Like they’ve been here before or they’ve been training for it their whole lives. I only decided a couple of years ago that this was something I might be able to do, and there are a lot of people who are not happy that some scrubby upstart has taken their place, or who feel like I haven’t earned this in general.

  But the thing is, if I hadn’t earned it, I wouldn’t be here, right? Maybe I haven’t dedicated every waking moment of my life to downhill, but if I weren’t one of the fastest people in the country, I wouldn’t have made the team.

  Merit, I haz it.

  Most of the time that’s good enough, and I can tell them in my head to shut up and get on, but sometimes that little voice sticks: You aren’t good enough. You’re going to fail. You’re going to get laughed at, because you’re ridiculous. And you’re going to do it all in front of a guy you’ve admired since you were seven years old.

  It doesn’t help that my hero is sitting right in front of me, and now I have to confess I’m a head case.