Shooting for the Stars (3 page)

“Do you mind if I call my agent for a minute?” Stella asked from the passenger seat. “There’s five bars of reception here.”

“Knock yourself out, buddy. Where was he today, anyway?” Her agent should have been there to see her rock that event.

Stella let loose with one of her killer smiles, the kind Bear often felt in some very inappropriate places. “When I become one of his more important clients, he’ll probably turn up more often.”

He sneaked another glance at her as she cocked the phone against her sun-kissed face. Stella was so happy today that it almost hurt to look at her. He’d been like that once — full of optimism and the belief that things would just keep getting better. Tonight he needed to make it through the next few hours without poisoning her joy.

“Chad! I won the whole thing!” he heard her tell her agent. “It was beautiful.”

And that was the truth, not bravado. Put a Lazarus sibling onto a snowboard and prepare to be awed. He’d watched her event with his heart in his throat, of course. The speed she’d accumulated by straight-lining that first chute had made him almost physically ill. But he needn’t have worried. She had chewed up that terrain as if it were her breakfast appetizer. For seventy seconds, he’d been able to forget his own troubles and just love the sport again. Watching Stella carve an artful line down the slope, it was easy to remember why he’d given so many years of his life to snowboarding.

“Do you think StillWater will come through for me now?” Stella asked her agent.

During the long silence which followed, Bear found himself holding his breath.
Please say yes, motherfuckers
, he coached the universe. He could get past the idea that his own usefulness to the sport was starting to wane. He’d been given every chance in the world to prove himself. And then some. But the fact that Stella was having trouble picking up sponsorships was just plain wrong.

“Okay, Chad,” she said. “Then I’ll just have to win the next one, too.” A minute later she set down the phone.

“Everything all right?” he asked quietly.

“Sure,” Stella said, but she swallowed hard. “I was just hoping to pick up a decent sponsorship from this win. But Chad isn’t sure that it matters.”

“Of
course
the win matters,” he practically growled. “It’s just that in an Olympic year…”

“They’re going to throw all the money at medal winners,” Stella finished. “I know that. He’s going to make another round of calls for me. But…” She let the sentence die.

Bear didn’t get it. He really didn’t. Stella wasn’t just an awesome snowboarder, she was flat-out gorgeous, with thick, shiny hair and cheekbones that most women would sell their souls for. So what if freeriding wasn’t a sport that people followed? They would
start
watching it if Stella Lazarus were on the front of their cereal boxes.

“You know what?” he declared. “We’re not thinking about sponsorships tonight. This is a sponsorship-free zone. Tonight we’re all about the win.”

She sat up a little straighter in her seat. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Speaking of your win, I got the whole thing on video.”

“Thank you! Can I see it?”

“Not until it’s edited.”

“What?” Stella yelped. “You are such a tease.”

He chuckled. “No, buddy. I have to put you to some killer music, okay? And tag on the podium shot, the billboard with your name. The whole package.”

“Don’t forget to edit out that bobble from the first jump.”

Bear shook his head as the hotel came into view. “Other guys I have to edit. But not you. There weren’t any bobbles.” He pulled Stella’s rental car up in front of the main doors to the nicest hotel at the southern end of Tahoe. This was where Hank Lazarus stayed when he came to town, whereas Bear had made a reservation at a cheaper lodge a few miles away.

A valet leaped forward to ask for the keys, but Bear shook his head.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Stella asked, one foot on the curb.

“I was going to check in at the lodge so they don’t give my room away,” he said.

Stella lifted her chin toward the hotel. “Bear, it’s cocktail hour. If they give your room away, you can crash in the suite Hank left us. Just come inside. I want a margarita, like, yesterday.”

An argument formed on the tip of Bear’s tongue. It was a reflex, really. He and Stella had locked horns over everything from pizza toppings to politics for more than two decades. But tonight he just didn’t have it in him. Sitting beside her over cocktails was the best fucking idea he’d ever heard.

Bear got out of the car, handing the keys to the valet—another damn thing that Hank was paying for—and followed Stella into the hotel lobby. She rolled a small suitcase along behind her, and Bear knew better than to try to take it from her. In the past, he’d received several lectures on feminism by giving into the impulse to carry things for her.

“Wow, it’s jamming in here,” Stella remarked inside.

She wasn’t wrong. It was après ski hour. Every table in the bar had a group of wealthy Californians around it. Returning from a day of skiing, they’d have a beer or three before deciding where to eat dinner. In their brand new parkas, and the occasional fur hat, they dressed as if they owned the place. (Some of them probably did.)

Mixed in with the A-list crowd was a smattering of ski and snowboard bums, some of whom were familiar to Bear. He raised a hand in greeting to a couple of Canadian kids who’d joined the freestyle circuit just last year. They stood by the door, hands jammed in their pockets, probably waiting for friends. Now that Hank thought about it, they weren’t even of legal drinking age.

He’d never felt as old as he did right then. Twenty nine years old, and his days as a pro snowboarder were probably numbered. There was even one kid on the circuit — a Japanese competitor — who was
fifteen
. His mother actually flew around to all the tour stops with him.

Stella hooked her arm through his, steering Bear toward the elevators. “I want to change out of my ski pants,” she said. “And check out this hotel room Hank raved about.”

“Bryan Barry, hold up.” Bear swiveled around to find Dan Lacy, the president of the Fresh Mountain Extreme Freestyle Tour, waving him down.

Damn. It. All
. Tonight was supposed to be about drinking with Stella. Not running into this weasel. But when the head of the tour asked for your attention, you had to say yes.

“Can I come and find you in ten minutes?” Bear asked Stella.

“Sure.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Penthouse number one.”

“Got it. I’ll be right up.”

“I need a word,” Lacy said as Bear approached. “Follow me, please?”

His curt manner made Bear’s stomach roll. He’d thought that his day couldn’t get any worse. But apparently that wasn’t true.

Lacy ducked behind the concierge desk and into a suite of offices that Bear hadn’t known was back there. Everywhere the tour stopped, Lacy always commandeered an office. The guys (and gals) on the tour referred to it as Airfarce One. And nobody wanted an invitation, because that’s where the tongue lashings and the wrist slaps happened. Hank was a frequent flier. Lacy was always chewing him a new one for something or other: drunken singing in front of reporters or making so much noise at the hotel that it made the local news.

Bear mostly stayed out of Lacy’s way, and that was intentional. He hadn’t won a tour event in two years. He wasn’t a superstar like Hank or a household name. He was basically clinging to his spot on the tour with his fingernails. That’s why he hadn’t gone to the freestyle exhibition back in Vermont with Hank this weekend. The hometown event had sounded like a great time. But Bear knew he couldn’t afford to skip tour competitions. He had to show up for everything. On time. Every time.

Lacy led him into a windowless office with just three chairs, a table and a laptop. “Close the door,” Lacy said.

Ouch
. Bear closed it, and turned to face the president.

“Sit.”

Bear sat.

The president made a tent of his fingers. “Bryan, I’m sad to say that with your scores where they are this year, this will be your last season on the tour.”

For a moment, Bear merely replayed Lacy’s statement in his mind, trying to find a loophole in those words. But there just wasn’t any way out of that simple statement. Even so, he didn’t flinch. He would never give Lacy that satisfaction. And he didn’t say anything, either. Because what was the point?

“I know this is difficult for you,” Lacy went on. “But there isn’t
anyone
on the tour right now who isn’t eventually going to hear the same thing from me.”

Now Bear did flinch. Because even though Lacy was right — nobody was immune to the ravages of time — Bear hadn’t expected this conversation to happen just yet. Hank, for one, was older than he was. But Hank was Hank. He was in a class all his own. He’d accomplished everything that Bear had ever wanted in the sport, and then some.

And now it was all going to end.

“We want you to ride every event through the third week of February,” Lacy was saying.

“The third week of February,” Bear echoed. He caught up to the president’s words, and realized what they meant. They wanted to keep him around through the Olympics. Because the superstars would be going for the gold then. And Lacy needed the also-rans to hold down the fort while they were off chasing glory.

“That’s right. That’s more than half the season, anyway. You should be able to earn most of a year’s sponsorship income.”

“I see,” he said. Because he did see. For the next ten weeks, he could limp around the tour circuit, staying in even shittier motels to save what little income he had left. And because there was no such thing as a secret when it came to the sharp elbows of the athletic world, he would get nothing but pitying looks all around.

The next ten weeks would be pure torture.

Bear stood up and went for the door.

“Chin up, Bear,” Lacy said as Bear clenched the doorknob. “This feels like a shock right now, but this isn’t the end of the world.”

Spoken like a man who did not just lose his job
. Bear left without saying another word.

He did not, for what it was worth, stoop to thanking the man.

Three

S
TELLA
WASN
’
T
ONE
TO
be wowed by luxury. Her father built custom ski homes for a living. So she’d seen her fair share of beautiful rooms. And Stella was the sort of girl who cared much more about which mountain slope was outside a hotel room than what sort of furnishings were found inside.

She was, however, in the mood to celebrate. And the hotel room her brother had left for her was a fine place to do that.

In fact, the words “hotel room” could not accurately capture the amazing space she found when the door clicked open. For a moment, she could only stand there admiring it. The room was long and low, which made it feel cozy. A thick rug underfoot was set off by dark wooden beams on the ceiling. Separating the room into two halves was a sleek stone fireplace, the fire visible from both sides. On one side, a leather sofa waited patiently for a guest to sit in front of the fire. On the other, a king-sized platform bed beckoned with a heap of pillows and a furry blanket at its foot.

Wow
. It was the most romantic place she’d ever seen.

Stella crossed through to the bathroom and her breath was stolen again. There was a giant Jacuzzi tub in the corner, with two champagne flutes waiting on its edge. Hank had scribbled a note on the hotel stationery, propping it up in front of the soap dish.
You’re welcome
, it read, with a winking smiley face.

She did a turn all the way around, taking in three hundred and sixty degrees of luxury. This was not typical digs for a pro snowboarder. Even the successful guys were usually just scraping by. They drank cheap beer and they crashed on each other’s motel-room floors. You didn’t become a pro snowboarder to live the cushy life. You did it because you couldn’t imagine anything better than chucking yourself off a fifteen-foot cliff while the Aspen twigs scraped your jacket, and the frigid air infiltrated your lungs.

But her brother had something special, and the whole world had noticed. The result was that companies from car manufacturers to sports drinks to wristwatch designers cut him fat checks for representing their products.

In contrast, Stella’s sponsors provided her with gear — like boards, boots and helmets — and a tiny stipend for entry fees. Her big dream was to pick up a new sponsor to help with travel costs.

But this? This was just a fairy tale. Though if Hank’s stardust rubbed off on her every once in a while, she’d take it.

It was tempting to just shed all her clothing and slip into that tub. But Bear would knock at any moment. So she didn’t do it. Instead, Stella swept her hair off her neck into a French knot and took the world’s quickest shower. Then she donned a pair of jeans that hugged her butt to maximum effect and put on the only slinky top that she carried with her when she traveled to competitions.

By the time she slicked on her lipstick, Bear had still not arrived. When she checked her phone, she discovered why.
Saving you a seat at the bar
, Bear had texted.
Meet me down here?

On my way
, she replied.
Order me a drink?

His reply came seconds later.
Done. Margarita on the rocks no salt
.

On her way into the elevator she tapped out:
I love you desperately
. Her finger hovered over the “send” button. That statement was quite literally true. But since Bear had never taken her seriously about anything, it was perfectly safe to send it. In fact, she could have the sentiment sky-written over Lake Tahoe by a pair of crop dusters, and Bear would assume it was all in jest. She could even have the words I LOVE YOU BEAR tattooed across her boobs and flash him. If she thought she had a prayer of getting him to see her as a woman and not the kid sister of his best friend, she might actually try it. But Bear would probably just roll his eyes and grab a couple of cocktail napkins off the bar to help preserve her modesty.
Funny little Stella. Such a kidder
.