Chapter 2
Connor
It’s been a long day, and I’ve just gotten the last of my meager belongings put away in my fancy new slopeside home. I would love to throw on some sweats and stay in, but I don’t have any groceries, and I’m fucking starving.
So, I change into something more professional and befitting of my new job as a coach, and go in search of food.
Perhaps if I look put together on the outside, it’ll make me feel like I have the rest of my shit together, too…
which I definitely do not, and at the age of thirty, that’s concerning.
It’s one of the biggest reasons I need to make sure I don’t fuck up this opportunity with Patterson Performance.
Without a college degree—because I was boarding during those years—my options are limited.
Being a professional snowboarder doesn’t have a lot of translatable skills…
especially if you can no longer stomach the thought of actually getting on a snowboard, and I’ve been dying a slow death in a cubicle, selling insurance ever since the accident.
It might not be so bad if I owned the agency or at least had partner status or something to work toward, but I don’t.
I’m a cog in a wheel selling a product I can’t physically touch and one I don’t really believe in.
I make enough to pay my bills, but not enough to get ahead, and even though I’m an Olympic champion, I’m broke.
I’m also lonely and probably clinically depressed at this point as well.
As soon as I drag my tired ass into the bar, I notice the table of twenty-somethings to my right.
The first thing that catches my eye are the dyed purple tips of Vox Montgomery’s hair.
My brain registers the others seated around him, but easily decides Vox is where I’ll be focusing my attention this season…
and not just because he’s one of the two main athletes assigned to me.
No, the guy’s hot as hell, which could be a problem.
But he’s also a cocky bastard—like so many boarders before him.
There are definitely some stereotypical boarder behaviors and personality traits, and my perusal of his interviews and previous races tells me Vox has them all.
Including the devil-may-care swagger that has my traitorous cock sitting up to take notice.
Seeing him now, looking untouchable in the dim lights of the bar, I remind myself that he’s a job.
He’s my chance out of the hell I’ve been living for the last five years, my key back into the world of winter sports that I’ve missed so goddamn much.
Grey Patterson gave me a job to do, and I intend to be the best at it.
Which means keeping my thoughts, my hands, and my touch-starved cock to myself.
While I wait to place my order with the bartender, I spend my time doing more research on the team’s stats.
I’ve stayed away from all their social media accounts because it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s for show.
I’ve avoided Vox’s account in particular because I’m certain I’d find images and videos of him on the slopes that look much like the ones that used to adorn my own profile, and I’m just not ready for that quite yet.
When Grey reached out and told me he wanted me for this coaching job, I thought it was too good to be true.
Free lodging, getting back into the sport that owns my heart, and getting paid more than my boring-as-fuck insurance job?
Hell yes. The only downside is having to deal with arrogant hotshot athletes who think they’re the best the world has ever seen.
They aren’t…but I am, and the worst part is that I can’t even prove it.
The details of this job include my primary athletes: Renner Gentry and Vox Montgomery.
Renner is a level-headed athlete. He weighs the risks and rewards and is a solid third-place athlete who will consistently get points on the board.
But he holds back and will never come in first place because of that.
He seems to enjoy the sport and has a good work-life balance, though, and there’s a lot to be said for a well-rounded athlete like him.
Vox, on the other hand, rides like he has nothing to lose. He’s all instinct with no backup plan. It’s why he’s so fucking good and mesmerizing to watch.
It’s also what’s going to get him killed.
Supposedly, my job is to teach him control, but something tells me he doesn’t want it.
I’ve only been perusing the menu for sixty seconds when I feel eyes on my back, making my skin itchy and tight. I know someone is going to ask what happened after my Olympic run. It’s inevitable. I just thought maybe I’d have a little more time before issuing my standard answer.
According to my NDA, I just needed a break, but that’s a load of bullshit. Who needs a break from the thing they love most in the world and are also the best in the world at?
No, I was forced out so as not to create a scandal, which was also bullshit since the accident wasn’t my fault. But thanks to my gold medals, I’d become a household name by that point, which meant my sponsors demanded an NDA from everyone involved.
The whole thing was shady as fuck and left me feeling dirty and unworthy of being on a board again. Not that I have been on a board. The panic sets in pretty fucking fast, and these days I can barely hold one, let alone strap in.
I’ve regretted signing the NDA ever since I did it, but my hands were tied. Despite my best efforts not to lose my sponsorship, two weeks after they got my signature, my sponsors dropped me. Rationally, I can’t blame them. It’s hard to sponsor a snowboarder who can’t get on a fucking board.
Without them pushing me, though, I couldn’t find the motivation to get my feet under me—literally or figuratively—and I’ve been a mess ever since.
Bored with the stats, I start scrolling through tomorrow’s schedule.
I need to get my head in the game and be ready to metaphorically spar with Mr. Montgomery because he’s going to make me prove myself—and that has me on edge.
Especially since my nerves are already buzzing just from being in the same room as him.
“Hi, I’m Kat. Can I get you something to drink?” the bartender asks, placing a napkin in front of me.
“Jack and Coke,” I reply, hoping the liquor will calm my frayed nerve-endings.
“Coming right up,” she says, moving around behind the bar to pour my drink.
I fight the urge to keep my eyes off the group of boarders behind me and focus on my phone screen, not really seeing it anymore.
The group at the table by the window has resumed their low chatter, but I swear I feel eyes on me the entire time I eat my meal.
When I try to pay my tab, Kat informs me it was already picked up.
I didn’t realize a food allowance was part of this job, but I guess it makes sense as long as I eat on the mountain. They feed all their employees, so maybe Grey worked out a deal for us and the athletes as well.
But when I stand to put my coat on and allow my eyes to briefly drift to the table of athletes, Vox is staring straight at me, his beer held up in a salute, and I know.
There is no food allowance.
He just bought my dinner, and with that one move, he’s already knocked me off balance. He’s telling me he’s watching, cataloging my movements, and is one step ahead.
I notice there are fewer people at the table now than when I arrived. A quick pass tells me four remain. And when my gaze returns to the last of the four, he’s still staring at me.
His lips are slightly parted, and his eyes have a mix of excitement, disbelief, and arrogance in them.
This fucker is sizing me up, and I’d have to be an idiot to miss the way my body is reacting to his scrutiny.
It’s clear he wants to take me head-on. He couldn’t give two fucks about my coaching him. He wants to race me. Beat me. Be known as the best.
I recognize the fire in his eyes, and I know, without a doubt, Vox Montgomery is going to be the most dangerous run I’ve ever attempted.