Chapter 1
Chapter One
DELTA
PRESENT
" G ood morning viewers! On today's 'Somebody' segment, we're sitting down with Delta Jacobs.
For all our Winter Olympic fans, you'll remember Delta led the US women's snowboarding team to victory three years ago, at only seventeen years old.
She is also the daughter of the legendary 'godfather' of snowboarding, River Jacobs.
Delta, thank you for joining us! Tell me, with Olympic qualifiers about to begin for next year's games, how ? — ”
“Turn that off!” I snatch the remote from Lake's hand and jab it at the TV just as the camera cuts to my smiling face. We're in the club lounge. It's early but anyone could walk in, and getting caught watching myself on the news isn't exactly the look I'm going for.
My brother just laughs and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m being supportive, DJ. I'll watch it later and send you the most unflattering screenshots. Don't worry.”
I wasn't worried. If there's one thing in my life that can always be counted on, it's my brothers mercilessly teasing me at every possible opportunity.
You'd think that as professional athletes, once—disturbingly—described as " hot enough to melt snow " by a popular teen gossip magazine, they would have better things to occupy their time with than tormenting me.
Unfortunately, they've spent decades getting their daily dose of dopamine from making me wish I was an only child, and I doubt it will stop until I've died or killed them both.
“I’m blocking your number, don't bother,” I bite back, chucking the remote at his head.
Regrettably, he catches it and tosses it to the cushion beside him with a leisurely stretch. “I don't know why you're so touchy about press shit.”
“Because I hate it.” Obviously. Media stuff has always been draining for me, but lately, it's felt so much worse. People like to put you into boxes they're comfortable with, and it's exhausting trying to mold myself into the Delta Jacobs that tests well with focus groups.
Lake rolls to his feet, stretching. He looks as exhausted as I feel, and we're only a few weeks into winter training.
With the first Olympic qualifying event only a month out, everyone in Dad's club has been going hard.
Unfortunately for Lake, Bay, and me, teammates with the last name Jacobs are blessed with private sessions with the head coach every morning.
Even people who've never picked up a snowboard in their life have heard of, and probably adore, my father.
My ability to be “on” for the camera is nothing compared to his, and even if I spent all day, every day on this mountain trying to match his level of talent, it would never happen.
Dad wasn't just a legendary snowboarder, he invented most of the tricks we practice every day and was part of the country's first-ever Olympic snowboarding team.
A deep, annoyed voice comes suddenly from behind us, making Lake and I jump. "Where's your brother?" We turn to face Dad, who is standing in the doorway frowning like it's our fault Bay is late. Again.
“No idea.” Lake yawns, shuffling over toward the coffee machine. "He left when I did. We wanted to see DJ's interview."
Dad's mood shifts instantly. There's nothing he takes more seriously than training, but personal branding is a close second. Professional athletes only get a short window of time to compete, and sponsors don't want to invest in someone who doesn't show up and smile pretty for the camera.
“I didn't realize that was coming out today.” He beams at me and walks into the room to pick up the remote Lake dropped.
I wince and begin to object, “Dad—” But it's too late. My enormous face has filled all fifty-five inches of the TV, smirking confidently out at the mostly empty lounge.
“I understand you sustained a hip injury several years ago. Are you concerned about that affecting your performance this season?” asks the reporter, and I wince.
Shit. He had to turn it on at this part.
My non-recovery is a touchy subject with Dad.
I can never talk about it without making him either defensive or defiant.
Not mentioning it unless absolutely necessary is the safest course of action.
TV Delta smiles brightly, looking exactly like the optimistic, inspiring champion everyone wants her to be.
“Not at all! I've been incredibly fortunate. I have great coaches, including my Dad, behind me and was lucky enough to get Doctor Brooks Harrison as the primary on my case—” The screen cuts to a picture of Doctor Harrison in scrubs, standing in an empty operating room with his arms crossed, and my heart kicks into overdrive at the sight of him.
The producers were smart to feature him in the segment.
The man is hot. Like, hot hot . All tall and broad-shouldered with hazel eyes that make you feel warm all over and a square jaw that always seems to have exactly the right amount of stubble.
Even in the picture I recognize from his practice's website, his dark curls are always a little untidy, the faintest traces of gray beginning to poke through at his temples.
The messy hair and obsessively ironed scrubs combo does things to me.
It's not just the hot, older surgeon thing either.
I work with and see plenty of gorgeous, accomplished men, and none of them has made me feel even the tiniest fraction of what Doctor Harrison does.
Last year, I did a sponsorship photo shoot with an Olympic swimmer.
In his uniform . He flirted with me the entire time and invited me to a party at his house that night, but I couldn't muster up even the slightest interest.
I'll never admit it to anyone, but I haven't looked at another man since I saw Doctor Harrison psyching himself up in his office for my first-ever appointment with him.
According to an embarrassing amount of internet stalking, he’s thirty-eight, which is a full eighteen years older than me.
That alone should be enough to put an end to my ridiculous, annoyingly persistent crush, but even after three years of pining, I still can't shake it.
Every time I just about convince myself I need to give it up, all the man has to do is laugh, or smile, or breathe, and I'm back to counting down the days until my next appointment.
My whole life is about snowboarding. I don't know how to do or be anything else, but with Doctor Harrison… he's my friend. My only friend, if I'm being honest with myself. Our relationship isn’t contingent on how high I ranked at the last invitational or how hard I worked at practice. He couldn’t give a damn whether I’m on the next Olympic team or if I never set foot on a mountain again. He just wants me to be happy.
How am I supposed to not catch feelings for someone who treats me like that?
I'm not an idiot. I know it’s not going to happen.
There will never be a day when Doctor Harrison walks into my exam room, sees my face, and falls madly in love with me.
I might have been homeschooled, but I've watched enough dramatic teen tv to know how it works: he's the hot, smart senior and I'm the dumb jock freshman who once cried during an algebra test—true story.
Saying the man is out of my league would be the understatement of the century.
If it did happen though…
“Delta?” I realize I've been staring at the floor for far too long, and when I look up, both Dad and Lake are frowning at me.
"Sorry.” I move around them to the table with fresh fruit and drinks on it and busy myself with selecting the least bruised banana from the bowl. The TV is still on in the background, blaring my bright, fake PR voice, talking about how lucky I am to have made such a great recovery.
It's bullshit, of course. All the medical talent and hotness in the world couldn't fix my hip.
Doctor Harrison has operated on me twice, clearing out scar tissue, and I get injections every six weeks to reduce inflammation. None of that's a cure though, and while I'm working through it for now, it's only a matter of time before it gets so bad I need a replacement.
Outside my family and medical team, nobody knows I'm having issues.
The world of elite snowboarding is small, and rumors catch like wildfire.
If even one person sees me limping or rubbing my hip, every competitor in the country would know within hours.
The Olympic selection committee would put a big black X over my name, my sponsors would pull out, and it would be the end of my career.
Showing weakness isn't an option.
At the thought, I bite my lip, only half listening to the interview still playing in the background.
The start of winter training has been brutal, and I've been looking forward to today's appointment with Doctor Harrison for reasons other than the way his scrubs fit his butt—though that's for sure the pick-me-up I need right now.
Just pulling myself out of bed this morning was terrible, and my stomach twists at the memory of how much pain I was in by the end of the day yesterday.
“I should see if Doctor Harrison can get me in earlier today, Dad,” I tell him quietly, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one else is arriving early. “Something's up with my hip. It's been hurting a lot more than usual.”
Dad looks over at me, his expression tight. “Where are you at? From one to ten.”
It's his standard question when we complain about pain, but I pause, my insides knotting. “Right this second? Like a three, but when I'm training?—”
He turns off the TV before looking back at me, and the tired, exasperated look on his face makes me feel about a foot tall. “You have an injury, DJ. It's going to hurt sometimes. Do you want to pack it all in over a bit of pain? Is that what you think builds a winner?”
Shame wells inside me, and I shake my head. “You're right. I'll be fine. Sorry, Dad.”