Chapter 2
PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE
MABEL
There. A diplomatic, humble answer that will hopefully appease the masses—and my public relations team.
Trina, the PR ruler of my universe, should get me a cookie for how well I’ve absorbed the months of media training I had to endure prior to arriving in South South Korea.
There are very few minors representing their countries in this year’s Winter Games, but after a group of teenage snowboarders gave us all a bad rap four years ago in Sochi—think “proving a couple of American fifteen-year-olds can hold their vodka like a Russian mobster” kind of trouble—me and the other under-eighteen-year-olds representing the USA have been trained to be on our best behavior at all times.
No slip ups. No mistakes. Get your medal, smile, be grateful and modest. Perfect little angels.
Which is unfortunate, because all I want to do right now is scream at the top of my freaking lungs.
I am so much better than an embarrassing fall and an 87.75 qualifying score.
I bow out of the interview with an insincere but gracious smile, knowing my cheeks are going to get a workout from the force behind my faking by the time I’m able to head back to the Athlete’s Village and the cot masquerading as a bed in my room.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to ignore my teammates in the stands while we watch the rest of the qualifying runs, because I don’t think I’ll be able to stand the platitudes.
I’ll just close my eyes and tell them I’m meditating or something.
“Mabel, wait up!”
A large, gloved hand comes down on my shoulder, and I know from the movie-star level infectious voice and the scent of cinnamon gum wafting past my nose that I’d rather stab myself in the skull repeatedly with one of Mom’s ski poles than turn around and greet my companion.
But alas, the cameras are watching.
They’re always freaking watching.
“Hey, Ryder! What’s up?” I say cheerfully as I turn, but drop my voice to a low, menacing tone—a stark contrast to my pageant-winning grin—when we’re face to face. “I’m not in the mood, Rye Bread.”
“I’m not here to mess with you, Marshmallow. I just wanted to give you kudos. That 87.75 is a hell of a score. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am proud, and I don’t need you telling me how to feel,” I say through gritted teeth.
Ryder Finch is my ultimate nemesis. Two years older than me and with three golds under his belt, Ryder is the son of my mother’s best friend, Ramona Finch.
Ramona and my mom, Melanie Quinn, were the Team USA icon skiers back in the nineties.
Together, they ruled the slopes and built a legacy in women’s winter sports that has paved the way for female athletes for the last twenty-five years.
When Ryder and I were born only two years apart, it was basically written in the Finch-Quinn prophecy that not only would we follow in our mother’s footsteps, we were destined to be best friends and eventually fall in love, have little Finch-Quinn ski babies and have our family immortalized on magazine covers and Wheaties boxes alike.
Unfortunately for me and my parents, I don’t love having my life laid out for me in such no-nonsense terms, even if choosing a snowboard over skis or the high-dive is the most rebellion I’ve mustered in my seventeen years.
There’s also the small matter of Ryder having absolutely no interest in me as anything other than a kid-sister-adjacent figure, a fact that he’s made abundantly clear throughout our entire lives.
Ever since my first day of kindergarten when he called me Marshmallow in front of the entire playground, ensuring that every kid at James Buchanan Elementary would call me Marshmallow for the next ten years, Ryder has been a thorn in my side.
A beautiful thorn in my side, but sharp and annoying nonetheless.
He’s also one of the idiots who got shit-faced on Siberian vodka in Sochi and set a basket of condoms on fire in the middle of the village, making a laughingstock out of Team USA and all teenage American athletes on the roster.
He’s the reason I had to do hours of media training along with alcohol and sex education courses on top of my time on the slopes before officially qualifying for Team USA this year.
He’s the reason my cheeks are going to ache from fake smiling tonight.
As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter how hot he is or how my cheeks flush when he touches me.
Ryder Finch is Public Enemy Number One.
“I’m not telling you how to feel, Marshmallow, jeez.
What I meant to say is—coming to the Games is intimidating as hell.
Everything here is bigger and scarier than the rest of the competition circuit, so just being on this stage is a monumental accomplishment.
I’m proud of you, Mabel. I’m seriously fucking proud. ”
Ryder offers me a fist for knocking, and a wave of something that feels guilt-adjacent washes over me.
I almost feel bad for going straight to being annoyed with him, but I try to squash it.
“Annoyed” is just my default setting when it comes to Ryder.
Annoyed that I’m stuck with him by birthright.
Annoyed that he treats me like a dumb kid.
Annoyed that we play the same sport—both of our dads are divers, couldn’t Ryder have taken to the pool instead of the mountains?
Worst of all, I’m annoyed that he is so damn handsome; I sometimes can’t stand to look at him.
In this light, Ryder is downright ethereal.
The sun shining overhead and reflecting off the bright snow makes the strands of red highlights in his otherwise golden brown hair glow, creating the perfect complement to jade green eyes and unseasonably tan skin.
And those red highlights are everywhere, not just on his head.
This past summer at one of our mandatory family vacations in Cape Cod, I couldn’t help but notice that the threads of dark auburn are woven into the beard he keeps trimmed close, as well as the hair on his chest that cascades down his abs and over his belly button before disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks.
All that hair, both on his face and his chest, hadn’t been there the year before, and that’s the only reason I noticed.
Biologically, I found it fascinating that in the span of a year, Ryder Finch went from teenage boy to man with chest hair.
Otherwise, his glow-up was of no interest to me.
I’ve always resented those natural highlights. Red hair is supposed to be my thing. My long, copper locks that look almost orange in the sun and air dry in the perfect wave down my back are the one thing I’ve always had going for me, and even that isn’t unique.
Nope, Ryder Finch just has to be ginger-adjacent, too.
Nothing in this world is sacred.
I bump my knuckles against Ryder’s, reluctantly accepting his praise so I can move on with my day and not think about how he seems to get more handsome every time I see him.
“Thanks Ryder. Like I said, I’m proud of myself, too.”
“Good. Just one thing—”
I roll my eyes and groan. Here it comes, the Ryder Finch Snowboarding For Dummies Lesson.
“When you’re going for the 1080, try for a melon grip at the back of your board.
It’ll give you more visualization in the air on each turn, and if you have a better understanding of where you are in space, it’ll make sticking the landing that much easier.
You’ll have to practice to get the control down, but even if your grip slips, the points for nailing the trick should outweigh the control issue. ”
“Yeah, okay, thanks for the unsolicited advice, Rye Bread. As usual, you are the king of the powder, and the rest of us are but lowly peasants begging for scraps of your worldly knowledge. Goodbye.”
I turn and stalk off, having hit my daily quota of how much I can handle before losing my shit, but Ryder is right behind me.
He catches up quickly, stopping me in my tracks with an arm around my waist. He pulls me close, the laminated fabrics of our snow jackets rubbing against each other and creating a sound that some people might find grating, but I find comforting and familiar.
It reminds me of being a little kid, gliding down tiny mountains between Mom’s legs, Ramona and Ryder cheering me on nearby.
“You forgot something, Marshmallow,” Ryder singsongs by my ear, dangling a turquoise snack packet in front of my face.
“White chocolate Pepero?” I ask, snagging the chocolate-covered cookie sticks from his grip.
“They’re a South Korean snack food,” he starts, but I’m already wiggling out of his hold, ripping the package open and shoving two of the pencil-thin sweets into my mouth at once.
I know exactly what they are. I don’t travel anywhere without doing thorough research on the city’s local sweets and baked goods.
I’ve had my sights set on Pepero for weeks.
I just haven’t had the chance to get out of the Village to pick some up.
I was going to ask Mom to grab me some for an after-dinner snack tonight, but now I don’t have to.
“You’re welcome!” Ryder calls after me as I walk away, throwing a peace sign up and feeling ten pounds lighter than I had just a few minutes ago.
Ryder Finch might be a world-class pain in my ass, but the kid has fantastic taste in sweet treats, and I can’t find a reason to be annoyed by that.