Chapter 3
THAT’S SO DAMN ROMANTIC
RYDER
Hey now, hey now.
This is what dreams are made of.
The earworm from my favorite childhood movie plays over and over in my head as I stroll across the venue, enjoying the crisp, cold air biting my nose and the crunch of snow under my boots.
There is nothing I love more than being outside, feeling the frosty chill on my exposed skin, bathing in the overwhelming brightness that only comes from the midday sun reflecting off blankets of freshly fallen—or, in today’s case, artificial—snow.
I inhale deeply through my nose, allowing that perfect, addictive scent of the air at a high enough altitude on the side of a mountain to cleanse me of any bad thoughts, poor intentions, and negative energy.
I might believe in the power of a positive mindset, but I don’t consider myself a superstitious athlete.
Some guys I train with have all sorts of rituals that they perform before strapping boots to board, lest they find themselves at the bottom of the leaderboard.
It doesn’t matter how much they practice, how well they train, how often they meditate, if they don’t knock on the bottom of their board three times and then take their helmet off and on in quick succession for thirty seconds, they’re convinced they’ll never see gold hanging from their necks.
Me? I focus on the things I can prove. Consistent training makes me a better rider and a better athlete.
Working my core daily helps me gain more height on my aerials, tighter turns in my flips, and smoother transitions from air to ground.
Eating a breakfast rich in carbohydrates gives me the energy I need to get through a competition day.
And when my blood is pumping with a lust-fueled adrenaline that quiets the noise in my brain and turns the world around me fuzzy, I perform my best.
And nothing gets my blood more lusty or adrenaline'd than riling up the woman who calls me her best frenemy.
Mabel Quinn is so fucking hot when she’s annoyed with me.
I scan the sea of athletes gathering to watch the Men’s Big Air qualifiers, looking for a shock of shiny red hair tucked underneath a red, white and blue striped beanie.
Mabel might only be five feet tall on a good day, but with that hair and those dazzling freckles speckled across her otherwise pale face, she never fails to stand out in a crowd.
I spot her almost immediately, her head thrown back in laughter as she playfully shoves the shoulder of a French skier, Emilie…
something. Emilie smiles back at Mabel, twirling a slender finger around the end of her honey blonde braid, her lips curled in that seductive, feminine, French way that I’m sure brings people all over the world to their knees.
I watch as Mabel blinks up at Miss Red Lips Le Ski, the stars shining in her chestnut eyes visible even from fifty feet away.
They’re flirting, and that is…fine. Totally fine. Everything is fine.
I’m not jealous, and I am not clenching my fists in my gloves as I stalk over to the women, catching more and more of their flirtation as I get closer.
“Est-ce que tu es toujours aussi magnifique, ou est-ce que c’est juste cette lumière qui te rend irrésistible?”
“Oh my god, I have no idea what you just said, but you should definitely keep saying it.”
“She asked if you are always this stunning or if it’s the light making you look so irresistible,” I say, my arm coming down heavy on Mabel’s shoulder and cutting off her bemused giggle. And then, to Red Lips Le Ski, “Marshmallow is always this stunning. Trust me.”
“Oh, je suis désolé, I did not know you had a boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Mable grumbles, half-heartedly trying to free herself from my hold, but her lack of conviction only makes me pull her in tighter. If she actually wanted me to let go, she would have shoved me harder.
Or she would’ve punched me square in the nuts.
She’s done both on several occasions.
Red Lips doesn’t seem all that convinced, if the hole her eyes are searing through the arm I have rested on Mabel’s shoulder is to be believed.
“Ah, okay then. Maybe I will see you later, ma belle?”
“Oui, yes, later,” Mabel says, her grip on my wrist tightening as Emilie retreats, no doubt leaving fingerprint bruises I’ll spend my night staring at as she twists until we’re face to face.
“What the fuck is your problem, Rye Bread?” She only mouths the cuss word, but the rest of her sentence is lit with the fire that fuels me.
Gone is the simpering, giggly flirt from a moment ago, replaced with a pissed off house cat I can’t help but antagonize.
It’s addictive, the bone-deep burn I feel when Mabel seethes at me.
“I’m just here to give you your present before I warm-up.” I dig in my pocket with my free hand, pulling out a plastic-wrapped package. “Lián róng sū. It’s lotus seed shortbread. One of Mom’s assistants brought it in from the city.”
I say it offhand, like it’s all a coincidence that Julie The Intern just happened to be on a run and grabbed a sweet treat I could give to Mabel.
It would spoil the fun if she found out I spent hours researching local delicacies before leaving for Beijing and that I sent Julie on a mission with very specific instructions to secure the goods.
“How long did you practice saying that in the mirror to get the Mandarin inflection just right?”
“No practice needed, Marshmallow. It just so happens that I’ve been blessed with a talented tongue.” The quip earns me an eye roll and an exasperated gasp that sparks my nerve endings, making me tingle from my toes to the tips of my ears.
“You’re disgusting,” she shoves at my chest. “Why do you insist on bugging the heck out of me? Can’t you just go do your warm-ups and your runs without interrupting the one chance I had at a clandestine hookup this year?”
“You know as well as I do you wouldn’t be caught dead sneaking around, looking for a sexual rendezvous at the Games.
In fact, I think I showed up just in time to save you from yourself.
I didn’t take you for the kind of woman who would risk fraternizing with the enemy right here, with all these cameras around. ”
“So you finally agree. You’re my enemy.”
“Aww, Marshmallow. You want to fraternize with me? That’s so damn romantic, baby girl.”
She shoves me in the chest again, and I sip at her frustration, savoring it like the finest red wine. I’m no better than a kid in a schoolyard, chasing and tugging on her pigtails. Too old to be playing these games, but when it comes to Mabel, I’ll take whatever attention she gives me.
“You’re infuriating,” she hisses under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest in a huff.
In her puffy white jacket, she looks exactly like, well, an angry marshmallow.
I’d love to point that out to her, just so I can watch the way she tucks her tongue into her cheek when I’ve really pissed her off.
But I really need to go get ready, so I’ll save that comparison for another day.
“So I’ve been told. Is Emile really even your type? Don’t get me wrong, she’s beautiful. She’s got that whole red-lip, in-your-face sex appeal thing going on. I just didn’t think you’d be one to go for something so obvious.”
“Right, because you know me so well.”
“Marshmallow, I think you know I know you better than anyone else. I was there the day you were born. Our destinies have always been intertwined. We’re written in the stars.”
The look of pure exasperation that earns me could fell a lesser man, but I am built for this.
Mabel hates it when I go all cosmic on her, which only makes me want to do it more.
Next time, I’ll be sure to bring up our zodiac signs again.
She goes nuts when I remind her that as a Cancer, she’s the perfect match for a Pisces like myself.
Mabel stomps off, heading towards the stands when I call after her.
“You forgot your lián róng sū!”
She turns, huffing adorably as she stomps back and tries to snatch the package from me, but I dangle it right out of her reach.
“I’m competing soon. Aren’t you going to tell me to break a leg, Marshmallow?”
“Yes, Rye Bread. I truly, sincerely hope you break a leg today.” She jumps, snagging the shortbread and sauntering away, leaving me breathless, that spark of hers igniting in my veins until my entire body is alight with the sizzling burn of Mabel Quinn.
Pulling the gold chain hanging from my neck out from under my layers of clothing, I discreetly press a kiss to the secret charm I keep close to my heart.
And just like that, I’m ready to take on the competition and pave my way to a gold medal.
And like every time before, I wonder if Mabel knows the only reason I’m as good as I am at our sport is because of her.
While I wait for my run, I spot her again in the crowd, this time standing alone and nibbling on the treats I brought her, and I send her a telepathic message.
It’s all by you, all for you, Mabel Quinn.
I top the leaderboard with a score of 95.75 and later, in the presser, someone asks me about my pre-run routine. I stare down the lens of the closest camera, unable and unwilling to stop the maniacal grin from spreading across my face.
“You know? Before I compete, I always get a hankering for a nice, toasty marshmallow.”
And later that night, when Mabel sends me a picture of herself lying in bed and flipping me the bird, I set it as my phone’s wallpaper and stare at it until I fall asleep.