Chapter 29 What Happens In Vegas?
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS?
MABEL
“Fucking hell, Ryder. Get your shit together, baby. You can do it.”
Ryder, however, is at risk of not medaling at all today after the fall on his second run, and that just won’t do.
If I’m going to be the better snowboarder in our marriage, I want it to be because I earned it, not because he had a rare slip-up.
I’ve got a grainy livestream of the men’s halfpipe competition rolling on Danny’s phone while I wait for my run, and Ryder is about to take his third shot at making the podium.
“Babe, you have to relax,” Danny sighs, digging into my flesh with the pads of his fingers. “If you go out there all rigid, your breathing will be off. You won’t be able to find your balance or your spot in the air, and you’ll wind up hurting yourself."
“I will relax. As soon as Ryder is done and they confirm he’s on the podium, I will be the epitome of relaxed, okay? Now let go of my shoulders; you’re gonna leave a mark.”
“Fine. Take your hat off; let me redo your braid.”
I pull the beanie off my head and let Danny run his fingers through my hair while I hold his phone with one hand and chew on my thumbnail with the other.
I’m fucking anxious because as soon as Ryder and I are back together later, I’m going to tell him I love him.
I’ve been killing myself by keeping it in all week.
I swear, every time he looks at me, I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming those three words in his face and then immediately dropping to my knees to show him just how much I mean them.
I’m not scared of what he’ll say. My gut and basic common sense tell me he feels the same way I do, but I haven’t wanted to risk throwing him off his equilibrium before a competition.
So tonight, after I win my third gold medal and taunt him a bit for having as many or more than him, I will tell my husband that I’m in love with him.
“Mabel Quinn, you’re up next,” a tech pops her head into the tent, and I curse under my breath. I guess it was too much to hope that we’d get held up so I could watch Ryder’s run before my own.
“Don’t worry, honey. Ryder is going to do great, and you’re going to do even better,” Danny says, reaching around to grab his phone out of my hands, but the notification from Danny’s news app that pops up on the screen stops us both in our tracks.
“What the fuck does that say?” I ask, as if it’s not clear as fucking day.
What Happens In Vegas: Mabel and Ryder’s Epic Lie Story
I click the stupid pop-up, already seething as the page loads.
“Pro-snowboarders born to best friends. Childhood friends turned lovers in adulthood. A bond so strong, they couldn’t possibly wait to tie the knot.
Mabel Quinn and Ryder Finch are the quintessential American couple, or so they would have you believe.
Here at Inside The Games, we strive to pull back the curtain and show our readers what is really going on in the lives of the pro-athletes representing our country on the world stage.
And while the Quinn-Finch legacy may seem perfect on the outside, inside, it would appear it’s all a lie. ”
I read the article out loud, feeling sicker and sicker with each word. When I can’t read anymore, Danny takes over.
“While the young Mabel and Ryder have been gallivanting around Milan, sources have told us that their marriage might be legal, but it is in no way authentic. Two Las Vegas natives, who have asked to be referred to by their stage names, Kitty and Lola, have told Inside The Games that the snowboarding duo spent their wedding night partying on The Strip, hopping from strip club to strip club and indulging in all varieties of drugs and alcohol before deciding to walk down the aisle. While it was clear from the videos posted by the couple to their own social media pages after the ceremony that they were under the influence, we hoped we were seeing two kids indulging in some celebratory champagne after tying the knot. That couldn’t be further from the truth. ”
“Oh my god,” I groan. Embedded in the article is a video from that night in Vegas.
I still don’t remember most of that night, but I vaguely recognize the dark nightclub in the video's background. On the screen, Kitty and Lola are sitting topless in Ryder’s lap, taking turns sticking their tongues down his throat.
It’s disgusting, but it jogs my memory. Five seconds before that, the topless showgirls had been in my lap, giving me the same treatment.
The video ends, and Danny keeps on reading.
“Lola also claims that she and Ryder have been involved in an affair for the last month, and while Mabel has been falling in love with her fake husband, he’s been making the aspiring influencer promises and indulging in digital liaisons.
This reporter doesn’t know what’s worse.
That Mabel and Ryder would put on a charade to save face, or that young Mabel could be dumb enough to believe that a tiger could change its stripes.
We all remember the infamous photos of Ryder Finch in Cancun.
Once a playboy, always a playboy, it will seem.
Hopefully, this scandal won’t overshadow the rest of the athletes on Team USA who don’t feel the need to rely on scandal and lies for relevancy.”
“Fucking Sarah Hannigan. You know I’m a feminist, but—”
“She’s a fucking cunt!” I growl. “How dare she?”
“Right? She dares to call you dumb when her shitty articles read like they were written by a middle school newspaper editor? Bitch couldn’t make it past the World Rookie Tour and decided to make it everyone’s problem.”
I pick up my discarded beanie and throw it at the wall of the tent.
“I don’t give a fuck what she calls me. How dare she talk about Ryder like that?
‘Once a playboy, always a playboy’ fuck that.
Ryder is a perfect fucking angel. He’d never even—” I snap my mouth shut, cutting myself off.
It doesn’t matter how emotional I am, Ryder’s sex life is no one’s business but his.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to tear that bitch to shreds. ”
I’m seething, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, and Danny…
Danny is watching me with a sinister grin, looking like the cat that got the cream.
“Well, well, well. Maybe a tiger can change its stripes after all.”
“I’m too pissed to decipher riddles right now, Danny.”
“It’s just funny. A few weeks ago, Ryder was the bane of your existence. Now you’re ready to yank out Sarah Hannigan’s cheap extensions to guard his honor. It’s cute.”
I sigh, rolling my eyes.
“I fucking love him, Danny.”
“Of course you do, Captain Obvious.”
“This is going to hurt him. All he’s ever done is try to protect me from the stupid shit people say about me, and I couldn’t protect him from this.
No one gave a shit about the dumb stuff he got caught doing before we were married, and now he’s going to be forever tainted because I’m an easy target for the Sarahs of the world. I’m the worst wife ever.”
Danny stands and pulls me into a hug, and I collapse against his chest.
“You’re not the worst wife ever, Mabes.”
“What if he leaves me?” I whisper into his jacket.
“Oh my god, Mabel. Ryder is not going to leave you. He fucking loves you. Just because you were the last one to figure it out doesn’t mean it’s not true. One shitty article isn’t going to ruin what the two of you are building together.”
I bite my tongue, staving off tears I refuse to let fall.
“Trina is totally going to kill us when she finds out the whole “married while drunk” thing leaked.”
“Oh yeah, you and Ryder are dead men walking. I’ll miss you, boo.”
I laugh, and the tech comes back in to bring me out for my run. The emotions flowing through me are overwhelming, and no amount of deep breathing seems to shove them down. When I strap my board to my feet and stand up, waiting for the green light to go, I choose to let rage take over.
I kick off, thinking about how fucking unfair it is that my every move has been scrutinized since I was thirteen.
That no one cares about my accomplishments in competition or the degree in Environmental Science I earned from Stanford when I was twenty-one if I’m wearing the wrong thing or not smiling enough.
When I hit my first backside 360, I’m cursing Sarah Hannigan in my mind for dragging Ryder down to my level.
The back-to-back frontside 1080 flips I hit are powered by the rage I feel towards the system that sets these goddamn impossibly high standards for women in sports to live up to and then drags them through the mud when we inevitably fall short.
And with my last trick, when the weight of the world feels like it’s finally fallen off my shoulders, I find myself shooting for something I’ve only ever done in practice.
Instead of the third 1080, I use my momentum to gain a little more height.
In the air, I grab the back of my board and brace my core for an inverted rotation as I spin once, twice, three times, and another half for good measure.
My board hits the snow and I glide off to the end of the pipe to the soundtrack of the crowd chanting my name.
I just pulled off Ryder’s signature move, flawlessly. If that doesn’t tell the world exactly how I feel about my husband, I don’t know what will.
I hit my knees, and I’m flanked on all sides by my teammates.
Someone rips my goggles off my head while another someone unstraps my feet.
Once I’m free from my board, the women of Team USA’s snowboarding team are hauling me up over their heads, joining the throngs of onlookers in the rhythmic chanting of my name.
Every camera in a five hundred foot radius is pointed my way, and the sound of the crowd dulls as the judges enter their scores.
The seconds tick like hours as I watch the leaderboard, and when my score pops up, the roars of the crowd echo off the mountains.
100.00
A perfect. Fucking. Score.
I press my lips together, trying and failing to hold back my smug grin. But why should I hide it anyway? I earned every point. I deserve to celebrate.
Throwing my arms in the air, I scream to the sky.
“I FUCKING DID IT!”
Red, white and blue flags fly, someone pours a freezing cold bottle of Gatorade on my head—thank god my helmet is still on—and twenty microphones are shoved in my face all at once.
I can barely decipher the questions being thrown at me, and I don’t care to try to figure them out.
I’ll be a good girl and give the reporters the answers they want in the official presser later today.
But for now, I’ve just got one thing to get off my chest.
“I just want to say thank you to my husband, Ryder, for pushing me to be the best version of myself every day. You make me a better, stronger, kinder person, and I love you so much, baby. Oh, and I’m officially the master of your signature move. Suck on that, Rye Bread.”
I shoulder my way through the wall of reporters, determined to find Ryder so I can say those same things to his face. It’s not easy to run in my boots, but I’m determined to make it to him quickly, even if I fall on my ass ten times on the way.
“Mabel!” My name rings out over the crowd, and then I see him. My gorgeous, kind, incredible husband, still in his uniform and running towards me. I speed up, and when I’m close enough, I jump into Ryder’s outstretched arms.
“I love you, Ryder. I love you, I love you, I love you.” I chant between kisses on his cheeks, his lips, his forehead, his jaw.
Anywhere I can get my lips on is good enough for me.
“I should have told you before, and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry about the stupid article and stupid Kitty and Lola and I’m sorry that Trina is going to kill us and bury our bodies in the Nevada desert. ”
“Fuck, Mabel,” Ryder groans as I continue to attack his mouth.
“Slow down. You just got a perfect score. A perfect fucking score on the halfpipe! You just crushed like, five world records. I didn’t get to see the height but you might’ve even crushed the record I just set ten minutes ago with my own move.
Are you kidding me? I’m so fucking proud of you, baby girl. So proud. I love you so fucking much.”
I bite down on his bottom lip, tugging it with my teeth before soothing over it with my tongue.
“You really love me, Rye Bread?” I coo, and he rolls his eyes.
“Of course I do, Marshmallow. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen. Do you really love me?”
Ryder’s green eyes sparkle against the reflection of the snow, full of hope and anticipation, and everything inside of me finally feels…right.
“I really, really do. It’s always been you, Ryder.”
He smirks, running his tongue over his teeth.
“No fall zone, my ass.”
This time Ryder kisses me, the force of his lips on mine so great that the intensity takes us both to the ground.
He licks at my lips and I part them, letting his tongue tangle with mine.
The air is cold but his skin is hot, his beard scraping at the delicate skin of my face in a way that makes my cunt ache.
It isn’t until I sink my fingers into his hair and Ryder moans into my mouth that I remember we’re on our knees in front of the press and half the attendees of the Winter Games.
I pull back, and Ryder grins as he rubs the tip of his nose against mine.
“Well, if that doesn’t prove to the world that we’re actually happily married, I don’t know what will,” he laughs, and then, more seriously, “Do you think Trina is really going to murder us?”
“Yeah, Rye. I really, really do.”
We’re surrounded by reporters, all yelling out questions that I am more than happy to ignore. Someone shoves a microphone between our faces, asking something in Italian that I don’t understand. But Ryder does.
“Yeah, I do have something I’d like to say about the article,” he says in English, not taking his eyes off mine.
“A month ago in Las Vegas, I married the love of my life. That is the truth, and that’s the last thing I’m going to say about it.
And the next person who decides to write something shitty about my wife better watch out, cause I’m going to start whooping asses. No one gets to piss off Mabel but me.”