Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Ryder
The steady hum of the bus’s engine is usually soothing, but today it’s just another reminder of the shitshow that’s become my life.
Fuckin’ Carter, threatening to have the judge revoke my community service option and give me jail time if I don’t stop acting like a janitor.
It was his idea for me to be an instructor, not mine, and now he’s ready to punish me for not doing the job I never wanted?
If I didn’t have to worry about what it’d do to my mom to see me in jail, I’d tell the judge to find me a cell.
At least that way maybe everyone would leave me the fuck alone.
That’s why the janitor thing works. I don’t have to talk to anyone—hell, I don’t even have to see anyone if I time it right—and then I’m on my way. Sure, sweeping the floor and cleaning toilets sucks ass, but it’s better than giving lip service when making nice is the last thing I want to do.
I always hated that part of being a professional snowboarder.
Reporters crowding you for comment after a race, pretending they know what to ask when most of them have never been on a board before.
There’s nothing more stupid than two strangers talking shop when one of them is just a mouthpiece.
Yet, the sponsors want that shit on camera and force us to answer mundane questions like “what was going through your mind on that run?” or “how does it feel to make the podium?” Like we don’t all know it feels great to win and like shit to lose.
I mean, God forbid they ask something intelligent like how the camber of my board affects my ability to turn, or what kind of wax I’m using.
But no, they stick to generic questions that require zero knowledge of the sport, and I’m expected to act like they’re being insightful when they could ask literally the same thing of any athlete on the planet.
Those dumb conversations were bad enough when they focused on riding, but if I go back on the circuit, they won’t be limited to what I do on the mountain.
They’ll bleed into how I’m doing without Chase.
What it’s like to ride without my brother there to cheer me on.
His death is a boundary they won’t respect, and I won’t willingly invite them to cross it, which is what’ll happen if I start competing again.
And Carter thinks I should welcome that into my life.
My whole body is taught with a fury I can’t unleash as I get off the bus at the resort.
I try stomping through the snow to relieve some of my tension, but it’s a poor substitute for smashing things with my fist. Popping a toothpick in my mouth—the only safe outlet for my anger right now—I yank open the door to the lobby and find my de facto jailer waiting for me with a glare to rival mine in those bottomless brown eyes. Bring it.
“Is that the face you welcome the guests with Frosty? No wonder this place isn’t busier.”
“Are you hungover right now?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, standing his ground as I stalk toward him with a devious grin.
I’m not, but one of the only things that gives me pleasure besides drinking away my feelings is pissing Hayden off, so I lean into my new role as resident asshole. “No more than usual.” I gnash on my toothpick. Damn, seeing him fume makes me smile.
He looks me over warily. “I know Carter wants you on the mountain, but I need you sober before that happens. You can work the rental counter.” His chocolatey hair seems to lift with the force of his spin as he stalks away, sending a whiff of cedar and…
cherries up my nose. I hate that it smells kinda good, and that I can picture gripping those silky strands in my fist to make him whimper.
In pain.
Obviously.
There’s no other reason to want to touch him.
A guy.
Pushing that thought from my mind, I plaster a scowl on my face and trudge after him. “Rentals? Don’t fake legs have to be custom fit and shit?”
“Prosthetics, yes,” Frosty says through gritted teeth as he rounds the counter. “But, not everyone in this program is an amputee. There are people with learning disabilities, sensory issues, or blindness. We rent helmets, skis and boards, poles, guide straps, all of those things to them.
I don’t remember that from the training I had to do. Hell, I barely remember the training since I wasn’t planning on putting it to use. No matter, everyone who grew up in this town has worked at a rental counter at least one season.
“You can handle rentals, right?” His clipped tone riles me, but not in the way it should.
Instead of grating on me the way he clearly meant it to, it makes me feel alive.
Skin crackling with restless energy as cutting retorts flare up like wildfire in my mind.
This. This is what I want instead of the gentle words I’ve been getting from everyone else, which make me want to scream.
Hayden’s saucy attitude fuels the rage in me—not in a violent way—more like a wicked one. It pierces through the fog in my head, priming me for a good verbal sparring. The only question now is which of the remarks ping-ponging in my skull will have the greatest impact.
I pick up the reservation list to see what equipment I’ll have to pull, studying it for longer than necessary as I bait him. I think I’ll go for the slow attack.
“Do you assume all your helpers are idiots, Frosty, or just me?”
“Just you.” His voice almost sounds cheery.
“How’d I get that distinction?” I lift my eyes to his.
“Court order.” He smiles with false sweetness.
“Touché.” I can’t stop the tiny chuckle from passing through my lips.
Score one for the ice prick. “But growing up here I’ve spent enough time in the rental shop to know how it works, so if you want to hand me tasks you think I’ll fail, best to pick a more challenging one.
” I shift the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other, a movement his eyes track closely. Interesting.
“And yet, moments ago, you thought we don’t do rentals.” He grabs a rag from beneath the counter and starts wiping it down. I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a dismissal or a distraction, but I’m not ready to fold.
I toss the clipboard on the counter and cross my arms. “Maybe if you hadn’t kept me hidden in the back, I’d know more about the shit you do here.”
“Maybe if your breath wouldn’t knock out a linebacker, I’d have put you up front sooner.”
“Mint flavored.” I point to the toothpick in my mouth. Score one for me.
“The toothpick or your last shot?” His cheeks are tinged with red, and I have to fight back a satisfied grin.
“Such a clever retort. I can see why Carter put you in charge.”
He gives me a dramatic eye roll. “You don’t sound very complimentary toward the guy who’s pulling strings for you. I thought you were friends.”
The reminder of his ultimatum deflates me faster than a popped tire loses air. “Business associates,” I correct, wiping an imaginary smudge off the counter.
“You must be good for business if he’s going to stick my neck out on your behalf.” Frosty swats my hand away so he can wipe off the mark it left.
“I was.” I shove my hands in my pockets, so I’m not tempted to bash them on the counter.
“Past tense?” He pauses to look at me. “Lovely. And he wonders why I won’t put you on the mountain.” Frosty purses his lips and looks me over.
Have they always been that plump? Wait, what?
“I suppose that’s why Carter asked why you weren’t on the mountain.” His indignant huff brings his face back into focus. “You tattled about having to play janitor. Trying to get back in his good graces?”
“I didn’t breathe a word.”
Hayden’s full lips part into a little ‘o’ as the next zinger he prepared to sling dies. His eyes soften, not to the point of total remorse, but they lose some of their ire. Didn’t see that coming.
The gesture stifles some of my bitterness toward him, and, testing a theory, I float the toothpick back to the other side of my mouth, curious to see if he’ll follow the movement like he did before.
Yep.
Focus, Ryder, you’re supposed to be pissing him off, not toying with him.
“You expect me to believe you didn’t go plead your case to Carter?
” There’s no venom in his tone as he spins away and grabs for a box on a shelf along the back wall.
It's just out of his reach, and before I have time to weigh the pros and cons of helping him my body is pressed against his to retrieve it.
His smaller frame goes still, causing me to freeze, too.
The woodsy shampoo floods my nostrils again, and my chest goes all warm and tingly where it meets his back.
It’s… not as unpleasant as it should be.
Yet despite knowing it’s wrong, despite my brain screaming at my limbs to move, I linger there long enough for my cock to take notice of his round ass.
The realization that my junk is coming to life has me in full retreat, and I back up until I hit the counter, putting as much distance as possible between us.
When he finally turns around, I thrust the box toward him with a little half-shrug.
“I don’t give a shit what you believe, Frosty.
I’m just here to do my time and get out. ”
That puts a scowl back on his face, thank God.
“How the hell did I end up reporting to you, anyway. You seem a little young to be in charge.” I’m grasping, but I need to get us back to our little pissing match, so I don’t dwell on what just happened.
“Age has nothing to do with experience.” He snatches the box away from me.
“Spoken like a man still trying to prove himself.”
“Or like someone who works for a living instead of expecting handouts.” He lifts the lid and digs through the contents so furiously I can’t help thinking he’s not actually looking for anything so much as trying to appear busy.
“You think I expect handouts?” I get a full breath now that we’re back on familiar ground, and lean against the counter with crossed arms, daring him to retort.
“I think you believe your actions shouldn’t have consequences.”
My lungs seize up as the words leave his mouth, and the aftermath of all my recent decisions scroll through my mind like a film reel. This little game just got too serious. “I know more about consequences than you ever will, Frosty.”
I can tell my grim tone confuses him, but before he can call me on it the door bangs open and a couple with a young son rushes in from the cold.
They’re carrying a bunch of gear, so I’m not prepared for them to come in my direction.
But the kid swings his head my way for a split second before stopping cold, jaw hanging open. Shit.
“Ryder Vorhees?” His little eyes grow wide as my heart morphs into a skittish beat in my chest.
This is the part of riding pro I liked; the fans. Especially the little kids who look at you like you’re their hero. But I’m no hero, not now, and I’m not prepared to act like one.
My throat is suddenly parched, my lips dry, and I grip the counter to hold myself steady. I know what I need to do, though my body won’t respond. I can’t make my mouth form words. All I can do is nod, and hope the scowl directed at Hayden isn’t still plastered on my face.
The kid wobbles toward me with a giddy smile on his face. From the corner of my eye, I see Hayden drift back with a stunned look—guess Carter didn’t mention I’m kinda famous in certain circles. I’d find that amusing if I wasn’t on the verge of passing out.
Please don’t ask about racing. Please don’t ask about racing.
“Are you gonna be my instructor?” the kid asks.
Though my pulse is still racing, the wave of nausea starts to recede as his words register. “Nah,” I clear my throat. “I’m just helping behind the counter here.”
“Oh.” His little face falls. “I thought maybe I’d get to ride with you.”
“Sorry, buddy.” I’m shocked to find I kind of mean that, but rush on before I can dwell on it. “They’ve already got teachers for that.”
“Who would be better than you? You’re a pro. And I wanna race one day like you.”
“That’s great.” I offer what I hope is a genuine smile, though my lips still feel too numb to know for sure.
The kid’s parents try to usher him toward the lockers, but after a few stilted steps he turns to face me. “Hey, wait. If you’re here, does that mean you aren’t racing this year? Are you hurt?”
Bile threatens to rush up my throat, but I swallow it down, licking my lips nervously when the danger has passed. “I just needed a little break from the snow.”
“Isn’t that what summer is for?” He cocks his head comically to the side, and it’s such an innocent gesture, so purely confused instead of probing for answers, I feel the corner of my lip tick upward in a mixture of amusement and relief.
“Usually, but not this year.”
He doesn’t get it, but his parents successfully drag him away by warning that he’ll be late if they don’t hurry and change.
He gives me a tiny wave, which I mimic easily, before disappearing down the hall.
Then I drop my head to the counter before Hayden can see my face.
I’m not sure what it would say, I just know I don’t want to open that door.