Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
I’m twenty minutes late. Austin is dressed by the time I’m out of the shower.
I tell him not to wait. Once I’m clean, I get dressed, then somehow find myself slumped forward on the edge of the bed where I’ve fallen asleep while trying to put my socks on.
I say a little prayer that Tara’s feeling merciful this morning as I quickly down two cups of coffee from the hotel room’s tiny coffee maker.
When the elevator doors slide open, it’s like every person in the lobby turns to stare at me.
Everyone’s there. Matthieu. Kage. The women’s team is milling around too.
I think about going back upstairs until I spot Austin, sitting in a tall folding chair, and I square my shoulders.
He has to feel as much like shit as I do. I can’t leave him hanging.
Unfortunately, before I can go check in with him, Tara the Terror spots me and rushes across the lobby to intercept.
“You’re late. I specifically said six o’clock, not six thirty,” she says, tugging on my sleeve.
“It’s not six thirty. It’s only—” I glance at my phone and, yeah. Six twenty-four. I could argue if I want to, but the flash in her eyes says I’m playing with fire if I do.
She guides me to a tall chair like Austin’s and calls for makeup.
“Makeup? What for?” I ask. No one said anything about makeup. Who’s going to see my face once I’m in full ski gear?
Tara snorts, eyeing me closely. “Trust me. You look like you didn’t sleep a wink last night. Didn’t I tell you not to go out and get wasted? And what the hell happened to your face?”
After so many hours of Austin slowly melting my brain and changing me from the inside out, I’d forgotten about the bruise where Daniel punched me until I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Even without the hickeys, my face should be enough to disqualify me from today’s events, but Tara’s not accepting anything less than full team participation.
Also, despite the early hour, she looks perfect.
Reddish-blond hair swept up in a messy bun, but I know the strands that tumble free around her face were specifically chosen for the role.
Her makeup is flawless. Lips a glossy pink.
Eyeliner fiercely black and delicately arched.
Beside her, I probably do look like roadkill.
Grumbling, I slump into the seat. At least I get to sit next to Austin.
A stylist is doing something with his hair, making it look windblown, which I guess is better than the last time I saw it, when it was sticking out at odd ends and basically screaming “freshly and excessively fucked.” I give him a quick smile and go to ask if he feels as shitty as I do, then hesitate.
We didn’t talk about this. Alone in the hotel room, being together felt real.
Like something that was meant to be and will last for a long time.
But out here, with so many of the people we see every day, I don’t know how we’re supposed to behave.
Not that I’m afraid of judgment. It’s ski cross, not conservative politics.
No one cares that we’re queer, and there are probably even a few people who are about to cash in on some friendly wagers on whether or not Austin and I are a couple.
But we didn’t exactly have time to agree on how and when we go public.
The problem is solved when a pushy makeup artist arrives, grabbing my chin and tsking as though my face has craters like the moon and not just some dark circles and a puffy cheek.
At one point, the artist pulls aside the collar of my shirt and the look he gives me says he thinks the marks on my skin might be contagious.
I tell him not to worry, that I’ll keep my jacket zipped up and he sniffs softly before he continues working on my face.
By the time I’m done, Austin’s hair has achieved maximum windage and he’s waiting with the others by the hotel’s front door.
“Rough night?” Kage asks as I approach. “We didn’t see you two leave the bar.”
I glance at Austin, who quirks his mouth up in a careless grin.
“We wanted to make sure we were well rested for the shoot today,” he says.
Fair enough. We can save the big announcements for later.
We’re all loaded into vans and driven around to the far side of the mountain.
The sun is barely over the horizon and will hit this side of the hill first. The Apex team and their photographers are waiting for us, armed with a fleet of snowmobiles to take us up the trail and tubs of outerwear for us to wear during the shoot.
It’s so early, the chairlifts aren’t even running yet, but one of the brand reps tells us they’ve booked a whole trail for our use, so even once the day’s skiers arrive, we won’t be bothered.
I feel like absolute shit. The coffee sits in the bottom of my stomach like battery acid.
The Apex people haven’t exactly provided a full catering spread, since a hot breakfast doesn’t travel well up the side of a snow-covered mountain, but there’s a table set up with muffins and protein bars.
I try a muffin, but the inside of my mouth is so dry it basically sticks in my throat like glue.
Also, my whole body hurts. Spending a weekend competing at an international ski cross event, followed by nonstop sex with your best friend is a physically demanding undertaking.
My knees and hips ache, my thighs shake when I do a few test turns, there’s even a weird kink in the middle of my back that pulls every time I turn my head to the right.
“You okay?” Austin asks as we wait for our turn at the shoot.
“Are you?” I ask.
He smiles softly to himself. “My ass hurts.”
Is that all? I didn’t do my job right if it is.
“How long is this thing supposed to go for?” I ask.
“Tara said we’d be done by noon.”
I groan. Turns out photoshoots aren’t fast moving things, especially not when there’s a whole team to shoot and the clothing company has brought multiple sets of gear for everyone to wear.
We don’t even get to do a proper run. Just five or six turns until we’re past the camera, then the snowmobiles tow us back up to the starting point so we can do it again while the photographer shouts at us to look at the camera or not look at the camera, to smile or not smile.
Sometimes we go alone and other times in pairs. On and on.
I have a headache.
“Kill me now,” I say as the snowmobile deposits me back at the top of the run so I can change into my third coat of the day.
My legs are shaking, my arms are throbbing from holding onto the tow line as I get pulled back up the hill, and even if I blink, there’s two of everything unless it’s right in front of me.
Like Austin. He slides into my field of view, coming to a sharp stop as he smiles at me with flushed cheeks.
“Isn’t this fun?” he asks.
“Sleep would be fun.” I yawn. “Are we almost done?”
“Soon. And then . . .” His smile gets wider. Mischievous.
My throat goes dry. “And then?”
He waggles his eyebrows, leaning in close so no one else could hear. “I’m going to make you scream my name until you think it’s your own.”
I have to brace on my poles to keep from collapsing entirely.
“You’re a menace,” I say. “You can’t say things like that.”
He bites the tip of his tongue. “Why not? You think I can’t?”
I close my eyes and focus on steadying my breath. Thank god for the layers of outerwear I’ve got on, which at least hide my swelling cock from anyone’s notice.
Also, I have no doubt that Austin can and most likely will succeed on his mission, but I need sleep.
We’ve all been booked for one extra day on the resort for today’s shoot, but first thing tomorrow I have to drive back to Quebec City, where the team has its training facility.
The drive is four hours on mostly winding regional roads and no interstates. I need rest.
I must say that last part out loud, because Austin shakes his head, giving me the same weary look the makeup artist did earlier.
“I expected more from you, Zed,” he says, poking at my chest.
I swat him away. “Just a couple hours. A cat nap. You want me performing at my best, don’t you?”
His face is impossibly close to mine. As soon as anyone notices, the cat’s out of the bag. There’s no way we can hide what we’re about to do, not with the way Austin’s lips are millimetres from mine.
“Grimm! Berard! Enough with the staring contest,” Tara yells, glaring at us. She’s gripping the tablet that houses her master schedule of pairings and pictures to be taken. “Get changed and get ready for your last shoot.”
I could cry with relief. We shed our coats and pants, putting on the new ones given to us.
When it’s our turn, Tara says, “Okay. When you’re done, keep going down to the base. The van will drive you back to the resort. The concept for these shots is a race. You think you two dorks can manage that?”
Austin and I glance at each other, and suddenly all my exhaustion evaporates.
If there’s one thing we can do even when we’re beyond exhausted, it’s race.
We’ve been trying to conclusively prove who can get from the top of the mountain to the bottom fastest for thirteen years.
No amount of fatigue can stop us. Not even when mixed with extreme horniness and the revelation my best friend is in love with me and I’m not at all freaked out about it.
When we get the signal, Austin and I push off.
We hold back for the first few turns, waiting until we’re beyond the camera team, then we blow past the snowmobiles and Austin whistles.
The sound is loud and sharp and it’s not a horn in a starting gate but it’s close enough.
I lean into my boots, bending my knees. My muscles protest, but tough shit.
It’s a race to the base and then to my bed. No way I’m coming last on this one.
The wind picks up as we fly down the trail.
It’s not especially steep. Less pitch than the run we raced on yesterday.
But it’s enough to pick up some speed, particularly in the places where the tall trees at the edges of the trail have kept the sun off the snow and it’s still packed hard.
The trail is also narrower than a standard ski cross course, so even though there are half as many competitors, we’re still going to have to keep together if we want the fastest line.
There are even some nice curves to keep it interesting.
“On your left,” Austin calls from behind my shoulder. The scrape of his skis is incredibly close.
“Fuck’s sake. This is a race, not a run down a lazy river. I know you’re—” But I don’t get to finish before he slides past me, whooping as he goes by. His posture is relaxed, hands held low, but ready to brace when the next turn comes. The trail gets narrower, the trees pressing in closer.
We come over a rise and he catches some air, and I follow half a second behind him.
The world is silent, no scraping edges, no snow being thrown to the sides as we pass.
Just the wind in my ears and, only slightly ahead of me, Austin’s heavy breathing, before we come down in fast sequence on the snow.
Whap, whap. My knees and hips ache with the impact, still protesting all their overnight mistreatment.
When we get to the bottom—no, when I get to the bottom—and back to my room, I’m going to take the longest soak in the hot tub.
Ideally with Austin, his ass firmly planted on my dick as I—
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. No distractions. At this level of competition, it’s not really about who’s a better technical skier. It’s about who has the stronger focus and mindset. Letting your mind wander is a one-way ticket to fourth place.
There’s another curve in the trail coming up ahead.
It’s even narrower than the ones we’ve been through.
It’s the perfect place to take advantage and claim the lead.
There’s a dip on the low side that should leave me a little room to ski by, and if I push Austin up as I go, he’ll have no choice but to swing toward the trail edge, losing ground and time.
He must see it too. I’m only a couple inches behind his shoulder, and his posture tenses, searching for milliseconds of speed that will keep him in front.
I let off on my edges as we head for the turn.
We’re really flying now. My body screams over every bump and jostle, but if I stay focused on the point ahead, where the turn lets out into a broad expanse that will lead to the base, he’ll have no chance of catching me.
We both lean into the turn. We’re so close I have to be careful where I put my uphill hand so I don’t hit his.
I hit another snag where snow gives way to slick ice, and I push him higher than I mean to.
Any farther up and I’ll be the one losing speed too.
Hopefully he sees my grin as I blow past him, dropping my shoulder into the final curve and—
“Fuck! Bear!”
For a second I think he means there’s a bear.
It’s not unheard of on mountains for skiers to have wildlife encounters.
Then I remind myself we’re in New England.
This isn’t exactly grizzly country. Still, I turn my head uphill, checking to make sure I’m not being pursued by anything furry and angry.
In fact, I’m not being pursued by anything. Or anyone.
“Austin?” Involuntarily, I slow. I don’t want to stop, in case he’s playing some kind of trick and he’s about to pop out of the trees farther down the trail where I’ll have no hope of catching him if I’m not already moving.
But he doesn’t come out of the trees. Doesn’t come out of anywhere.
Where the hell did he go?