Shooting for the Stars, Page 2

  With an eye roll, Stella dug a set of rental car keys out of her pocket and handed them to Bear.

  Thank Christ. The real reason he wanted to drive was that he didn’t think he was going to be much good for conversation. If he was behind the wheel, his poor mood might be less noticeable.

  “Omigod, look!” Stella squealed.

  On a digital screen at the bottom of the ski lift, there was a picture of her. It had to be three feet tall. “WINNER of the Women’s Mountain Masters: Stella Lazarus.”

  Bear yanked his phone out of his jacket pocket and took a picture. “Wait, Stella, go stand beside yourself.” Giggling, she dropped her board on the snow and ran to stand next to her oversize image. He took another shot. “I don’t know if the world can handle two of you,” he said.

  “Right?” she agreed cheerily.

  When Bear went to stash his phone again, he found a crisp bill hanging out of his pocket. That was odd. He didn’t keep money there.

  “Careful,” Stella said. “That’s a c-note.”

  Bear pulled it into his palm and saw that she was right. He looked down on the snow and found another hundred dollar bill, quickly trapping it under his boot before it could blow away. What the fuck?

  Oh. Hank.

  Bear felt a hot spark of irritation. He didn’t want his wealthy friend’s money.

  Scowling, Bear bent down to collect the bill off the snow. The universe had obviously conspired to humiliate him today. The first blow had come just as Bear and Hank had pulled into the parking lot here at Squaw Valley. Bear’s phone had rung, and he’d found that the caller was his biggest sponsor. “It’s Rafe from Bungee Brands. I’ve got to take this, but I’ll only be a minute,” he’d told Hank. “Hi Rafe,” he’d said, picking up the call.

  “Bear. How are you man?”

  “Good. What’s happening?”

  There had been a pause on the other end of the line, but Bear hadn’t really noticed. He’d been watching Hank pull their gear out of the back of the car. And he’d been feeling lucky that they were standing in this beautiful place, with a crystalline lake on one side, and one of the burliest resort mountains in America rising up before them.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” Rafe had said into his ear. “We can’t renew your contract at New Year’s.”

  New Year’s? That was only three weeks away. “What?” he’d asked, stupidly. The Bungee Brands sponsorship was forty thousand dollars, and by far the largest source of Bear’s meager income.

  “Things are just really tight this year. I’m so sorry. I wanted to explain in person, but I’m not going to make it to any of the tour events until January.”

  Reeling, Bear had done the math. Bungee Brands would be spending all its efforts — and its money — on the Olympic qualifying events. New champions would be crowned. And even now — weeks before the first flights left for Europe — the whole world had already decided that he was yesterday’s news.

  “I see.”

  “I’m putting a little something in the mail for you, though,” Rafe had said. “We’ve been friends for a long time, man. Hope that doesn’t change.”

  Bear hadn’t even had a response to that. “I have to run,” he’d said. Hank was standing there, his boarding boots already on, watching Bear with a question on his face.

  “Call me later, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Bear had said before ending the call. Thanks, he’d repeated numbly afterward. He’d just thanked the guy for canning him. Thanks for nothing.

  He’d shoved his phone into his pocket again, still stunned.

  “What’s the matter?” Hank had asked.

  “Bungee dropped me,” he’d answered.

  “What? They cut you back?”

  That was the moment when numbness had turned to anger. “They didn’t cut me back, they just fucking cut me.” But how could Hank understand, anyway? Bear had felt a surge of resentment for his friend of more than twenty-five years. Hank had never lost a sponsorship. Not once. He was one of the highest paid athletes in winter sports.

  They’d ridden the lift in a rare uncomfortable silence.

  Eventually, Hank had turned to him with a sheepish expression. “Can I ask a favor? Take Stella out tonight? I feel bad that I can’t do it myself.”

  “Yeah. Sure thing,” Bear had said.

  “And maybe you can take your mind off of… you know.” Hank had cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, I know,” Bear had grumbled, his mood plummeting immediately.

  And now? Finding two hundred of Hank’s dollars in his pocket did not boost Bear’s spirits. Although he understood why Hank had done it. He’d asked Bear to take Stella out for the night. Bear would have happily done it anyway. Bear didn’t like talking about money, ever. And he didn’t like thinking about it, either. Unfortunately, it was about to become the biggest problem he had.

  On that glum thought, he followed Stella toward the parking valets.

  “Here goes the winner of the American Masters Cup, putting on her sunglasses,” Stella said as he loaded their boards and boots into the back of the Jeep she’d rented. “…And here goes the winner of the American Masters Cup, asking you whether you’d rather have the Snickers, or the peanut butter cups.” She opened her backpack as she slid onto the passenger’s seat.

  “The peanut butter cups. Easy choice.” He knew Snickers was her favorite. When they were kids, she’d always traded for them on Halloween, when she and Hank and Bear would dump out their booty on the floor of the Lazarus family room to paw through their new wealth.

  That was before Bear understood what wealth really was. That it was bigger than a pillowcase full of fun-sized chocolates. And that some people had it, and others never would.

  Bear got into the driver’s seat, or rather he tried to. Stella was nearly a foot shorter than he was. Adjusting the seat, he warmed up the engine, then maneuvered the Jeep through Squaw’s vast parking lot and out onto the roadway.

  He was alone with Stella Lazarus. If that couldn’t lift his mood, then nothing could.

  “Where shall we have dinner?” she asked while fiddling with the radio.

  “It was your big day. So you can pick. Anything you want. I’ll even dress up if you want to hit one of the nicer places.” After all, someone should be happy tonight. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be him, but so far he was doing a decent job of hiding it.

  “You’ll dress up, huh?” Stella asked, and he could hear a smile in her voice. “You’ll wear your good flannel shirt and jeans without holes?”

  Since his eyes were on the road, he didn’t look at her. But he really didn’t need to. He’d been watching Stella smile his whole life. It started with a quirk of those perfect lips. And then those big brown eyes lit up.

  “I could whip out a dress shirt, buddy,” he said. “Try me.” Though hers was a fair question. They’d known each other literally forever. And Stella could probably count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him dress up for something. The whole state of Vermont was strictly casual. The snowboarding world was, too.

  “Okay, as much as I would like to see that, a fancy meal isn’t what I want tonight.”

  “No?” He should have been relived, since he really wasn’t in the mood for formality. On the other hand, if they went somewhere casual then he’d miss out on the rare sight of Stella wearing a dress.

  “What I want is to sit in the hotel bar, and order all the fattening appetizers that I usually avoid. Tonight nothing is off the menu.”

  “Nothing, huh?” As soon as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. Because Stella was the one girl on the planet that he wasn’t allowed to make sexy jokes with. Usually it wasn’t an issue because Hank was nearby. Hank’s presence always reminded him to keep it on the straight and narrow.

  “Not a thing,” Stella said, arranging the fingers of one hand into heavy metal horns. “Tonight we’re going to party like Vikings. Vikings who like tequila.”

  “You got it.�
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  Bear wound Stella’s rental car down highway 89, which was one of the most gorgeous roads in America. The startling beauty of Lake Tahoe, its frigid waters framed all around by mountains, flashed in and out of view. On the other side of the road, an endless number of evergreens rose into the air. Their trunks performed a visual trick as the car passed by. If Bear turned his chin a few degrees toward the passenger side, the spaces between the tree trunks seemed to gap open in rows as the car flew past. It would make a cool shot for one of the videos he liked to stitch together in his spare time.

  Stella fiddled with the radio, settling on a bluegrass station. And Bear drove on in silence, the scenery calming him.

  He loved this. Pro snowboarding wasn’t glamorous in the traditional sense. Very few athletes actually got rich in terms of dollars and cents. But there were dividends all the same. Bear never sat his ass in an office cubicle and watched the clock for lunchtime. Instead, he passed his days on the most beautiful mountain roads on earth. He breathed the cleanest air. And when he closed his eyes at night — even if it was on the scratchy pillow of a cheap motel — on the inside of his eyelids, he saw aspen trunks framed against the blue sky, or the black cut of the High Sierras standing dark against the clouds.

  “Do you mind if I call my agent for a minute?” Stella asked from the passenger seat. “There’s five bars of reception here.”

  “Knock yourself out, buddy. Where was he today, anyway?” Her agent should have been there to see her rock that event.

  Stella let loose with one of her killer smiles, the kind Bear often felt in some very inappropriate places. “When I become one of his more important clients, he’ll probably turn up more often.”

  He sneaked another glance at her as she cocked the phone against her sun-kissed face. Stella was so happy today that it almost hurt to look at her. He’d been like that once — full of optimism and the belief that things would just keep getting better. Tonight he needed to make it through the next few hours without poisoning her joy.

  “Chad! I won the whole thing!” he heard her tell her agent. “It was beautiful.”

  And that was the truth, not bravado. Put a Lazarus sibling onto a snowboard and prepare to be awed. He’d watched her event with his heart in his throat, of course. The speed she’d accumulated by straight-lining that first chute had made him almost physically ill. But he needn’t have worried. She had chewed up that terrain as if it were her breakfast appetizer. For seventy seconds, he’d been able to forget his own troubles and just love the sport again. Watching Stella carve an artful line down the slope, it was easy to remember why he’d given so many years of his life to snowboarding.

  “Do you think StillWater will come through for me now?” Stella asked her agent.

  During the long silence which followed, Bear found himself holding his breath. Please say yes, motherfuckers, he coached the universe. He could get past the idea that his own usefulness to the sport was starting to wane. He’d been given every chance in the world to prove himself. And then some. But the fact that Stella was having trouble picking up sponsorships was just plain wrong.

  “Okay, Chad,” she said. “Then I’ll just have to win the next one, too.” A minute later she set down the phone.

  “Everything all right?” he asked quietly.

  “Sure,” Stella said, but she swallowed hard. “I was just hoping to pick up a decent sponsorship from this win. But Chad isn’t sure that it matters.”

  “Of course the win matters,” he practically growled. “It’s just that in an Olympic year…”

  “They’re going to throw all the money at medal winners,” Stella finished. “I know that. He’s going to make another round of calls for me. But…” She let the sentence die.

  Bear didn’t get it. He really didn’t. Stella wasn’t just an awesome snowboarder, she was flat-out gorgeous, with thick, shiny hair and cheekbones that most women would sell their souls for. So what if freeriding wasn’t a sport that people followed? They would start watching it if Stella Lazarus were on the front of their cereal boxes.

  “You know what?” he declared. “We’re not thinking about sponsorships tonight. This is a sponsorship-free zone. Tonight we’re all about the win.”

  She sat up a little straighter in her seat. “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Speaking of your win, I got the whole thing on video.”

  “Thank you! Can I see it?”

  “Not until it’s edited.”

  “What?” Stella yelped. “You are such a tease.”

  He chuckled. “No, buddy. I have to put you to some killer music, okay? And tag on the podium shot, the billboard with your name. The whole package.”

  “Don’t forget to edit out that bobble from the first jump.”

  Bear shook his head as the hotel came into view. “Other guys I have to edit. But not you. There weren’t any bobbles.” He pulled Stella’s rental car up in front of the main doors to the nicest hotel at the southern end of Tahoe. This was where Hank Lazarus stayed when he came to town, whereas Bear had made a reservation at a cheaper lodge a few miles away.

  A valet leaped forward to ask for the keys, but Bear shook his head.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Stella asked, one foot on the curb.

  “I was going to check in at the lodge so they don’t give my room away,” he said.

  Stella lifted her chin toward the hotel. “Bear, it’s cocktail hour. If they give your room away, you can crash in the suite Hank left us. Just come inside. I want a margarita, like, yesterday.”

  An argument formed on the tip of Bear’s tongue. It was a reflex, really. He and Stella had locked horns over everything from pizza toppings to politics for more than two decades. But tonight he just didn’t have it in him. Sitting beside her over cocktails was the best fucking idea he’d ever heard.

  Bear got out of the car, handing the keys to the valet—another damn thing that Hank was paying for—and followed Stella into the hotel lobby. She rolled a small suitcase along behind her, and Bear knew better than to try to take it from her. In the past, he’d received several lectures on feminism by giving into the impulse to carry things for her.

  “Wow, it’s jamming in here,” Stella remarked inside.

  She wasn’t wrong. It was après ski hour. Every table in the bar had a group of wealthy Californians around it. Returning from a day of skiing, they’d have a beer or three before deciding where to eat dinner. In their brand new parkas, and the occasional fur hat, they dressed as if they owned the place. (Some of them probably did.)

  Mixed in with the A-list crowd was a smattering of ski and snowboard bums, some of whom were familiar to Bear. He raised a hand in greeting to a couple of Canadian kids who’d joined the freestyle circuit just last year. They stood by the door, hands jammed in their pockets, probably waiting for friends. Now that Hank thought about it, they weren’t even of legal drinking age.

  He’d never felt as old as he did right then. Twenty nine years old, and his days as a pro snowboarder were probably numbered. There was even one kid on the circuit — a Japanese competitor — who was fifteen. His mother actually flew around to all the tour stops with him.

  Stella hooked her arm through his, steering Bear toward the elevators. “I want to change out of my ski pants,” she said. “And check out this hotel room Hank raved about.”

  “Bryan Barry, hold up.” Bear swiveled around to find Dan Lacy, the president of the Fresh Mountain Extreme Freestyle Tour, waving him down.

  Damn. It. All. Tonight was supposed to be about drinking with Stella. Not running into this weasel. But when the head of the tour asked for your attention, you had to say yes.

  “Can I come and find you in ten minutes?” Bear asked Stella.

  “Sure.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Penthouse number one.”

  “Got it. I’ll be right up.”

  “I need a word,” Lacy said as Bear approached. “Follow me, please?”

  His curt manner made Bear’s stomach
roll. He’d thought that his day couldn’t get any worse. But apparently that wasn’t true.

  Lacy ducked behind the concierge desk and into a suite of offices that Bear hadn’t known was back there. Everywhere the tour stopped, Lacy always commandeered an office. The guys (and gals) on the tour referred to it as Airfarce One. And nobody wanted an invitation, because that’s where the tongue lashings and the wrist slaps happened. Hank was a frequent flier. Lacy was always chewing him a new one for something or other: drunken singing in front of reporters or making so much noise at the hotel that it made the local news.

  Bear mostly stayed out of Lacy’s way, and that was intentional. He hadn’t won a tour event in two years. He wasn’t a superstar like Hank or a household name. He was basically clinging to his spot on the tour with his fingernails. That’s why he hadn’t gone to the freestyle exhibition back in Vermont with Hank this weekend. The hometown event had sounded like a great time. But Bear knew he couldn’t afford to skip tour competitions. He had to show up for everything. On time. Every time.

  Lacy led him into a windowless office with just three chairs, a table and a laptop. “Close the door,” Lacy said.

  Ouch. Bear closed it, and turned to face the president.

  “Sit.”

  Bear sat.

  The president made a tent of his fingers. “Bryan, I’m sad to say that with your scores where they are this year, this will be your last season on the tour.”

  For a moment, Bear merely replayed Lacy’s statement in his mind, trying to find a loophole in those words. But there just wasn’t any way out of that simple statement. Even so, he didn’t flinch. He would never give Lacy that satisfaction. And he didn’t say anything, either. Because what was the point?

  “I know this is difficult for you,” Lacy went on. “But there isn’t anyone on the tour right now who isn’t eventually going to hear the same thing from me.”