Page 38 of Just Let Go

It had been bad enough only winning bronze and silver medals at the first two Olympics he’d competed in, but not medaling at the last games had been the crushing blow that started this downward spiral.

“Are you leaving?” Betsy stood off to the side. “Was there something wrong with your food?”

“No, it’s great. I just have something I need to take care of. Can you tell Ryan I’ll be back in a little bit?”

“Of course.” She picked up the cash he’d left. “You don’t have to pay for this.”

But Grady didn’t turn around or respond. Instead, he stormed toward the front door, reaching it just as Quinn Collins was coming in. She stopped as soon as she saw him, but he barreled through. He didn’t have time to navigate her irritation with him.

Outside, Grady found his Jeep Grand Cherokee, which he’d purchased to haul ski equipment. Thankfully, it turned out the SUV was surprisingly fast. If there was one thing he needed, it was a fast car. Given that the speed limit everywhere in Harbor Pointe was around thirty miles per hour, however, he was going to have to risk leaving town to get the kind of rush he craved.

He headed back toward Cedar Grove, which was on the outskirts of Harbor Pointe from what he could tell. He was careful to drive the speed limit, though there was something like a bomb ticking off the seconds on the inside of him. A brown Volvo cut him off at the last intersection out of town, going twenty-five.

He inched out over the center line, checking the oncoming traffic. It wasn’t a passing zone, but he didn’t care. He zipped around the Volvo and sped off down the highway, ten, twenty, thirty miles over the speed limit. He cranked his music as he accelerated.

He replayed his conversation with Pete as he rounded a curve. Bowman wasn’t just a company to Grady. They’d been like family. Endorsing their skis, wearing their logo—it was a sign that he was on top.

If Bowman dropped him, that said something. He could only imagine the talk. Everyone cluttering the conversation about his career, everyone who thought he was done—they’d have their proof now.

Without this—without skiing, without his reputation—he didn’t belong anywhere.

He flew past Cedar Grove and straight on past a sign that read,Come back home to Harbor Pointe soon!

Home. A place he hadn’t been since he first went pro. He didn’tneed the memories or the reminders of who he’d been and what he’d done. It was hard enough just keeping up with Benji every week.

Sometimes his brother would text nothing but a Bible verse. Those texts always annoyed him. How Benji could still believe everything their parents had drilled into their heads when they were kids made no sense to Grady. After all his brother had endured, did he really believe God was merciful?

He zipped around another curve, this one leading to a straightaway that ran right alongside the lake. The road ahead was clear, so Grady pressed down on the accelerator. The engine revved as all parts of the vehicle worked together to throw his adrenaline into high gear.

The back end of the car slipped slightly, and for a split second he imagined losing control—spinning out and ending up in a ditch somewhere, the same way he felt on the slopes. As if at any moment, he could shift an inch in the wrong direction and go down. He’d seen guys carried off on stretchers, retrieved by medical teams, flown off to hospitals. Some had broken bones. Some would never race again. The possibility of those things were always at the forefront of Grady’s mind. But it never deterred him. It only pushed him forward.

He lived for those moments, dangling on the precipice of control. The rush, the thrill—it excited him. He’d been cooped up in this sleepy town for too many days with no release, and it was cutting off his oxygen.

The road had eventually taken him away from the lake, and all around him were cold, brown fields. Occasionally, he’d pass a house or a barn—sometimes run-down and dilapidated. Completely forgotten, the way he’d be if he didn’t figure out what to do.

In the distance, Grady saw flashing lights—an accident?

As he approached, he slowed down, looking for some sign that a car had crashed, but he saw nothing. Only the squad car, lights flashing, blocking his path on the rural highway.

A heavyset deputy wearing a brown uniform and bulky coatstood in the middle of the road beside his car, waving his arms in the air. Grady slowed the car to a stop and rolled down his window as the lawman dropped his hands and approached him. But he reached Grady and kept on walking.

Grady glanced in the rearview mirror and saw another squad car, lights flashing, behind him. He turned his music down and heard the last push of a siren as the squad car came to a stop. The door of the car behind him opened.

Was that... ?Gus.

Unbelievable.

The sheriff exchanged words with the deputy, who glanced back at Grady’s car as they spoke.

Was this about him? Were they really keeping such close tabs on him?

Gus must not have anything better to do if this was how he spent his days—chasing after Grady on the highway. He pulled the door handle and got out of the car.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Gus reached out and shook the other man’s hand. “I can take it from here, Andy.”

The heavyset deputy tipped his hat (what was this, the Wild West?) and turned toward Grady, giving him a once-over before getting in his barricading vehicle and driving away.

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