Page 36 of On the Edge

“Seriously, dude?” Jeff says, giving me the side-eye.

“What’d I do?” I ask, shifting on the wooden bench in the lodge as I stretch out the fingers in my right hand. Sharpies litter the table in front of me. There’s a holdup down the autograph line as one of the most famous female skiers in the world is chatting with what appears to be a whole ski team. There are like eight helmets on the table in front of her to sign. These team events where we get to interact with fans are fun, but what I really want to be doing right now is finding Jackson so we can finish that conversation we started two days ago.

Jeff leans close enough to me that no one else will hear him. “That MILF was practically fucking you with her eyes.”

“Nothing I can do about that,” I tell him. It wasn’t like I hadn’t noticed. Her husband was busy holding their baby while she had me taking photos with her five-year-old and signing some memorabilia for him. If I were him, I’d be pissed as hell.

“It’s that video that’s all over the team’s social channels.” He rolls his eyes.

Sierra didn’tjustpost a video of the training run Jackson filmed a couple days ago. She created a whole montage as part of a “meet the athletes” series so that fans can get to know us. And apparently the only thing they’ve gotten to know about me is that I don’t wear many clothes. Sierra took footage of my abs rippling as I did pull-ups, squatting 350 pounds in nothing but a pair of spandex training shorts, getting fitted for my team race suit, and drinking a recovery shake with teammates in just my sweatpants. The two minute video—which included less than twenty seconds of me actually skiing—was like a promo video for a sports model, not a professional athlete.

There are guys like Marco Antonio who eat up that kind of publicity. But it couldn’t be further from who I am, and Sierra wouldknowhow much I wouldn’t want to be objectified, which means she’s trying to piss me off.

“That video could not be less reflective of who I am,” I tell Jeff.

“Put some clothes on when the cameras are around then,” he mutters.

“Hey, I didn’t even know we were being filmed half those times.”

“Sierra is always filming. It’s necessary. Get used to it.”

“Why does this video have you so pissed off right now?”

He tips his chin toward a cluster of teenage girls with a stupid amount of makeup on, long hair hanging down their backs, giggling together in the line that wraps around the room. They’re looking over at us. “That doesn’t normally happen at these team autograph nights. It’s all parents with younger kids who look up to us because someday they want to ski in the Olympics. They just want us to sign their helmets and get a picture so that when they grow up and make the National Ski Team they can do the same for other little kids.”

“Dude, I’ve probably been to as many of these as you have.” I elbow him. I think of the years I was Jackson’s coach and she attended these team nights. “I know the clientele. There are always teenagers too.”

“Yeah well, they’re normally here in their ski team jackets and winter hats. Those girls look like they’re going to a club and they want to bring you along, get you drunk, and take advantage of you.”

He’s not wrong. They’re dressed up in a way you never see at ski mountains, like they’re going out and trying to impress guys. “No way in hell,” I mutter.

“Get used to this kind of attention. For whatever reason, you’re being portrayed as the hot new addition to our team.”

“Cuz I am the hot new addition to our team. People are tired of your sorry face.”

“If you say so, pretty boy. All that matters are the rankings. You going to be able to keep up?”

“Plan on it,” I say. This is my one shot and I plan on leaving as much of a mark as I can.

The line keeps moving and just when I think my hand is going to fall off from signing my name so many times, the group of teenage girls is upon us. Luckily the end of the line is also in sight.

They tell us which local mountain they ski for, and then I ask what I can sign for them.

The girl in the center of the pack, who has been batting her eyelashes and smiling at me for a few minutes as we chat, boldly asks, “Will you sign my stomach?” as she puts a hand along the bottom hem of her sweater like she’s going to pull it up while her friends either giggle or gasp.

“Sorry,” I say. “This is a family-friendly event. We’re not signing body parts tonight.”

“Shame,” she says, her eyes never leaving mine. “How about a photo together then?”

“Sure.” I just want them to move along. “Why don’t you all come around here and we’ll take a picture with you.” I gesture to Jeff. No way am I being in this photo with them alone. This is awkward enough already.

They set their race bibs on the table in front of us and scurry around behind us, all giggles and high-pitched screeching the way teenage girls often get when they’re excited. And that’s when I finally see Jackson, sitting with her head close to Sierra’s and looking at something on Sierra’s phone. Sierra helps run this event, so she flew in to start setting up and prepping us yesterday. They’re at a table only a few feet beyond where the girls had been standing in front of us, most likely blocked from my view because of the constant line of people in front of me.

“Lean in close,” one of the teenage girls says. “Selfie time.”

“You’ll never be able to get us all,” another one responds. “Your arm’s not that long.”

“Can you take it, Nate?” the first girl asks, holding her phone in front of me.

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