Page 62 of On the Edge

“But I haven’t been back there since,” I admit.

Dan mimics me, repeating my words back in a squeaky voice. “You’re such a little crybaby. You know how many people spendyearstrying to break into the top twenty?”

He’s right. I’m being a moody bitch about my track record so far. After a top-fifteen finish in Levi, I finished nineteenth and twenty-first in Lake Louise and Beaver Creek, earning me enough World Cup points to snag a spot in the upcoming bib draw at our next race in Alta Badia, Italy. It’s also means I’m finishing higher than some of my counterparts on our A team. But my race results are slipping in the wrong direction.

“All right,” Luke says, taking the two six packs out of my hands and walking toward the two-story living room. “Let’s make our plans tonight before grandpa here bores us with his woes about the privilege of World Cup racing.”

“You guys are the worst,” I say.

After a couple rounds of beers sitting in front of my huge stone fireplace, the three of them have coordinated our night out. Another half hour later and we’re snagging a booth at a bar at the base of Big Sky. It’s close to all the mountain condos and the big hotels, which means it’s a prime location for picking up girls who are here for a ski weekend.

“You’re so fucking uptight,” Mark says after I order a soda from the waitress. “If you’re not gonna drink, you at least need to get laid.”

“It’s obviously been too long,” Luke adds.

They have no idea.

“You’re such dicks,” I say. “I’ve been traveling for a month. What makes you think I haven’t fucked a different girl in each country?”

As it is, I haven’t slept with anyone since Jackson and I split. And the only way I’m breaking the longest and only sex-free streak of my adult life is with Jackson.

“Because you’re wound so tight there’s no way you’re gettin’ some,” Dan says. Mark and Luke nod along like puppets.

“My love life isstillprivate.” It’s not something I’ve ever talked to these guys about, even though half the time I’m with them they’re just bragging about their latest conquests.

“Hot chicks at nine o’clock,” Luke says. “Definitely tourists.”

From where I’m sitting, I can’t look without turning and making it totally obvious.

“There’s three of them, and four of us. Looks like you’re out of luck, grandpa,” Mark says. “I call that hottie with the long blond hair.”

I chance a glance over my left shoulder, then do a double take. The woman Mark’s referencing is raising her glass and clinking it with the other two, and my night is about to get much more interesting. Because the hottie with the blond hair is Sierra, sitting next to her is Jax’s friend Petra, and across from them with her back to me is definitely Jackson. I’d know that long brown hair anywhere. Her sweater is some off the shoulder business and I have an overwhelming need to trace that bare skin—from her shoulder, up her neck, and along her jawline—with my mouth.

I spin my head back toward the guys so Sierra doesn’t see me.What the hell are they doing in Big Sky?As we were heading back to Park City from Beaver Creek a couple days ago, I did overhear Jackson telling one of the coaches she was going away on a girls’ trip when he asked what her weekend plans looked like. I remember thinking it was unlike Jackson, who is a total homebody, to travel on our only free weekend at home before we leave for Europe.

“What’s wrong?” Mark takes one look at my face and asks.

I school my expression into a smirk, something they’re more familiar with than the stunned look I’m sure I was just wearing. “You’re out of luck. She’s engaged.”

“How can you tell?” he asks, glancing over at her. “You can’t even see her left hand from here.”

“Because I know her. Actually, I know them all.”

“You’re totally hooking me up with the one that looks like a Greek goddess then, right?” Luke asks.

I take one look at his baby face and let out a sound that’s half laugh, half snort. Luke’s one of the best backcountry skiers I know. He can ski a line through trees in six foot deep snow and never have to dig himself out once. But he’s never quite outgrown the baby fat in his cheeks, and his boyish charm is so not her style. “She’s Russian, not Greek. And that woman will eat ... you ... alive,” I say slowly, emphasizing each word. Petra chews up guys like him and spits them out for fun.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says and I sincerely hope he’s bluffing. Watching her rip him apart and send him away in pieces won’t be fun for me, though I assume Mark and Dan will laugh their asses off. Maybe I deserve the grandpa moniker after all.

“Holy shit, that other chick has a body,” Dan says, stretching out his last word so it sounds like baaaaa-dee. “That other chick” can only be one person.

“Do not even fucking look at her,” I growl and whatever they hear in my voice has all three of them freezing. For a moment they just look at me, Luke with his eyebrows up to his hairline, Mark with his beer paused right before his lips, and Dan looking sheepish.

“Is that ...” Mark finally says, the words trailing off. We don’t talk about Jackson, ever. More than just Bro Code, it was part of our agreement when they all started working with me years ago.

I nod, then look over my shoulder, my eyes tracking Jackson as she walks across the bar toward the bathroom. That sexy sweater clings to her breasts and skims her hips, and her black leggings cover the only part of her thighs visible between the sweater and those same fuck-me boots she had on in the elevator the night I ran into her before her girls’ night out. In the solitude of my room many nights since, I’ve pictured her in those boots and nothing else. The blood rushes to my dick so fast I’m almost light-headed.

“Like four different guys just watched her walk across the bar,” Luke says.

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