Page 20 of Powder
I fake-clasped my chest. “More than Big Air?”
“Every day.”
“How does it work, him in Switzerland, you on the road?”
Silvan waggled his eyebrows, “Naked Facetime is a thing.”
I groaned. “I did not need to know that.”
Silvan grinned knowingly. “You’re wound too tight. Love is love, my friend. We make it work across an ocean, across crazyschedules. I knew after one date, before we’d even stopped talking, that he was it for me.”
I tried to laugh it off, but his words landed like a rock in my chest.
After one date, he knew?
Remind me again why Jack and I decided on a vacation fling?
How did I even agree to stay away from Jack and pretend the two weeks were nothing to me when I’d already started to fall for him?
Getting to Italy would be a whole production. Team USA would fly us out together, a plane packed with athletes from every discipline—snowboarders, skiers, figure skaters, even the speedskating crew.
But no hockey players.
They were still playing their season and would land at the last freaking minute. I knew exactly when they’d be flying out and had marked it in my online calendar.
I was excited to see Jack and ask him if he might want to do more than hook up again, but also to talk and laugh and explore what had happened.
I was nervous as well. Scared he’d tell me he met someone in the meantime. Afraid it was just me that needed more of the connection we’d had.
The plane itself felt like a flying locker room—rows filled with athletes in hoodies and beanies, gear bags crammed into every overhead bin, the air thick with nerves and excitement. Some of us traded playlists, others passed snacks around, a few knocked out cold with noise-canceling headphones and neck pillows before we even left the runway. I sat there sore but wired, staring out at the ocean miles below, the hum of engines mixing with bursts of laughter and chatter as the hours dragged by. Itwas a long haul across the Atlantic, but we were heading to the Olympics, and the buzz never quieted.
I was sitting with a young guy who could talk more than me and was super affectionate. After jawing for two hours, Brett Mitchener wore himself out, like a toddler who’d run too hard at recess, and slumped against me. I didn’t mind talking Big Air, I didn’t mind him sleeping on me, but Ireallyliked the quiet. The kid wasn’t a medal hope going in, but he’d qualified, and hell, the Olympics weren’t over until it was over, and I had a lot to do to keep ahead of these younger guys coming up.
Even if Brett was only six years younger than me.
Once we landed, the US Olympic Committee had us booked into one of the official athlete hotels, part of a cluster reserved for Team USA, with security at the doors and banners draped from the balconies. We’d all be together—rooming two to a suite—I was with Brett—eating in the giant cafeteria alongside other American athletes, living in that bubble of red, white, and blue. It was efficient, communal, and I knew that meant I’d be bumping into Jack at times. Just the thought of seeing him across the dining hall, or on the bus to the venues, had my pulse racing before I’d even packed a bag, and it was worse now I was here.
Today was the day the hockey guys arrived, and I wasn’t lurking in reception, no matter what it looked like. I just happened to be there, that was all. As did Brett, who was leaning against me on the sofa, chatting about everything and nothing, elbowing me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, which was a lot. He always seemed to end up draped over me like a little brother who hadn’t learned about personal space yet. And hell, I kind of liked the affection—he was harmless enough, all wide eyes and endless chatter about the halfpipe. His weight pressed into my shoulder as the sliding doors opened and the first players walked through, and my stomach dropped eventhough I told myself it was a coincidence I was sitting there. I stood, Brett falling away, then bouncing up on his toes and clinging to me like a limpet. He grinned at the new arrivals.
“Ooh, hockey players.” He squeezed my arm as what I assumed were equipment managers for the team rolled in with sticks, hundreds of them, in protective bags. “I can tell by their sticks.” He grinned up at me as I glanced down at him, and fuck, his idiot puppy face made me smile, because hell, I was in a good mood anyway.
I stared back at the players—and then I saw Jack. He was staring at me, but he wasn’t smiling. His expression was fierce, tense, and fuck, this was not how I’d imagined seeing him again. I sent him a shy smile, and I got it wasn’t right to go launch myself into his arms.
Only… He didn’t smile back at me.
He stared at me with angry disdain, then turned away.
And if looks could kill?
I’d be dead.
ELEVEN
Jack
Tian was right there.
Standing by a couch with some guy draped over him, and all I could picture was Tian’s mouth on his, their bodies pressed together, my jealousy spiking hot and filthy, my brain painting them tangled up in bed and me locked out of it. My fists curled with the insane urge to smash something, jealousy roaring hotter than the jet lag. Something black and ugly welled up inside me as his gaze caught mine. Six goddamn months I’d been fooling myself, building castles in the sky about what we’d had, and for what? It had just been sex. Insanely hot sex, yeah, but nothing more, and I hated myself for believing it could have been. Any hope I’d clung to was ash in my mouth. We’d promised each other two weeks—sun, sea, and fucking—and nothing beyond that. Why the hell would he want me again? Of course, he’d find someone else. Someone his own age, someone easier. The pain stabbed like a shiv in my gut, sharp and merciless. I tore my gaze from him and stalked toward the reception desk, Starry still yammering about rooms with views and fuck knows what.
