Whatever his motivation, I need to keep my head clear and my heart guarded. Colorado is about showing everyone I've moved on. Nothing more, nothing less.
Even if my traitorous mind keeps replaying that moment in the parking lot, wondering what might have happened if he had leaned in just a little closer.
Chapterfourteen
Bash
I'm at the top of the X Games course, snow pristine beneath me, and the crowd is roaring in anticipation. The white powder gleams under the stadium lights, untouched and waiting for my board to carve the first line. I inhale deeply, savoring that familiar pre-run adrenaline rush—the electric tingle that starts in my chest and radiates outward, making my fingertips buzz inside my gloves. Nothing in the world compares to this feeling. The announcer's voice echoes through the mountain air, bouncing off the surrounding peaks: "Sebastian Montgomery, two-time gold medalist! He's attempting the never-before-landed triple cork. Will he be the first to make history tonight, ladies and gentlemen?"
I adjust my goggles, flex my knees, and launch myself forward, pushing off with purpose. The initial descent sends wind whipping past my ears as I gather speed, my board responding to the slightest shift of weight. I can feel it—that perfect balance, that sweet spot where everything aligns. The crowd fades to a distant hum as I approach the massive jump. The world around me slows down, the way it always does in these crucial moments. My breathing steadies. Time stretches. I hit the kicker at precisely the right angle, my body launching skyward. I’m spinning, rotating and the world becomes a blur of lights and dark sky. One rotation. Two. The third beginning perfectly, exactly as I'd practiced hundreds of times on the foam pit. Everything is perfect, textbook execution, until—
Pain sears through my leg, jolting me awake.
The clock reads 5:03 AM. Too early, but I'm up. Always the same when my knee decides to remind me of what I lost.
I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment before putting weight on my right leg. The familiar throb pulses through my knee, a souvenir from the day my career ended.
Three years ago. Men's Knuckle Huck event. My moment.
I'd been working on that trick for months. Perfecting the rotation, the timing, the landing. My coach had warned me it was risky, but I'd been so damn confident. That was always my problem: too much confidence, not enough caution.
I remember the sound more than anything. That wet pop as my ACL tore completely, MCL following suit, meniscus shredding like tissue paper. The crowd's collective gasp as I crumpled, my screams silenced by shock as medical staff rushed forward.
Three surgeries later. More months than I can count of physical therapy. Countless hours of rehab exercises.
And here I am, thirty years old, rubbing my knee in the pre-dawn darkness of my home, trying to massage away phantom pain from a career that feels like someone else's life now.
Well, I’m not getting any more sleep now so might as well move.
I stand carefully, testing my weight. My knee holds, though it complains with each step to the bathroom. Cold morning plus an old injury equals a bad combination.
I turn the shower on, cranking the heat until steam billows against the ceiling. Stepping under the spray, I let hot water pound my shoulders, easing the tension that's gathered there over the past week and what a fucking week it's been. Seven days ago, I was just a guy moving to a new city, into a new townhouse, about to start a new job. Now I'm Charlie’s fake boyfriend, signed up for a week-long charade in Colorado.
The whole situation would be laughable if it wasn't so complicated. If I wasn't so attracted to her. If I hadn't screwed up so spectacularlyalready.
I soap up, replaying last night's dinner. Charlie across from me, stunning in that black dress, pretending she wasn't affected by my nearness while her pulse visibly jumped at her throat whenever I brushed that strand of hair behind her ear. The way her eyes widened slightly when I called her Charlie instead of Charlotte. That moment in the parking lot when I almost kissed her but pulled back at the last second.
"Smart move, Montgomery," I mutter, rinsing shampoo from my hair. "Can't decide if you're playing the long game or just being a coward."
Tyler's words from yesterday echo in my head: "Don't fuck this up again, man. You've got a second chance most guys would kill for."
Is that what this is? A second chance? Or just a complicated arrangement that's going to blow up in both our faces?
I shut off the water, grabbing a towel. My knee feels better after the heat, the familiar ache dulled to background noise as I dry off and head to the kitchen for coffee.
The espresso machine whirs to life, and I lean against the counter, scrolling through emails while I wait. Three from Amelia, one from marketing, and—huh—one from Charlie.
I open it immediately.
From: Charlotte Whitaker
Subject: Adrenaline Athletics and Aspen Logistics
Sebastian,
Attached are the final slides for tomorrow's Adrenaline Athletics presentation and the preliminary booking information for our Colorado trip.
Details of when my parents, Emily and I are flying out and which airline.
