CHAPTER TWO
I printed off four copies of today’s agenda from the in-room printer all the public relations assistants were given when we moved into the dorm. Athletes complain about their housing, but we’re living here too. The only difference is they eat their healthy crap food year-round, whereas when I’m not here, I get to eat normal people food. Like burgers, pop and chips. Like a regularperson. I don’t care what they say. No one in their right mind enjoys eating protein mush for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
The papers shoot out of the printer and I attach them to my clipboard in various locations. One on top, one on bottom, one in the middle, and one on my desk in case something happens to my clipboard. My stomach growls thinking of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes coveredin syrup. I feel like Homer Simpson and his love for donuts when I have to wipe a small patch of drool from the corner of my lips. Maybe if there’s time today I can sneak over to the American hotel and pretend to be a guest. Marley and Reagan are always walking around with containers of bacon.
Mmmm bacon.
The first thing I’m doing when I make it back to California is order the biggest shakefrom Sonic. I’m not even going home first. There is a Sonic on my drive from the airport. I can buy one shake for the car ride and one to drink while unpacking. Hell, maybe I can buy a third and stick it in the freezer. An emergency shake for when I have flashbacks and need help remembering I’m home.
There are two knocks on my room door, and I scowl at the intrusion for breaking up my daydreamsof grilled patties with melted cheese, mayo, and pickles. Man I miss food. It’s probably unhealthy how much time I’ve spent over the last month visualizing myself eating a burger.
“It’s open.”
The door squeaks as soon as I yell, my fingers crossed nothing serious has happened in the six hours of sleep I allowed myself last night. A handsome face, with a small amount of dark stubble on his chinand a smile, steps into my room. If he wasn’t an athlete and I hadn’t recently decided all athletes are assholes, Oliver would actually be fairly cute. Handsome. Not in a rugged way you normally think of athletes, but there’s something about him, almost like he has this boyish smile to him. It’s not an immature look, just playful. Like maybe rather than snowboarding he should’ve been a surfer.
“Morning,” he says, his face still bright.
“Do you surf?”
My question obviously startles him as his smile dips. “Like on water?”
“Yes. They surf on water.”
He shrugs. “What is surfing but snowboarding on water?”
I tilt my head in his direction, deep in thought over what he said. Too much thought.
He interrupts before I have time to question him. “Do you plan on surfing today?”
“No.” I closemy eyes and wave my hand. Athletes. “Why are you here?”
Now he’s smiling again — a little warning sign in the back of my brain lights up telling me I should be worried — something about this conversation is not going to go right for me.
He leans against my door frame too smugly. “One of my friends found an arcade this week.”
“Okay. And you’re telling me because?”
He widens his eyes like theanswer should be obvious. “Because and I quote,” he actually makes air quotes, which hasn’t been cool since it went out of style in the nineties… if it was even cool them, “last night after you followed me around for three hours you said if I left my room I had to tell you. If I ate breakfast I had to tell you. If I walked anywhere farther than my bathroom I had to tell you.”
My nose scrunchesup when I remember I did make those demands.
“I’m trying to follow the rules.”
And then it all hits me. I was right. This conversation is going nowhere I like. “So are we going to the arcade?”
His eyes light up in excitement. “Yup.”
Ugh. Theoretically Asbell told me I had to follow him around. He didn’t say I couldn’t boss him into doing what I wanted. If I pitch a fit and tell him he can’tgo to the arcade, he’ll probably to sneak out and do it behind my back anyway. I suppose I should be happy he’s even giving me the heads up.
“Don’t you have to practice today?” Most of the snowboarders have been practicing on the slopes attached to the American resort. The hotel wasn’t built for the Golds, but it has been a ski lodge in the area for many years. The American athletes have commandeeredthe trails as their own.
“That’s the great part. Check your schedule. I’m not set to practice until this afternoon.”
“Where is this arcade?” I’m not allowing my athlete to run the streets of a foreign city without a translator…or a bodyguard. I wonder if I can make the rules for going so invasive and annoying he’ll give up.
He taps the wall three times, reminding me of a wrestling match wherehe’s declared himself the winner. “At the lodge.”
“You’re telling me there’s an arcade at the practice lodge?”
