I finish the set and sit up, my legs straddling over the bench, sweat dripping down my forehead. He hands me a towel and dry myself off before throwing it back over the rack.
“Yeah, I have an invite for dinner from my publicist. Or at least, the woman who wants to be my publicist.”
“Who? Hollis Taylor? Fuck man, she’s smoking hot. All sexy business on the outside…but out of that business suit, I bet she’s a fucking hellcat in bed. And I wonder if the carpet matches the drapes, if you know what I mean?” Gus snickers lewdly at his comment referring to her head of red hair.
“Dude,” I give him an admonishing tone and a smack on the leg. “Watch what you’re saying. She’s my soon-to-be…publicist.” I catch myself about to call her something else, which is a bit premature.
Gus gives me a ‘what the fuck does it matter to you look’, and I shake my head.
Dumb fuck.
“Sorry, just keeping it real.”
I lay back down and prep myself for round two.
“How are you feeling about your rankings going into the world championships next month?”
His question isn’t surprising, but it still prickles a little, because I’m not where I should be with my latest performances. The back is still causing me some concern, and I know I’m letting it psyche me out when I’m out on the slopes.
“I don’t know, man. It’s pretty tough coming back from an injury like I had. I’m just happy to be here at all.”
We finish the set of reps and I call it a day, as Gus is scheduled for his next appointment with another pro. This time it’s Lisette Cardero. She walks in just as I’m heading out the door.
“Hey, if it isn’t the one and only Slope King,” she grins, yanking my chain with the nickname I was dubbed five years ago, as we do a fist bump so she doesn’t get my sweat all over her.
“Good to see you back at it, handsome. I was pretty worried about you after that accident. You hanging in there?”
Lisette is a world champion who has about as many medals and wins as her competition, Lindsey Vonn. But she’s ten years younger than Lindsey, so she still has some time in her career to achieve more.
“Pretty good, Lisette. Working my way back. You here for the event this weekend?”
She actually blushes, which tells me one thing. She’s either hooking up with Brett Carnegie or is hoping to make it happen this weekend.
“Yeah, figured I’d come hang out while Brett was here and give him a hard time about this reality show. He’s such a ham.”
We both laugh at this because it’s so true. He does love the attention he receives.
“Well, have fun keeping the fans at bay. I’ll see you later, maybe out on the slopes.”
I ditch my used towel in the laundry basket, grab my jacket and hat, and head back out into the cold, down to my chalet, thinking about my injury, my future, but mainly, tonight with Hollis.
Chapter Five
Hollis
I have to admit, I was so unnerved after my brief meeting with Kellan and the fact that he had some “requirements” of his own, that I barely heard a word the photographer told me about the photoshoot.
Gabe Delgado is the photographer we’d hired for the event this morning who is shooting all the individual photos of Brett and the contestants. He was saying something about digital downloads and using a hashtag on social media, but honestly, I wasn’t paying attention to him.
All I could think about was Kellan and the picture he stole from me. The picture I had saved on my camera roll. I don’t know what has me more embarrassed: Kellan knowing I still have the picture on my phone or knowing he may now be using it for the same reasons I do.
And now as I get dressed for the dinner event, my hair done up in a chignon, my red wavy locks pinned back into a tight knot, I wonder what will happen tonight. I need to get him on my client list so I can go onto the second task to get my spot as President: finding a husband.
I cringe, taking a large drink of my wine and ponder this preposterous request that my grandfather has demanded of me. What year are we living in? 1952?
I hope that by Monday, with Kellan’s contract in hand, I can bring it back to my grandfather and tell him I didn’t need a husband to run this company and that it is antiquated and old-fashioned to believe that being a female boss means I have to have a husband.
I slip on my shoes, clasp my bracelet and take one final look in the mirror, satisfied that I look pretty good. I’m not athletic like the men and women I represent, but I’m still in good shape. I eat right, do yoga four times a week and avoid high-calorie foods in favor of a glass of wine every now and then.
