He’s the reason my cheeks are going to ache from fake smiling tonight.
As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter how hot he is or how my cheeks flush when he touches me.
Ryder Finch is Public Enemy Number One.
“I’m not telling you how to feel, Marshmallow, jeez. What I meant to say is—coming to the Games is intimidating as hell. Everything here is bigger and scarier than the rest of the competition circuit, so just being on this stage is a monumental accomplishment. I’m proud of you, Mabel. I’m seriously fucking proud.”
Ryder offers me a fist for knocking, and a wave of something that feels guilt-adjacent washes over me. I almost feel bad for going straight to being annoyed with him, but I try to squash it. “Annoyed” is just my default setting when it comes to Ryder. Annoyed that I’m stuck with him by birthright. Annoyed that he treats me like a dumb kid. Annoyed that we play the same sport—both of our dads are divers, couldn’t Ryder have taken to the pool instead of the mountains?
Worst of all, I’m annoyed that he is so damn handsome; I sometimes can’t stand to look at him. In this light, Ryder is downright ethereal. The sun shining overhead and reflecting off the bright snow makes the strands of red highlights in his otherwisegolden brown hair glow, creating the perfect complement to jade green eyes and unseasonably tan skin.
And those red highlights are everywhere, not just on his head. This past summer at one of our mandatory family vacations in Cape Cod, I couldn’t help but notice that the threads of dark auburn are woven into the beard he keeps trimmed close, as well as the hair on his chest that cascades down his abs and over his belly button before disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks. All that hair, both on his face and his chest, hadn’t been there the year before, and that’s the only reason I noticed. Biologically, I found it fascinating that in the span of a year, Ryder Finch went from teenage boy to man with chest hair. Otherwise, his glow-up was of no interest to me.
I’ve always resented those natural highlights. Red hair is supposed to be my thing. My long, copper locks that look almost orange in the sun and air dry in the perfect wave down my back are the one thing I’ve always had going for me, and even that isn’t unique.
Nope, Ryder Finch just has to be ginger-adjacent, too.
Nothing in this world is sacred.
I bump my knuckles against Ryder’s, reluctantly accepting his praise so I can move on with my dayand not think about how he seems to get more handsome every time I see him.
“Thanks Ryder. Like I said, I’m proud of myself, too.”
“Good. Just one thing?—”
I roll my eyes and groan. Here it comes, the Ryder Finch Snowboarding For Dummies Lesson.
“When you’re going for the 1080, try for a melon grip at the back of your board. It’ll give you more visualization in the air on each turn, and if you have a better understanding of where you are in space, it’ll make sticking the landing that much easier. You’ll have to practice to get the control down, but even if your grip slips, the points for nailing the trick should outweigh the control issue.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks for the unsolicited advice, Rye Bread. As usual, you are the king of the powder, and the rest of us are but lowly peasants begging for scraps of your worldly knowledge. Goodbye.”
I turn and stalk off, having hit my daily quota of how much I can handle before losing my shit, but Ryder is right behind me. He catches up quickly, stopping me in my tracks with an arm around my waist. He pulls me close, the laminated fabrics of our snow jackets rubbing against each other and creating a sound that some people might find grating, but I find comforting and familiar. It reminds me of beinga little kid, gliding down tiny mountains between Mom’s legs, Ramona and Ryder cheering me on nearby.
“You forgot something, Marshmallow,” Ryder singsongs by my ear, dangling a turquoise snack packet in front of my face.
“White chocolate Pepero?” I ask, snagging the chocolate-covered cookie sticks from his grip.
“They’re a South Korean snack food,” he starts, but I’m already wiggling out of his hold, ripping the package open and shoving two of the pencil-thin sweets into my mouth at once. I know exactly what they are. I don’t travel anywhere without doing thorough research on the city’s local sweets and baked goods. I’ve had my sights set on Pepero for weeks. I just haven’t had the chance to get out of the Village to pick some up. I was going to ask Mom to grab me some for an after-dinner snack tonight, but now I don’t have to.
“You’re welcome!” Ryder calls after me as I walk away, throwing a peace sign up and feeling ten pounds lighter than I had just a few minutes ago.
Ryder Finch might be a world-class pain in my ass, but the kid has fantastic taste in sweet treats, and I can’t find a reason to be annoyed by that.
3
THAT’S SO DAMN ROMANTIC
RYDER
Beijing, February 2022
Hey now, hey now.
This is what dreams are made of.
The earworm from my favorite childhood movie plays over and over in my head as I stroll across the venue, enjoying the crisp, cold air biting my nose and the crunch of snow under my boots. There is nothing I love more than being outside, feeling the frosty chill on my exposed skin, bathing in the overwhelming brightness that only comes from the midday sun reflecting off blankets of freshly fallen—or, in today’s case, artificial—snow. I inhale deeply through my nose, allowing that perfect, addictive scent of the air at a high enough altitude on the side of a mountainto cleanse me of any bad thoughts, poor intentions, and negative energy.
I might believe in the power of a positive mindset, but I don’t consider myself a superstitious athlete. Some guys I train with have all sorts of rituals that they perform before strapping boots to board, lest they find themselves at the bottom of the leaderboard. It doesn’t matter how much they practice, how well they train, how often they meditate, if they don’t knock on the bottom of their board three times and then take their helmet off and on in quick succession for thirty seconds, they’re convinced they’ll never see gold hanging from their necks.
