Playing it off, I shrug. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t play a role in my performance anyway.”
“If you say so, man. I’m just glad we’re on the same team this year.”
“You doing any indie events?” I ask, knowing Grey promised I’d have the opportunity to do a few myself.
“Aw, hell. I forgot about those. Looks like I’m going to get my ass kicked again.” He takes a gulp of his beer, and the way my dick twitches at the movement of his Adam’s apple tells me I need to get laid.Soon.Way before Renner Gentry distracts the fuck out of me. The idea of fucking him and Angel is seriously appealing, but again, it goes against every rule created for thick-skulled imbeciles like me.
The no-fraternization rules within Patterson Performance apply to teammates, coaching staff, and anyone paid by our organization. Not to mention, fucking your teammates is seriously shit on your concentration, and I need to concentrate on winning. Prize purses in these competitions are really my only option for a decent income if I don’t want to work until I’m ninety, and this competition has the biggest I’ve ever seen. Patterson Performance and the resort pay me enough to cover my bills, but what the hell I’m going to do after thirty is a constant worry.
“You have any idea who they’re bringing on to finish out the coaching staff?” Renner asks, pulling my attention back to the present.
I don’t, actually, and I’m a little butt-hurt over the fact that Grey wouldn’t tell me. All he said was, ‘I don’t want to get your hopes up. I’ll only believe it once he’s arrived.’ But the mystery coach has to be here by now if we start training tomorrow, right?
I shake my head at the same time Gibson looks our way and says, “I heard it’s Connor Lang.”
No fucking way.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
Connor Lang is my idol.
He also disappeared off the face of the earth five years ago. He was at the top of his game, took home two Olympic gold medals, and then just…vanished.
“Nah, you either heard wrong or someone just wants to fuck with you,” I tell Gibson. “I’ve followed Lang’s career my whole life. Dude’s in the wind. He’s probably in rehab somewhere.”
“Well, we won’t have to wait long. He’s supposed to be here for our first run tomorrow,” Gibson finishes.
“Anyone know the new coach’s specialty?” I ask.
“I’m assuming snowboard cross and slalom since those are the only areas that don’t have a designated coach yet,” Angel offers.
Shit. She’s right.
Which means whoever the new guy is, he’ll be assigned to Renner and me. It’s hard to find someone who has the combination of speed and technical skills we need for those events, and we’re the only two left without a primary coach.
Conversation continues swirling around me as I get lost in my thoughts until the door to the bar opens, letting in a gust of cold wind.
When I turn my head out of habit, none other than Connor Lang stands on the threshold, rubbing his bare hands together.
And fuck if my world doesn’t tilt on its axis.
Chapter 2
Connor
It’s been a long day, and I’ve just gotten the last of my meager belongings put away in my fancy new slopeside home. I would love to throw on some sweats and stay in, but I don’t have any groceries, and I’m fucking starving.
So, I change into something more professional and befitting of my new job as a coach, and go in search of food.
Perhaps if I look put together on the outside, it’ll make me feel like I have the rest of my shit together, too…which I definitely donot, and at the age of thirty, that’s concerning. It’s one of the biggest reasons I need to make sure I don’t fuck up this opportunity with Patterson Performance. Without a college degree—because I was boarding during those years—my options are limited. Being a professional snowboarder doesn’t have a lot of translatable skills…especially if you can no longer stomach the thought of actually getting on a snowboard, and I’ve been dying a slow death in a cubicle, selling insurance ever since the accident.
It might not be so bad if I owned the agency or at least had partner status or something to work toward, but I don’t. I’m acog in a wheel selling a product I can’t physically touch and one I don’t really believe in. I make enough to pay my bills, but not enough to get ahead, and even though I’m an Olympic champion, I’m broke. I’m also lonely and probably clinically depressed at this point as well.
As soon as I drag my tired ass into the bar, I notice the table of twenty-somethings to my right. The first thing that catches my eye are the dyed purple tips of Vox Montgomery’s hair. My brain registers the others seated around him, but easily decidesVoxis where I’ll be focusing my attention this season…and not just because he’s one of the two main athletes assigned to me.
