Page 17 of The Groupie

At least, I don’t think so…. no. Pro athletes are against the rules for a good reason.

“I’ll come with you to watch you dance. I’m really proud of you making it as a dancer for Boston’s NBA team. I predict you’ll start getting top modeling jobs soon.”

“It’s very competitive, but I’m having lots of fun. And wait until you meet—”

I raise a hand to stop her. “No flirting with the hunks for me. I told you. I’m serious about my rule against pro athletes.”

“Not all of them are like Chuck. You could have a fling while you’re here, then you’d have the perfect exit excuse.”

“No thanks. Not even a fling. Too much ego and competitive testosterone.”

“What are you talking about? You’re a pro, and you don’t have an ego.”

“Male athletes tend to have easily bruised egos when their fling can beat them at miniature golf. And they’re wicked competitive.”

“You’re right about the competitive part. You’re pretty competitive yourself.”

“True. One competitive person in a bed is enough. Besides, who has the time or energy for a fling? I’m busy enough doing my own thing.” I expel a long breath in relief when I see her resigned eye-roll that this argument is going nowhere.

“What time is practice?” I ask her.

“We should leave in the next fifteen minutes.”

“Good,” Mamma says. “I need to clean up around here.”

I’ve been managing to hide my limp so far since I didn’t see either of them last night, but it’s throbbing now. When I got off the plane, I threw my gear into my rental car and drove around Boston until I found a place to park near a bar. It wasn’t the first time I’ve given into my impulse for adventure. What luck that I ended up at the fucking Tea Party.

I’m not sure yet if it was good or bad luck, but I did work out my frustrations during the night with one hot man who was surprisingly skilled at turning me on. My sigh comes out of nowhere.

“Wait ’til I get back, and I’ll help you, Mamma,” Suzie says.

Looking around, I snort. “This place needs more than any of us can do for it. When I get my promo money, we can get you new floors for the kitchen.”

“And maybe some new windows?” Suzie says.

Shit. The place is falling apart. I nod.

“Save your money for yourself,” Mamma says. “I’m fine here.” She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a fresh pack of cigarettes, and it takes every ounce of my restraint not to rip it from her hands. But I tried that once, and it didn’t go well, so I learned not to make the same mistake. She needs to quit by her own choice. Suzie and I can’t make her do it.

She lights it up and blows a stream of smoke that floats up in front of her face, blurring her kind, glassy eyes.

It’s clear, Mamma is sick and house is in dire need of repairs, inside and out. It’s also clear that I need the money from that promotion and the others that will follow if—when I medal at the Olympics. I’ve been nervous that GNU, the snowboard company, will to cancel me because of the injury. Despite the fact that I told them I was fine, they were there and they saw it happen, and they heard the emergency med tech say it could take up to eight weeks to heal.

I swore up and down my ankle was fine, that it only needed a couple of weeks rest. I made it clear I wanted to keep the whole incident low-key because there was no real injury. When the producer and the promotional rep from GNU left, I told the med tech I was headed to Boston. He discretely gave me the card of a doctor he knows at Mass General. That card is now burning a hole in my pocket like some kind of bad luck talisman.

When I called Tanya Lu, my agent, on my way to the airport last night, I told her about the injury and that I was going home to lie low. She agreed that would be best and that we’d say I was going home because Mamma had a medical emergency. We further agreed on two weeks. I’m determined to return to the halfpipe at the end of two weeks.

Ready or not. Shit. I can’t even let myself imagine anything but the most positive outcome.

I’ll be fine. I’ll be in the Olympics. I’ll win a medal and cash in on millions in promotional deals. GNU got me at a bargain price compared to what Tanya said I’ll be getting if—when I medal.

In the meantime, she said she’d hold off scheduling more promotions. I swore under my breath at that because I could use the money. A small budget endorsement for a brand was big money for me. However, I could hardly argue with her since I wasn’t in shape to do another promotional shoot if it involved me getting on a snowboard. One fall, one slight twist of my already hurting ankle, and I’d be toast. Out of the Olympics. Burnt toast.

My career would be over, and I’d be relegated to a has-been, no longer invited to compete at international events, demoted back to a ski resort instructor making a paltry living. Fuck.

That was not going to happen to me.

But my call with Tanya Lu made me uneasy. It’s like I don’t trust her to keep my ankle quiet—hell, no, I don’t.