Shredded (31 page)

I can’t stop what I’m sure is a goofy grin from taking over my face.

“Seriously?” Ash says with a roll of his eyes. “That girl’s got you whipped.”

I don’t try to defend myself. How can I when he’s right? I’m turning into a total pussy about her. The thing is, I don’t give a shit.

“Why don’t you stop worrying about my love life and start worrying about your own? Oh right. Because you don’t have one.”

“Out of choice. I’m focused on the Olympics right now.”

I snort. “Yeah, which one of us is the pussy here?”

He flips me off, but I just laugh. I’m doing a lot of that lately.

“You ready to do this?” Luc asks a few minutes later, clapping me on the back as he
comes up to join us.

“Hell, yeah,” I tell him, my standard answer to that question, but this time I grin when I say it. Because I mean it, and that makes the difference.

“That’s what I want to hear.” He’s jonesing for the rush. I can tell by the way he’s fidgeting, his hands checking everything again and again because he can’t just be still. I’ve been there—we all have—so I recognize the symptoms.

I knock into him with my shoulder as we walk, shoot him a grin. “You solid, man?”

He nods. “Hell, yeah, man. Let’s take this bitch so we can get on to the good stuff.”

He means the half-pipe, since that’s always been where he scores best.

As we get to the lift, there’s a section of media behind a rope line. They’re taking pictures of everyone on their way up, hoping to get some quotes, all on the chance that one of us is going to be the new winner.

Normally these competitions aren’t so media heavy, but it’s an Olympic year and this is the last major North American competition before the Dew starts—and with it, the Olympic trials. So of course everyone is watching, trying to see who stands out. Trying to put together in their heads what is going to be the next winning Olympic team.

Again, not really my thing—I’m just in it for the adrenaline—but a lot of people really fucking care about the selection. Which is why the media, the fans, and everyone else are at a fever pitch today. Well, that and the stupid video that seems to have made me big news in the snowboarding world overnight.

There’s a part of me that wishes I’d never let Ash do shit with that ride down the mountain. I wouldn’t have if I’d known it would lead to this feeding frenzy, reporters and fans and sponsors in my face all the time, all wanting something from me. And while I don’t mind talking to the fans, signing a few autographs, the media are something else entirely. As long as they stick to the boarding questions, I don’t mind. It’s when they get to the more personal stuff that it fucks me up, makes me nervous. There’s a lot of shit in my past that needs to stay in my past, and the last thing I want to do is explain it to a bunch of assholes who don’t know me and don’t know anything but the superficial aspects of the sport.

Ash and Luc wave as we pass the reporters, so I do the same. Ash even deigns to stop and answer some questions—something I’m not the least bit interested in doing. But as Luc and I hang there, waiting for him, it’s kind of hard to avoid the shouts being leveled at me. In the end, I walk over and the three of us pose together for the cameras while we answer the questions they keep throwing at us.

Most of them are pretty easy.
What tricks are you planning on doing? Do you feel prepared? That video was insane, man. After throwing that out there, how do you cope with the pressure? Do you feel ready for this?

I give my standard answers, wait while Luc and Ash do the same. But just as I’m getting impatient to get to the top of the fucking mountain so I can lay down my first line, one of the reporters shouts out something that I don’t quite hear.

But I can tell it’s bad, from the way Ash reacts and the way the other reporters all kind of stiffen, too. It gets my back up, and deep inside I know that I should just walk away now. Get on the lift, go up to the top of the mountain, and put in the best ride of my professional career.

And yet there’s another part of me, the self-destructive core of me that’s right there under the surface just seething with the need to get out, that tells me not to run from this. That I need to handle it right now before it gets out of hand.

I search for the faces of the reporters until I find the one who’s staring at me, an intent, self-satisfied look on his face. I know the look—hell, I’ve worn it often enough—so I head toward him even as Ash curses beside me.

“Come on, Z.” Luc grabs my arm, tries to drag me away. “Let’s go.”

“In a minute.” I shake him off, then nod to the reporter. We’re close now, only a few feet separating us. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any comment about your role in your sister’s kidnapping and subsequent death.”

Though a part of me’s been expecting that question from the second the video went viral—reporters are nothing more than trained snoops—it still hits me hard. And wrong. I want to tell him to go to hell, to mind his own fucking business, but there’s a part of me that’s paralyzed by the words. By hearing them said like that, plain as day. By my worst nightmare, the worst fucking thing in my life, being dragged out for the whole world to see.

“Fuck you, man.” It’s not me who says it this time, but Ash, who looks angry enough to kill. “Get your facts straight.”

“Oh, I have my facts straight. And I’ll be running an article later today with this story. I just wanted to give Z a chance to comment on his side before I publish.”

“There’s no story, man. Z was ten years old. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Is that what you want me to write, Z? That you don’t feel any responsibility for what happened to your sister?”

“You son of a bitch.” Luc launches himself at the line, leading with his fist.

I step between him and the reporter, take the weight of the punch on my own face before he can stop. Still, I’m glad I was there. Luc’s got a temper, and the last thing that needs to go out over the newsfeed today is that he attacked a reporter who was just following a lead on a story.

“Shit, Z. Are you okay?” Ash tries to get a look at the side of my jaw where Luc landed the punch.

“I’m fine.” I shove him away. Cameras are going off all over the place and I don’t want
to give the fucking bloodsuckers any more ammunition than they’ve already got. At least not about Ash and Luc, who are only trying to protect me.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, man.” Luc looks sick.

“No worries.” Once he’s calmed down, I make sure my face is totally blank when I turn back to that fucking bottom feeder. “Print whatever you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Feel free.”

And then I’m turning, walking away with Ash and Luc hot on my heels.

“Hey, man, don’t listen to him,” Luc tells me. “He’s just trying to get in your head.”

I nod, keep walking. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“We’re serious.” Ash now, scrambling to keep up because I’m walking fast. “He was fishing. He doesn’t know shit.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Exactly,” Ash agrees as we get seated on the magic carpet for the ride up the hill. “He doesn’t matter. Just do your thing up there, okay. Just ride and …”

He keeps talking, but I tune him out. All I can see is the reporter’s face twisted up with a mixture of glee, canned remorse, and triumph for getting the scoop. All I can hear is his smug voice blowing my fucking world apart.

I should have told Ophelia. It’s the first thought that comes to my mind, even before I think about April and my mom. I should have told her so she wouldn’t be totally blindsided by this shit when it hits the news.

But I didn’t. I let myself be convinced it was all going to be okay, even after that fucking video hit the Net. Let myself think that things would work out, even though I knew better. When have they ever worked out for me? When have I ever deserved them to?

When have I ever deserved anything that I have?

“Don’t do this, Z.” Ash’s puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let him get in your head. He was just trying to mess with you.”

“Fuck him. I’m fine.” I shrug his hand off. The pressure’s building, filling me up, shredding me open, making me feel weak and vulnerable and claustrophobic. So fucking claustrophobic. Like the whole fucking world is closing in on me.

When we get to the top of the mountain, I step off the lift. Then I unzip my jacket, shrug it off. I’m dizzy, so fucking dizzy I can barely stand.

Fuck. I’m walking around like some stupid, punk-ass little bitch who can’t handle shit. It pisses me off and I try to walk it off again, but I’m stumbling around like a gaffer who doesn’t have a fucking clue how to walk in snow boots.

Shit. I bend over, brace my hands on my thighs, and try to breathe before I pass out like a
total fucking pansy. It almost works, except my cell phone is ringing and buzzing off the hook, the story blowing up all around me.

My life blowing up all around me.

I start to block the calls, but three more text messages come in, right on top of each other. Fuck it. I pull my arm back and then throw the goddamn thing as far away from me as I can get it.

Ash and Luc are both behind me and I expect a chorus of what-the-hells, but all I get is silence. The kind of silence that indicates they’re trying to gauge my measurements for a state-of-the-art straitjacket.

I need to get it together. Because it’s not just Ash and Luc up here. There’s a shitload of other boarders and officials, and I can feel a bunch of them looking at me. Fuck that shit. No way am I losing it in front of the whole fucking world. They can have everything else of me—my blood, my broken bones, maybe even my death one day—but they can’t fucking have that. Not now. Not ever.

I can feel Luc and Ash’s worry—it’s a tangible thing and it makes me feel even more like shit. They should be concentrating on their own runs right now, not worrying about my head or how my run is going to go. But isn’t that how it always is in this friendship? They worry about me, and I keep doing things to make them worry.

What a fucking joke I am. What a fucking joke this all is. I don’t know what to do, don’t know what to say about that story hitting the national news and hurting my father all over again, but it’s not like I have a choice. The more people who see that video, the longer this shit goes on, and the closer I get to basket-case status.

That’s the last thing I fucking want or need. When I get off this mountain, I’ll have Ash pull the fucking video. It won’t do much about the pandemonium going on right now, but it might keep it from escalating.

As for the rest, I’m fine. I’m fucking fine. Once they realize there’s no boarding story here, they’ll move on no matter how juicy my past is. It’s just a matter of running the gauntlet a few times until that happens. Once someone else comes out with some other video, some other trick, no one will even remember this. It’ll just disappear, and I can disappear with it.

The thought calms me down, and I’m able to breathe through the pressure. For a little while anyway. I’ve got to bust out, got to do something soon if I don’t want to be dragged back to this little side trip into insanity, but for now I can hold it together. Or at least fake like I can.

Bending down, I pick up my jacket and shove my hands through the armholes. Then I bend over again and check my boots, make sure they’re nice and tight even as I flip my snowboard over and check for damage from when I dropped it.

It looks good, with only one screw a little loose. But before I can even think about
leaving it like that—or reach for the tiny tool I keep in my pocket that helps fix all kinds of riding issues with snowboards—Luc has his out and is tightening the screw for me.

“Thanks, bro.”

He nods, shrugs it off even as he looks concerned.

“Hey,” Ash says, sensing that the storm is over. Little does he know he’s in the eye and it’s about to get fucking crazy up in here. Even I can sense that. “I’ve already texted Mitch and he’s on it. No way is that asshat going to run that story. So let’s just focus for now. We have the preliminaries to get through today, so let’s just put this shit away and we’ll deal with it tonight over dinner and a beer.”

“Sounds good,” I tell him. Except I’ve got other plans for tonight, and none of them involve sitting down with my friends and eating dinner. No, there’s other shit I need to do. Shit that’ll help me get my head on straight again—or at least as straight as I can get it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry about the freak-out. You know how I feel about people searching for shit about me. The past always comes up, and …” I lay the guilt trip deliberately, in an effort to get him to back off.

“Jesus, Z, I hadn’t even thought about the press pulling up shit about April.”

Yeah, well, now it’s all I
can
think about. Even if Mitch gets that fucktard to back off, there were a shit-ton of reporters out there today. Someone’s going to run with the story. Guaranteed. It’s the nature of the beast. And my guilt will be written up in black and fucking white for the whole world to see. Exactly as I deserve.

But my dad doesn’t need to see that shit again, doesn’t need to relive it now that he’s finally got a new wife, a new kid. A new life. The last thing he wants is any shit from his old life to leak onto that. And I don’t blame him. If I could burn the fuck out of the past like he has, I would. Just fly away like a phoenix and leave it all behind.

But I don’t deserve that. I’ll never deserve it. That’s why I’m here, drowning in the shithole of my life no matter how hard I keep trying to climb out.

I don’t say any of that, though. I just nod like I’m paying attention to what they’re saying. “It’s all good,” I tell them. “No big deal. When he doesn’t get a reaction, it’ll all die down.”

Ash looks at me, his face drawn with guilt, and I can tell he’s torturing himself. I reach out, pat him on the back. “Don’t worry about it, man. It’ll all work out.”

“Mitch’ll handle it,” he tells me again. “He’s already calling in PR favors and shit. He’ll make it all disappear.”

It’s too fucking late for that. Maybe it’s been too late all along. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll call him later, see what’s up.”