Black Diamond, Chapter IX

Ski races end with an unlikely win for the U21 group. Then it's off to a condo party with an even more unlikely friend to meet the who's who of skiers in the Club. Try not to blow it.

“Now it’s safe to say we faced the impossible up there. The odds couldn’t have been more stacked against us. And the standings once finalized were hardly in our favor. Yet, we fought and we fought for our place and what did our painstaking efforts amount to? Nothing less of a historic victory for the Academy’s esteemed legacy with a podium finish. Not to mention denying Park City a podium sweep is a victory unto itself. I’ll never forget the forlorn looks on their faces. An image I’ll hold dear like a photograph for life. Along with Drake’s stivot turn on the pitch.”

“Dirty.” Round answered to a resounding show of approval.

Coach Price continued on.

“Do applaud yourselves. Please. Each and every one of you. You are responsible for making this momentous event come to pass!”

His words got met by a deafening roar. But I could hardly hear over the loud ringing which never left my ear since the races ended.

Such an applause was warranted considering this afternoon’s late turn of events.

Well before the beam of the photoelectric-eye system got broken by Drake’s passage across the finish line to record his time and print it on a paper tape with his bib number, there was little doubt he would be in the running.

According to the Timekeeper, however, the electronic timing system failed and a replacement time had to be calculated manually for the race result.

1:38.58, 1:21.21, 2:59.79

Drake clinched first-place by virtue of sheer determination with the runner up finishing +.25 behind him. Making him the unfavorable winner by a thousandth of a second. A tiny sliver of a margin in which everyone who followed remained off the pace. The leader from Park City wiped out after a skidded turn that ended with a tumble into the safety net on the side of the course, causing a slight delay for snow patrol to bring out the stretcher. Even the talk of the town, the Austrian from Alta, got disqualified for straddling the penultimate gate.

Once the official results came in, the standings for the Ladies and Gents were finalized.

There followed a sustained rumbling like a volcano in mid-eruption. A peculiar mix of celebration along with the collective grumbles and groans of rival ski programs. I found myself caught in the uproar. Whooping and hollering with the rest of them until my voice turned raspy and hoarse. Happier than ever being able to share in that moment. Even without having contributed to it.

At the awards ceremony the 1st-3rd place skiers were recognized for each age group. Topping the podium for Srs/U21 was Drake. Another feather in his cap. All signs pointed to this being his breakthrough year as he beamed far above his peers. Except for now he represented every one of us. Which meant the Academy had won. The ultimate accolade for his club.

On top of earning the first spot, he also received Hard Charger. A title awarded to both genders. For which, I could’ve sworn the winners from the Ladies group smiled at me when passing by to receive her medal of achievement. It wasn’t until I put the pieces together that I recognized her from yesterday at the hotel lobby bar.

I continued to stare while her name was announced as she took center stage: Tati Montserrat.

The return to our hotel remains my fondest memory of the experience. We laughed and sang songs with arms around one another like brothers, and a family it was. Never had spirits flown so high between us. For a fleeting moment I felt what it was like to be amongst their ranks. Up until Chuck pointed out my presence along with my lack of contribution to the matter, which hardly went unnoticed.

“Still can’t believe we won. Considering that DQ from the start.”

“Before we even began,” added Skirt. “What gives?”

I averted my eyes to avoid their scrutiny. Little did they know I shared a similar sentiment.

Then, the unexpected happened. Even I had to check out the window for flying pigs as Drake defended me to everyone’s utter disbelief.

“Enough already. We’re all coming off a win, right? And he’s one of us.”

My stunned gaze met his as he returned an equally unexpected nod.

“If anything,” Drake continued, “today’s minor setback only held us to a higher standard than we knew possible. We can’t control the circumstances, only overcome them. And today’s result is enough cause to for us celebrate!”

These words seemed to placate them. Allowing Coach Price to easily pick right up where Drake left off.

Except what came out of his mouth was a jumbled mash compared to what occurred. I never expected my relationship with the team to change overnight. But I was officially accepted now by the grace of Drake’s blessing.

Thankful as I was, it was more than dumb luck which aided in our success. Although something deep within suggested it could’ve been me up there instead.

Once we pulled into the hotel drive Coach Price had to shout over the cheers and hoorahs our instructions to rise early for our return home in the morning.

Contrary to the readiness of others, I hesitantly entered the building where we were hit with a cacophonous wave of applause from the impenetrable wall of people formed on either side. Their congratulatory merriment ran over us with centipede hands to pat our backs. Even I wasn’t exempt from a wayward slap or hand clapped on the shoulder.

Moving through that tangled mess was a sluggish, slow-going process to pass through many rows of white teeth and reddened cheeks belonging mostly to vegetable-shaped mothers dying to press their precious children close to their heaving bosoms.

All I sought was the embrace of a soft bed. Something which cared not whether I earned the right to be exhausted or not. But such relief couldn’t be found.

Somber, sullen, the silence of the hotel room was far more deafening. I was about to leave for a cigarette when the door opened up.

“Sorry,” I sidestepped out of the doorway for Drake, the only other Carbonado skier to seek solace from the clamor of the people’s praise.

“What for? A fine result indeed,” he said.

His friendliness persisted. But I was much too bogged down in the mires of pity and self-doubt to meaningfully respond. Something which he was too preoccupied to notice as he began to clean his skis with the ritualistic fervor of a swordsman cleaning his blade after battle.

I laid out on the bed. Fully clothed. With shoes on and hands behind my head. Both eyes closed to avoid the glare of my unused skis resting against the fireplace mantle.

“I must say,” I spoke at last. “That was some mighty fine skiing today.”

“Oh, that. It was merely expected from me. The best still hasn’t come to pass.”

“Doubly impressive after a night of partying,” I muttered half in jest.

He paused wiping his ski goggles and cleared his throat.

“About that, there’s something I have to tell you and I’m not used to doing this so don’t expect it to happen again, but thank you.”

“For what?”

“For bailing me out earlier. That’s what.”

“Don’t worry about it. We needed a hero out there and you were the most likely candidate.”

“I should’ve ditched that shit when I got crunched for time and panicked. But it wasn’t cool for me to keep contraband in your bag. Even though a dirty piss test would’ve ruined me. It’s not like my record is squeaky-clean. Question is, why did you do it? I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” I said. “I just thought you were a fucking asshole. That’s all.”

“Your candor is much appreciated. This is going a lot smoother than I thought it would.”

“I’m sure we’ll always compete against each other, but that doesn’t mean we can’t settle our differences over a drink after all is said and done.”

“Cheers to that. Needless to say, I’ve been a pretty huge dick to you. But that changes from here on out.”

Now sitting up, we faced each other from opposing sides as if on equal levels for the first time. Who knew beyond this playground rivalry there was an opportunity for us to be friends? And like that a whole new expanse opened up before us. One that was wider than the curl of Drake’s thin-lipped smile.

“That settles it. You did a solid for me and I intend to repay the favor. There’s an informal get-together with the Club tonight, a cocktail party if you will, for kindred folk.”

I had never foreseen this in my wildest dreams. Of all the intense training, drilling, and preparation for my debut, nothing terrified me more than having to socialize with peers. Let alone tagging along with the living ideal of the American champion.

I felt hung up by the prospects. Unable to feign much interest while I deconstructed what this meant.

“I don’t know, I’m not a big fan of social functions. Which club is that?”

“The Cannon Club, of course. We really do have a lot to learn.” Drake said. Opening up the accordion closet to fold out the ironing board. On it he began to lay out his outfit for the night. A crewneck sweater. A pair of khaki chinos.

Back on my feet. I began pacing about the room.

“I thought you’d want to be with your adoring fans.”

“My business is on the mountain. Meaning, skiing is all I care about. And that multi-headed monstrosity waiting downstairs is inconsequential. I aim beyond. For that reason alone, I must get out.”

“I can see why,” I said.

We were able to agree on that at least. Even if there was nobody to cheer my name.

Drake pulled out the clothes iron and plugged it in.

“Allow me to double-down on the offer—I’m not talking saunas and hot chocolate here. But the kind of après-ski festivities not available to tourists. Invitation only. If you catch my drift. How can you decline? It will be once in a lifetime, I promise you that!”

“I appreciate the offer, really, and as taken aback as I am by our fresh budding friendship, I’ll have to pass.”

“That’s because you haven’t been smoked out yet. Which is also part of the deal. Is that copacetic?”

Drake’s amicability made it that much easier to concede in the end.

Enough words already. Take me wherever you damn well please. Nothing was better than scoring on a trip, especially without even looking for it! A little last fun could do no harm now.

“Too bad about the blow. That would’ve been the cherry on top.”

“If I can get it once, I can surely get it again.” He flashed a banded wad of hundred-dollar bills.

“How much do you expect us to put up our noses?”

“Just enough to fill a small plane. Perhaps I’ll get my first nosebleed.”

“Why are you carrying so much cash around? Don’t you have a bank account?”

“I nearly forgot, here’s six hundo to cover that silly sanction.”

“It was only five!”

“Right. Better make it seven for good measure.”

“Thanks?” My response came out both confused and sincere. “How are we getting there? I’m done with cabs.”

“Sal’s going to pick us up. He’s been staying at the Waldorf Astoria.”

Without even knowing who this person Sal was I opted out of asking twenty-one questions and grabbed for my jacket when I stopped. “What about Coach? Won’t this sideline me indefinitely for future races?”

“Don’t worry about him. He only cares if we break the cardinal rule. Don’t get caught. That council business was merely a formality.”

“And you’re not worried about getting spotted in the lobby?”

“Not if we cross over on the second floor and access a side exit to bypass the fanfare.”

“Genius or madman? I can’t tell.”

“Take your pick. I’ve learned it’s best to keep a low profile.”

“That explains you well. And the others? You know, from the team.”

“They’re not coming,” he turned aside with a dry chuckle. “It’s just you and me.”

Strange to consider that not so long ago I wanted to bash his face in with a ski boot. This was proving to be an interesting night already.

Drake’s privilege regarding important matters may be grating, but covering my fine was a kind gesture. Even if he was being a gloating showboat about it. And as result of his energetic charm I had no choice but to indulge him for whatever else was in store.

Maybe it was boredom.

“Ready to go?”

“God no,” he shuddered. “I still need to shower and put myself together.”

Nearly an hour later we stole across the empty hotel corridor in long footsteps. My head cocked and ears pointed like satellites tuned to the highest frequencies. Tiptoeing as carefully as walking barefoot over broken glass.

My skin tingled all over with heightened sensitivity. Prickling up around every corner while I anticipated doors on either side to spring open and foil our plans before they ever began. We were almost to the elevator when it dinged loud enough to echo down the empty walls.

Voices could be heard inside and we barely retreated before the elevator doors shot open. What sounded like most of the team came gushing forth into the corridor. We turned heel. Brisk walking turned into full-on sprinting as we double backed around each corner to the end of the corridor where we broke through the stairwell.

I took each flight as fast as my rubber legs allowed until the stairs bottomed out at a door leading to the faded light of a setting sun.

“Care for some cancer?” Drake flipped open an oversized crème-colored pack with a crown encircled by gold filigree housing twenty luxury cigarettes with gold filters.

“Why not?” I said, my chest still heaving.

“Good answer. Tonight’s a proper celebration!”

We rounded the back-end of the building. In the dimming sunlight I surveyed endless swaths of gray and white cloud.

“What are we looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see him. He’s a rare bird amongst your average law-abiding civilian.” Drake said. He should know. His magnetism making him a hotrod of eccentric personage.

At once he pointed to a modest sedan parked across the lot.

“Aah, there he is. Mr. Paradise himself. You’ll find plenty of studs like him where we’re headed. You’d never know how much he’s worth at first glance.”

I checked over both of my shoulders before slumping into the backseat. It was definitely a gamble entering a running car you weren’t familiar with. But like any degenerate, I was willing to roll the dice. Again and again and again.

Sal studied us with clear blue eyes. Thick tufts of chestnut hair played lightly upon a face touched by pure whimsy. His athletic frame filling most of his tilted back driver seat.

“You finished primping or what, D?” he said.

“A small price for looking so good.”

“This is your night after all. Nice stogie.”

Drake tossed his half-finished cigarette out of the window.

“Did you take care of that business?”

“I placed a call on your behalf. Duke will make an appearance at the condo.”

“You’re always on the beat. Allow me to introduce our new friend. My race record remains clear as my conscience thanks to this guy so we’re giving him the full treatment.”

“Standard order of business,” Sal adjusted the rearview mirror as if to look at me for the first time.

“So what’s the dirt?”

Drake jumped in before I could divulge any more.

“It’s nothing like that. More like a mutual understanding. I vouch for him if anyone asks.”

“Same. You’ll find this party to be in extremely high taste, as many club members wound up in PC for a regional event project.” Sal said before asking me directly, “Before I forget, do you smoke pot?”

“Recreationally. Yourself?”

“I do it for sport.”

He popped open the center console to reveal no less than an ounce of leafy stardust which filled the car with its sharp, piney aroma.

“He might not look it, but Sal here is about as dangerous as a spruce trap.”

“I hope no one’s in a rush to get there,” he began, and in five not so smooth maneuvers, reversed the car in the middle of the road before speeding off with no regard for pedestrians, other drivers, or his tires as they bounced up and over the curb. Twice. I wasn’t sure what to make of this character who drove to the irregular rhythm of a bebop fanatic. Quiet, yet brimming with reckless abandon. A casual, Zen-like observer who loaded the bowl while steering with his knees. Nearly crossing over the dashed centerline to which he’d overcorrect in a veering jerk of the steering wheel.

On the road. Heading towards the unknown without a second look back. Only faint echoes of celebration continued to haunt me.

Sal steadily eyed me from up front.

“And you back there. How are you enjoying PC?”

“So far so good,” I said, but judging from his pause I assumed he wanted me to go on. “I had a rough start my first night and almost got arrested leaving some old pub-like saloon.”

“Sounds like a great time to me. Which one?”

“I’m not totally sure. All I remember was red brick. No name.”

“Ah—I love that place. I’ve been carried out of there many a times and left to stagger down historic Main Street,” Sal gasped as if stricken with a beam of insight. “Good memories.”

He sparked the lighter until a flame caught the contents of his pipe. Then he passed it onto me in the backseat.

Space cruising along. We drove into the setting sun, before cutting along a frontage road which skirted more hotels. The surrounding evergreens gradually thinned out into vast tracts of white aspen. Here and there, a winter cabin broke through the all-natural facade.

I wanted to talk more. But my tolerance was shot. The foul weed’s potency striking me head on.

No matter how much I’ve smoked there remained the potential to be checked on my ass and after nearly a weeklong break I’d already become a light-weight. Thoughts dropped from out of my hollow skull. Heavier than their content. My ribcage constricting tightly. Ugly paranoia sunk its rotted yellow teeth in. Gnawing closer to the bone as the dread of unease gripped me by the windpipe. Forcing me to seriously question whether I might survive as I went from seeing red and blue lights behind us to taking a deep dive cliff side after breaking the guardrail which quickly curved and bent. All this to put my nerves at ease and get stoned.

Following twenty minutes of in the red intensity, bracing for impact and suffering silent panic attacks in the backseat, my senses reeled at each swerve while Sal merged side to side without use of his turn signal. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said to Drake, flashing his smile again in the rearview mirror. “I’ll load us another.”

He reached out the window and tapped the cashed bowl of the pipe on top of the side mirror until clearing the charred ashes.

Talk ceased altogether as thick smoke filled the entire cab. Our path sunk deeper into the neighboring wood. The low fog roads empty against the surrounding backdrop of aspen with condo complexes appearing hazily out of the dense, black thicket. A stationary chairlift at the resort climbed up the backbone to meet the skyline behind us. Along with the day’s last rays of sun which gilded the site graced by many a great skier who carved a name for themselves on these venerated slopes and shared the podium with the world’s best.

And for one night only I’d get to access this community.

We continued westward. Which wound through more aspen and conifer trees with off shoots leading to more hidden lodging nestled in its tangled bramble. All of them had ridiculous street names. Boulder Den. Piney Point. Elk Horn. Whispering Hollow. Natural images juxtaposed on brightly illuminated street signs.

“You said this is a condo party?” I asked them. Having been so long since last hearing my voice it now offended the ear when spoken aloud.

Drake answered back. “Yessir. The owner of which patented those little heating pads for your ski gloves. Shouldn’t we be there already?”

Sal hit the pipe before responding.

“Forgive me. I took the scenic byway,” he said. “We should be there soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Breath. It should also be mentioned ladies from the international circuit will be there.”

“Do I keep my promises or what?” Drake looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Don’t tell me you’re a taken man.”

“I’ve been spending time with a girl from the resort. But nothing serious.”

“Just as I suspected.” Drake said. To which, Sal smiled.

I happily stayed silent. They had touched upon my least familiar subject and carried on while I lost myself in the seemingly endless series of left and right turns which eventually led to another condo subdivision modeled as Swiss chalets. The entrance marked by an ancient bristlecone pine with a hefty, gnarled trunk. Its gray bowers drooping like wooly mammoth bristles.

The street veered sharply until Sal killed the motor curbside. He then dug into his backseat for margarita mix and two handles of tequila.

We left fresh trails through a thin layer of newly fallen snow. Three squiggly lines weaving towards a comely two-story condo lined with a stately juniper amongst other cold-hardy evergreens.

The condo appeared vacant from the outside. The unlit upper deck cast shadows on the ski chair on the porch which had been repurposed into a bench. Its front door cracked ajar.

A soft glowing light called us from within to cross the threshold.

The winter harshness got instantly swapped for the comfort of a toasty wood fire. Its silence broken by the hum of overlapping chatter. I began to feel that familiar creep of entering a new place with unknown people. Causing my emotions to vacillate wildly from heart-pounding excitement to sweat-dripping anxiety.

I entered the condo in the same manner I started this trip. A houseless wanderer who stole along like a fugitive where they didn’t belong.

“Be a gent, will you? Much obliged.” Sal handed me the tequila so he could remove his jacket.

The entryway tapered into a long, narrow hallway. The high walls showcased black and white photographs which dated back to the late 1800’s and spanned the Swiss Alps down to the Pyrenees and across the Atlantic Ocean to the Andes. On display were elite athletes captured competing around the world at luxury resorts or European alpine villages during historic milestones for the sport. Every moment memorialized in the glassy reflection occupying a dusty golden frame. Beneath which a placard bore their subject’s names in miniscule font. The founders of the Cannon Club during an outing to the Wasatch Mountains the same year it was established in 1927. The first organized slalom race, the Aldberg-Kandahar in St Anton, Austria for their one-year anniversary. The Third Winter Games of 1936 and the first inclusion of alpine events. Races in the Catskills, leading to Aspen, Colorado, 1950, the first FIS World Championship. Also on full display was the handful of renown American skiers whose influence laid the groundwork for the USAA, the governing body of alpine skiing in the United States. Locked inside adjoining display cases were old wooden skis with leather straps, the remnants of a worn ski boot, and handmade snowshoes amongst other ancient relics and artifacts from the bygone era before the Club’s inception. Decades of signed memorabilia documenting the legacy of its world class pedigree. Hallowed halls which gave off the eerie reverence of a holy temple until the placards abruptly ended.

“Why so quiet back there?” Drake sounded off in the crawling darkness, as if nudging Sal at his side.

“Taking note of all the rich history is all,” I said, partly annoyed with his knack for constantly dragging me into conversation, and partly surprised by the yearning in my voice. Rootless and nostalgic, I found myself increasingly drawn in like any good guest towards an almost fantastical, dream-like reverie.

“I call it the Hall of the Dead.”

“Why, Sal? Many of these skiers haven’t died yet.”

“Makes no difference in retirement. Who wants to live to the sweet comforts of old age?”

They both rounded the corner at the end.

I followed behind when from out of the shadows I got confronted by the menacing yellow-eyed stare of a mountain lion. Poised for attack. Ready to rip the unworthy to shreds in an instant, tearing them limb from limb. Except upon closer examination its polished claws and tawdry yellowish coat were a dead giveaway this fierce feline wasn’t just held captive outside their natural habitat, but skinned and stuffed on a mounted frame. Her golden eyes dimmed-out having long lost their luster. With the same lifeless sheen as my own.

“Didn’t see that coming,” I said, knowing they had stopped to watch my reaction.

When finished laughing, Drake said, “I remember my initiation.”

“Welcome,” said Sal. “This is what to expect upon earning your laurels.”

Guided by growing laughter and lively chatter we stepped into a living area with tall ceilings split by two tiers. A bar and dance floor on the main level. A cozy loft on the upper level connected by a beer bong. Its length of pipe extended to the bottom where beer cans got poured directly into a plastic red funnel. There were also two beer pong tables with games always at play. Each side being represented by its trophy wall mount: a silver-haired stag on one side; a moose with a shaggy muzzle on the other. Each of them crowned with a thirty-rack of PBR. The back wall itself was a single pane of glass. A serene snowscape that showcased snow-covered boulders and a wooden patio embowered by towering pines with bundled needles. There must’ve been as many girls there as guys and there was still more empty space than guests. Usually, parties grew stagnant at high capacity but there wasn’t enough volume to fill such a spacious chamber.

The Cannon Club. An elite class who received nominations to compete with the best ranked skiers in the world. Every generation was there including a handful of old vets who hung around long after retiring their skis to relive the glory of bringing home the gold. Instead of playing out rivalries like they would on the ski slopes, their casual talk competed in every manner of sport.

Albeit, far from what I expected, I was curious enough to stick around and mix it up with those of my supposed ilk.

“This is quite the cocktail party,” I said at last.

“We have places like this all over,” Drake stifled a coming yawn. “If you think this is impressive? Wait until you see the trophy room.”

“Let’s not spoil any surprises now,” said Sal, directing our attention back to the living area. “Look, there’s fellow comrades at the bar. Come.”

I followed coolly in the wake of every conversation Drake made along the way. A flowing stream of dialogue linked by many handshakes and the occasional hug. All of which he finished off with a witty flourish before propelling onto the next one.

I hung back, silent and withdrawn, before being dragged off again. In this way we made for a dark slab of marble off to the side. Above which, a mounted buffalo head on the hewn mantelpiece watched with black marble eyes.

Sal still smiled from ear-to-ear. “I’ll fix us something proper.”

“Look at this hot dog.” Someone said to Drake amidst a group of people at the bar. He leaned back with his elbows resting on the bar top. Wearing a dress shirt with a floral print and neglected buttons.

He held a tumbler in his hand. Half-empty.

“Charming. Already found the bar, have you, Holden?” Drake responded.

“Who said I lost it?” He lifted his tall highball glass before he drained it. “I’ve been here carousing with the Club’s finest. Can I interest you in a shotski with these lovely ladies to my right?”

In a smooth, sweeping gesture Holden motioned towards a Neapolitan trio in three differently colored dresses.

Everyone paused to look my direction as if it hinged on my reply.

“How could we refuse?” Drake said, pulling me in.

Holden grabbed a long wooden ski from off the wall and slapped it down onto the bar. Loud. Five double shot glasses were affixed equidistantly along the length of hickory. He filled them with a bell-shaped bottle of schnapps with tiny gold flakes floating in it.

“A taste of the gold to start another season,” he began, “and for all of us gathered here to engage in dissolute behavior, the only question is: why do we do it to ourselves?”

“Not everybody can do what we do.”

“Or should.” Drake added after Sal.

“Cheers, you phonies!”

The gold flakes swirled as shot glasses lifted. Each of our heads tilted back in unison.

Right away I received a cold greeting from the burn of cinnamon. Its syrupy aftertaste coating my tongue.

“Ah­h, great to be reacquainted, old friend.” Drake said.

“I had the youngest debut on the international circuit here. 16-years-old. Or do you forget?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Holden. That was meant for the shotski.”

“There’s the banter I’ve been missing. How long’s it been?”

“Not long enough. Since Whistler, I’d have to say.”

They embraced each other laughing. But there remained an underlying tension to their friendly exchange.

“Great performance, by the way,” said Holden. “Just don’t forget selections are based on the ranking of an FIS point profile.”

“Later you’re going to tell me about shaped skis. Mark my words. This is my year.”

“It has to be now, doesn’t it? Others may be fooled by your origin story. Only I know better. What was it I heard about last season? Something about a scandal?”

“It was an injury according to official records,” Sal yelled over the blender he had filled to the top with tequila, margarita mix, and lots of ice.

“That killed me. What was it again? A torn knee ligament?”

“It was the meniscus,” said Drake. “Keep acting as if you weren’t expelled from prep school. Granted, I didn’t wind up taking this long by choice, but I’ve put it in the hard work and deserve to be here with the rest.”

“Enough dick measuring already. I don’t know about you, but all of this talk about training isn’t healthy after a race day.”

“Neither is excessive drinking. But we all play to our strengths. Do we not, Holden? Mine? Knowing when another round is needed.” Sal said in a sportive tone.

He righted one of the red plastic cups to fill with margarita mix from the blender.

“And you?”

“Yes?” I coughed into my hand as Holden set his sights on me.

“I know a fresh face when I see it. One of ours?”

“A friend of mine,” Drake stepped aside to let me in.

“I’m along for the ride.”

“Any friend of yours is fine by me. How long have you been with the Academy?”

“It will be my first season.” I kept my answer brief. No need mentioning it was my first season. Ever.

“How rich! I’ll always remember the first season of my club days­. I’m almost jealous. Has he gotten the house tour yet?”

“We’ve hardly made it through introductions,” said Sal.

“Allow me to take over from here,” Holden turned me around with his arm over my shoulder. “Here you’ll find most of the selection for Western Region Projects, mostly the WEST Team and RTG athletes who are all-event winners. Some, like yours truly, are here for a national project. The best skiers ranked from a 4-event selection board to compete in international-level races, including NorAms. The newest recruits are those junior athletes in the back—you’ll find age is a crucial factor for the National Team which produces many world champions. Now, see those jackets over yonder with the U.S. Ski Team decals on each arm and the sponsors in front? In the center of their circle are those paying homage to a timeless tradition, the A Team. Including the U.S. Championships combined champion amongst other major figures in American skiing who earned acclaim in their respective disciplines. Others with multiple career podiums are further scattered along the line. There’s Clay. The indifferent California yuppy at the keg who looks to be drinking from the fountain of youth, he had his World Cup debut at eighteen and made his career off his signature stripped-back minimalism whereas many of the up-and-coming new schoolers experiment on style. The controversial William Lee is a ski junky best known for his almost anti-academic approach with the most record wins in the U.S. Championships while Hal in the white bandana holds the most race wins in a single season with ten World Cup wins. All of them legendary skiers who are nothing short of masters of their sport. Yet, even they degenerated from former giants. World-class skiers with near mystical origins. Often the most unassuming are those with the right stuff. Take that macho-looking alum with the rugged features leaning against the brick wall for example. He lives in a shack without running water. Rooted in skepticism. If you ask him, he doesn’t even like skiing yet he holds five top-15 World Cup finishes and boasts the best super ranking in the room.”

And there was no better access to this community.

“Super ranking?”

“Points calculated from the following three categories: Olympic Games, World Championship, and World Cup. Taking into consideration discipline titles, overall titles, and individual top ten results.”

“So that’s the Club.” I said once he had finished.

“Worthy of mention? You bet. Then there’s those misfortunate ones who flamed out or suffered an injury at the acme of their athletic prowess. Only the rare, chosen few have lasting influence after induction.”

A gruff voice cut in next. “They’re also the sorriest sacks here.”

All heads turned towards a previously unnoticed figure seated at the far end of the bar.

“Ah, how could I forget? The unceremonious guest not socializing with another soul is Hank. The dirty old man himself. Having achieved podium finishes late in his embittered, drunken career, he’s the meanest, most miserable bum of the batch. And the only member who, despite how late you call it quits, will still be here sucking down another long neck with nothing but the moonlight for company.”

“The best kind. You oughta try.” Hank said. His lip forming a horrible crooked line.

“It’s the only recourse we have,” Sal said. “Not that I expect Holden to understand something so nuanced as alumni relations. That could very well be you one day.”

They got interrupted by a group of girls who flocked past in a flying V formation.

Holden was stuck staring their direction. A roguish smile on his face.

“What about honorary members? Are you prepared to give that up?” Sal asked.

“That’s too great a sacrifice for any man, I admit. Fear not, however. The night’s still young.” Holden refilled the shotski and brought everyone’s glasses together, including Hank.

This straightforward manner of delivery was how business should be conducted. As if it were prerequisite to imbibe for the sake of social tact. Like taking holy communion on Sunday morning. In one not so smooth movement half the shot made it into my mouth with the rest spilling down onto my shirt.

I hurried to wipe my chin but everybody else was far too busy to notice.

Back-to-back shots from the shotski worsened my uneasy stomach as they excitedly discussed an upcoming speed project overseas. All around could be seen the golden flash of the Cannon Club emblem upon the jacket lapel or pinned to a collar. I even discovered the Austrian and the team captain of the Park City Ski Team were also invited. Here, even sworn enemies were united by the Club. Where they could talk the day over from the same side.

The elect partied no different than your average get-together. Except they showed wealth by their utter disregard for it. Crumpled up beer cans amongst mostly unfinished drinks covered every dresser and stand. Discarded for the poor cleaners who’d show up next day like housekeeping.

Every so often someone came to plunder liquor from the cabinets. Initially this concerned me as if feeling a sense of duty to watch over these shelves until I heard the condo’s owner didn’t care.

The others soon disappeared from the bar. Sal even took the blender with him.

Behind the counter was a mini fridge jam-packed with beer, a couple wine racks, and cabinets full of every type of liquor imaginable. I found a fifth of bourbon and poured myself a 7&7 before pushing into the crowd. The drink held up to my chest so I needn’t feel empty.

I walked about like an antenna. Trying to receive transmissions on an empty channel while pausing every so often to bring the cup to my mouth. Feeling the cold ice press upon my lips, and sustaining the sensation before moving on.

My free arm outstretched.

There remained that familiar uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. A persistent discomfort in my abdomen. Rumbling. Growing. Further exacerbated by the mixture of whiskey and schnapps.

Without a single clock to be seen the party showed no signs of slowing. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of being dragged along. Growing bored with the current landscape I started to realize social events had to be suffered through on every rung of the ladder.

Midway through rounding the corner I encountered a short girl with dirty-blond hair who wore a gold sequined dress and dangly fish lure earrings. She stepped aside within earshot and waited by the fireplace as I acted like I didn’t see her in the hopes to get her attention. Opening up the floodgates: Did she smile? Should I approach her? Drake surely would.

I mulled over whether it was the drinks or bowls of weed or both that mixed together the lines in my head. Failing to come up with a basic opener when her name was called and she darted off to rejoin her friends. All of them high-heeled and baring lots of skin in their chic monochromatic outfits.

Even with such a golden opportunity at my fingertips it wasn’t for me. This bewildering experience was a stark reminder why I didn’t like parties to begin with. Somehow, someway, someone was always dragging me along with an expectation that it might be different this time.

The last glimmer of their shimmering train faded into the dark along with my bright disposition.

Nowhere else to go. An empty drink in my hand.

I retreated back to the bar. Forever cursing my inability to connect with what’s beautiful.

The buzzing neon light gave off a warm welcome. Loosening the tangled knots in my stomach. Even with Drake and Sal nowhere to be seen.

I went for the Seagram’s 7 and a shot glass which I righted on the counter and it wasn’t until I poured a full bourbon shot that I got startled by the presence of someone new. The bony curve of her shoulder blade poked through the soft sheen fabric of her red dress. Her bare shoulders complimented her golden skin tone which was covered in colorful tattoos. Red roses bloomed over her left shoulder, a pink cat with a curled tail watched coyly from the square of her back, while a peacock feather rested lightly above the sharp curvature of her right collarbone, just below her shoulder-length hair. Dyed red. Shaved on one side. With a star in it.

“It’s never too late for a liquor run,” she said. Her matter-of-fact tone was unnerving. Not so much due to its authority. But by being unexpected.

I was transfixed from the moment we first exchanged looks. Momentarily slain by the intensity of her stare as I was at the awards ceremony. Tati Monserrat. We crossed paths yet again and here I was fated to have another chance.

When I failed to respond she spoke instead.

“Since you’re already back there, that pretty much makes you the bartender, right?”

She radiated with the intensity of a red-hot branding iron. Becoming ensnared by the sarcasm like an unsuspecting victim, my mood lightened.

“I can be. What’s your poison?”

“A martini, please. Dry. One olive.”

“Ah, a lady who knows what they want. That I can do.” I couldn’t. But I swore there was a tiny response, if even a tiny smirk as I fumbled to fulfill her order. “Let’s see if there’s the necessary tools I require around here, sure you don’t want me to dirty it up?”

“No, thanks.” She answered straightaway.

“As you wish.”

Behind the counter I found bitters, Vermouth, triple-sec, and a stainless-steel measuring set and cocktail shaker.

With all the ingredients required at my disposal I figured there was at least some chance of fixing a beverage to her liking. So to distract her from how I awkwardly handled the cocktail shaker, I asked her a question. Something simple. Basic.

“Enjoying your night?”

“So far so good.” She said without looking up from her phone.

Strike one. I squared up to bat again.

“What brings you here? Partying with friends?”

“Umm, yeah. Pretty much.”

She continued scrolling.

Strike two. I took another swing. Spilling ice out of the cocktail shaker in the process.

“Cool. Have you been here awhile?”

“Too long.”

My attempt shot wide.

Strike out. Except the spirit in my veins refused to call it quits. Giving me the liberty to keep chipping at the icy barrier between us.

“Same. Except I just arrived and already want to leave.”

Her eyebrows raised. Setting her sights on me in the first outward show of interest thus far as I slid her my best interpretation of a famous drink.

I followed her gaze as she eyed the oddly shaped, thinly stemmed glass.

She sipped from it once, twice. “Almost good,” she said with finality.

“Not too bad for a tasteless amateur. Good thing you hadn’t left.”

“It’s super strong.”

“To get you where you’re going faster.”

I handed her a bottled water but she waved it off.

“That’s a good thing. Why’d you come if it’s so terribly boring?”

“Great question. Except the answer is far worse. One of my teammates felt like they owed me a favor.”

“Drake, I presume? You both walked in no more than twenty minutes ago, and here I thought I was overdramatic.”

I wasn’t sure if she was yanking my chain or not, but it felt like much longer than that.

“In some ways I’m meeting him for the first time despite weeks of training together.”

“No judgment there. I can see what you mean.” She checked her cellphone. “Ugh, I’m supposed to be celebrating with the girls. That likely means a couple more parties before my obligation ends.”

She laid her intense gaze on me like a set trap. The most blinding feature of all. Her sparkling green eyes. Like a jaguar in the jungle. Intense, and always watching. Their penciled black lids evoking an Egyptian goddess. Setting my soul ablaze.

“Congratulations on earning hard charger, by the way.”

“Don’t you love how I’m pitted with Drake when, penalties aside, my times were faster than that precious team captain of yours.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize.”

I paused to scratch my head. With how consumed I was by the proceedings and how it affected our club I didn’t once stop to consider the rankings from other groups.

Amused by my befuddlement, she spoke on.

“Don’t worry. You’ll never meet a greater threat to the established order. There will come a time when the top snow is saved for the best skier. Period. And I could care less about awards which uphold traditions better suited for the dominant male field.”

“You’re also not part of the Club, I take it?”

“Letting ladies in was, let’s say, a bit of an afterthought. But they’ll have to make room nonetheless. I’ll tell it to you straight. If it were up to me, we’d have left here hours ago. Or better yet I wouldn’t have showed up at all.”

She grabbed the pimiento stuffed olive between her thumb and forefinger, her nails painted the same scarlet hue as her lips, and paused before it met the smooth round edges of her pearly whites.

“I take it back.”

“What’s that?”

“The congratulations.”

Her head snapped back as she laughed. Loudly. Cackling no more than three times.

“Good.­ It wasn’t necessary. Thanks for the drink. Maybe I’ll see you later on?”

“Maybe. If I feel like sticking around.”

She popped the smooth green olive in her mouth and left.

I broke away from the eternal burning of her stare with nothing else to say. Dejected. Put down. I felt more scattered than the water rings left by the used, perspiring glasses left on the counter.

But what was this in my periphery? The supple nape of her slender body had made a full return. Settling with both of her arms on the bar top.

Instead of catching my sidelong glances of affection she appeared anxious in her search for something.

“Any more I can help with?”

Her soft red lips parted into a thin line which separated smile from frown.

“Doubtful. I appreciate it, though. Sounds like the girls have another place lined up. Some bar on Main Street. But we might come back. Who knows? We’re going to discuss it further over a cigarette. Only I need a damn lighter.”

Much to her surprise I tossed her my matchbook.

“I’ve got smokes too. They’re not menthols. But should scratch that itch.”

“I smoke Marlboro Red 100s, thank you. But that’s sweet of you.”

“My treat.”

“I can leave them at the bar before I leave,” she said. To which, I waved her off.

She stood up to go. Then shot back another look, beautiful as it was stunning. “I hope you get all that you want from tonight.”

She softly bit her lip. I was unable to respond due to my doorstop tongue.

“And never stop taking chances for what you want.”

She leaned over to set down her empty glass.

“If things get bleak enough maybe we can leave together?” I began to babble. My words spilling out like dribble onto my chin.

But despite half-joking, my brazen attempt at being forward with her might have paid off.

“If I happen to make it back. Otherwise, take care of yourself. And thanks again for the drink.”

“Glad to be of service.”

She broke off after that. I was left to consider the curves which set her apart. Gawking at the pink cat tattoo on the square of her back until it disappeared from view altogether. Her spikey-toed stilettos echoing their potential to kill with every step.

Alone at the bar. Again.

Or so I thought.

“Looking good, Romeo,” said the barfly Hank who was there all along. Flashing a chipped, yellow smile.

I raised my shot glass to him.

Throughout all my bouts of isolated bitterness I never felt this alone. The walls were caving in and brought with it the whole damn ceiling. Nearing despair, I contemplated my exit plan. But all I could do was look over a room full of rank and pedigree. A healthy overgrowth of the world’s most formidable skiers.

My head went rushing to the whims of desire. I scanned the party two to three times before spotting Holden on the dance floor.

The song ended and he slid out the glass doors to the back patio.

I finally took the bourbon shot.

It wasn’t until it reached my lips that the small fly could be seen floating in it. I downed it nevertheless before plodding out behind Holden.

Stepping outside was an icy plunge which stripped the oxygen from your lungs. I climbed up snowy wooden steps to an uncovered hot tub. The bromine box belching steam into a black sky that answered with soft fluffy flakes which sizzled in contact with the bubbly surface.

First thing which caught the eye were the two topless blondes. Drake bobbed somewhere between. His cheeks flushed at the star treatment. Already stripped down to his underwear.

Somehow their drunken cacophony drowned out the partying inside the condo as they beckoned us inside with them.

“Join us! The water’s fine.”

Where I was caught off guard by the prompt directive, Holden had already cast off his clothing and practically dove in. Although sufficiently heady off the drugs and liquor, my better faculties prevented me from diving right in. My reservations had less to do with soaking my bones than meeting the inevitable cold afterwards. Even despite the alcohol thinning the blood in my capillaries I was hesitant in the most comfortable situations, and repellant to all that was deemed fun or lighthearted.

“Where you been?” Drake called out to me through the swirling vapor. “We almost sent out an amber alert.”

I didn’t bother belaboring the point that he left me alone to begin with.

The topless girls giggled to each other from the other side of the hot tub. They had light blue eyes and could’ve been twins as they smoked their slim cigarettes.

My interests were piqued by the fleeting snippets of a foreign tongue picked up by my ears. Whether Swedish, German, or Russian, I had no clue, but its effects were equally intoxicating even without a drink.

“Vhat a kanone you are,” the blonde one with short bangs purred softly in Drake’s ear. “The French have a word for it, no?”

“Glissement.” The other one with golden-haired braids answered on his other side. Speaking with a slight lisp through her diastema.

“Speaking of glisse,” Holden added: “I’m surprised those hairpin turns didn’t take you out.”

Drake fired back with aplomb.

“Whatever it takes to clinch the title with panache.”

“Still the number one bullshitter in the game. Some things never change.”

I hung off to the side having little to contribute to the conversation. Staring at a corner jet as Holden’s mock flattery of Drake resumed. I slipped in and out. Airy, light. Like the exhale after a ripping bong hit. Letting go and vanishing into the collected vapors of my hazy mind when the voice of a drunken siren lured me in.

“’Scuse me?” The second blonde spoke in a husky, throaty voice. Her curvaceous figure bobbing my direction. “Vanna feel me ‘up?”

She stuck an empty cup in my face.

I burned hotter than the steamy 104-degree Fahrenheit water as I searched in the dark for a thermally insulated bottle of suspiciously clear liquid.

Still riding the high of my earlier interaction at the bar I attempted to stimulate a conversation. But unlike before where the talk progressed naturally, I chatted her up to no avail. Eventually hitting an awkward note that persisted until the excruciating end when I had finished topping off her cup.

“Dzhanks, ‘ave some if you vant,” she said before swimming back to her friend.

My stomach gave a gut-wrenching twinge as soon as my nostrils met the repulsive smell of unfiltered vodka. But I needed to preoccupy myself somehow so I filled up my cup and reached for the next best crutch to support my nerves only to remember I no longer had any matches.

“Sorry, but any chance either of you ladies can lend a spark?” I asked, only to encounter too late that I had butt into their private aside. They began to whisper to each other in a mix of broken English with their native tongues.

I felt a cold chill pass by.

The one with pouty lips spoke back. In an air reeking of privilege or boredom. Her thick accent contrasted sharply with her sunken cheeks.

“Dzhats surprising, no?” She pointed out to her friend.

“What? Me smoking? What’s so unbelievable about it?”

“You don’ seem lik zee type.”

She gave it to me like the thin cigarette smoking between her boney knuckle. Unfiltered.

“Dzhat’s a good zing, no? Dzhank, God.”

“Halleluiah.” I exclaimed.

I used her cigarette to light mine and handed it back. She continued on with an honesty that cut deeper than what could be expected from the boys.

“Dzhat boyish face, it deceives, no?”

“No deception here. Just another filthy human being with an irredeemable habit.” I sucked on the lit fuse. Dragging on it with newfound contentment.

Before long, I fell back into my cup. Struggling to keep a straight face while I drank up their tasteless swill. Being a natural born recluse meant living in isolation led to near crippling social anxiety. But when it came to the social games one had to simply play sometimes. We even managed to talk collectively for a couple minutes or two before the glass patio doors slid open.

“Is that who I think it is stumbling out here?” Holden drew the attention of the group over to where a half-recognizable figure stopped halfway across the snowy square to relieve his bladder on an evergreen sapling.

“We nearly called it quits for the night,” Drake said.

“Without your special delivery? That I find hard to believe,” said the newcomer, mounting the wooden flight of steps to the patio.

“Look girls! Duke arrived.”

“Right on schedule at the wrong time, as usual,” Duke gave a tiny bow.

He wore shorts and a white bucket hat that covered his balding head. A thin ribbon of smoke streamed from a cigarette holder in his crooked teeth. In both arms he cradled a faded leather briefcase to his chest.

Sal’s familiar face poked out behind him. Never had I been so happy to see him again. Hard to believe we nearly expired at the bottom of a cliff mere hours ago.

“Guess who else we ran into?”

There passed a marked change in Drake’s disposition. One of a an almost superstitious reverence which left him quaking. Pale as a ghost.

“Don’t tell me he’s here.” He gulped.

“He’s awaiting your arrival.”

“Where?”

Sal gestured towards the second floor of the condo.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Every subsequent inquiry from there got dismissed by Drake with a knowing wink. The blonde with bangs bent over the side of the hot tub for a bright beach towel.

“Look everybody, there’s a full moon out.” Drake remarked, unable to miss an easy cue.

She shot him a look of pure venom over her shoulder as if taken back by the attention drawn to her backend. Then she wiggled her bare hips.

“Not sure who caught the weather report, but the forecast calls for one-hundred percent chance of snowfall.” Holden stood up out of the water, completely in the nude.

I looked upwards as if dazed, momentarily confused.

“Do you like night skiing?” Holden asked me forthright. Tapping a finger to his nose.

“Some don’t?”

“Touché. I’d say it’s the perfect conditions for the most expensive headache around. Onward we go.”

Motivated by an eagerness only the promise of cocaine can provide, Drake and the girls hopped out of the hot tub and, after using the same towel to dry themselves off quickly, ran up the snow-stepped staircase to the upper deck. Holden and Sal skipped behind them with interlocking arms.

I stamped out my cigarette before climbing up with labored breath. Feeling absolutely miserable. My sore legs trembling. Wrenched over as if two great hands had reached into my body cavity to wring out my intestines.

These were only the symptoms of an indigestion that struck without fail at even the mere mention of snorting blow. Which was notoriously laced with laxatives and talcum powder as it was. My bowels loosening in a sick thank you of sorts which left me gripping the snowy handrails. In wait for the brow-perspiring flare up to subside.

The vertical slats of the blinds on the sliding door swayed above heavily-polished parquet flooring. We entered what appeared to be a private study converted into a trophy room. Old, mildew-smelling books with broken spines lined the shelves like crumbling tomes. The wooden-paneled walls softly lit by display lighting. Illuminating, here and there, a stuffed woodcock or grouse enshrined amongst a pageantry of other trophy fowl with beautiful plumage and colorful crests mounted on dusty wooden stands or up on the wall. Permanently in mid-flight.

It wasn’t until we all had entered that someone cleared their throat.

Contrary to my initial belief, this otherwise stuffy chamber wasn’t empty. Seated there in an elegant leather chair, reddish-brown, with a deep seat and wide armrests, before an unlit fireplace which hissed the charred remnants of a once great fire, our entry prompted the stirrings of a previously unseen individual whose statue-like appearance could’ve equally been made by a taxidermist’s hand. The rugged older man was unshaven with a classical tuft of receding hair on his crest. He wore a khaki safari jacket in which the untied belt hung loosely like ornamental strips of mantling. His aloof disposition somewhat betrayed the air made heavy by his presence.

He raised up from the club chair at his leisure. Half a burnt cigar rested in the vintage green marble ashtray beside him. Slowly, he took a few steps towards us. A slight limp in his step as he kissed each of the girls on the cheek.

“Is this our prospect?” He asked Sal. The first to receive him.

Drake immediately jumped forth to take his wrinkled, elegant hand, which, being oversized in comparison nearly clasped all of his as he beheld his idol like an overeager fanboy who got led away from the group to speak privately aside in front of a shut door.

The always cool and collected Holden picked right up from where he left off earlier. Bridging the silence.

“There are icons of American exceptionalism, like cowboys, astronauts, and athletes. Living ideals of every man. Forerunners who in former days bore the brand for every subsequent harbinger to further push the envelope. With true grit. If not all the hallmark traits of distinction. And that dignified, healthy-looking gentleman over there is a giant amongst men. Which is why we affectionately refer to him as Papa. One of the most famous American skiers of the last century, he held twenty-seven World Cup titles until suffering a career ending injury. How Picasso called Cezanne. He’s the father of us all.

“And whenever great talent gathers such as this, they’re like shining stars who share the night sky. Rarely do they stand out alone. Much like the masters who outperform by virtue of fidelity. Whose mere presence can illumine other objects in their surroundings, often transforming their character or place of origin. Judging from their illustrious record and lasting influence upon mountain tops they’ll withstand the strength of any winter force. Distinguished at home and abroad as a world-class skier. A special breed of athlete with a penchant for facing the steepest inclines and extending the horizon for others to follow. Even in the twilight of his career, the carved lineaments of Papa’s worn countenance reflected his personal style. Simple on the surface with long reverberations in each line. Master of subtext. In which every wrinkle, crack, crease, and split tells a story in one true sentence. Either short or in long-form.”

“He’s one of the mad ones all right,” said Sal. “Talk about stories. He raced as an expat between the world wars.”

“But he returned. That’s what counts.”

Sal walked over to join them. Positioning himself beside the door. His hand on the handle.

“He’s ready to see you now,” were the only words I heard Papa say before Drake entered inside. Sal shut the door behind him.

“Part of every cycle to great renown is the premature death of a short-lived career. Allowing for a rebirth that forever etches one’s legacy into the annals of living memory. Only a skier that’s valorous and of high caliber knows how tumultuous that can be. The invasion of privacy and personal loss becomes the ruin of many names worthy of mention who slip like grains of sand through the cracks. Talk about a catch-22.” While Holden talked, the further the alumni got in proximity to us. It felt sublime to witness a living legend during their athletic decline in which it was possible to pick out every visible chink in the armor. Like taking an honest stab at Achilles’ heel. Almost.

Holden quickly rushed over. Leaving me to continue playing spectator. The older gentleman gladly received him with a fondness only shown by a father and when he spoke, his loud, thunderous voice became vibrant and full of life. As if living vicariously through new generations of fresh talent.

Once he had finished shaking hands for the sake of formalities, the venerable Papa, winded, wheezy, and puffed up to a degree no different than one of the stuffed birds laying around, withdrew to the private chamber. A full snifter of rye whiskey in hand. Walking proof that the day you ever got noticed for your abilities was the beginning of your downfall.

Drake exited the room.

He stood there aghast. Blazoned with the look of a former initiate. Unblinking, wide eyes. Mouth agape. His already fair skin drained of all its color and visibly shaken.

“What an absolute honor it is,” he sputtered, unable to contain himself. “To have met the infamous no-tuck bomber. Who carved his name with the best skiers in the world for every future generation to live up to. A long legacy uncontested, and unbroken. He says to make ourselves comfortable with the humble lodgings. Never in all my life have I been so speechless.”

“Talk about sucking the air out of the room.”

“You don’t get it, Holden. He’s a legend. The quintessential ideal of a skier by all manner of appearances. Historians could fill volumes regarding the exploits and adventures preserved by Club lore. Yet he’s managed to led a life of relative anonymity despite the status of his name. Our old founder and the first to take U.S. ski racing to the world stage would’ve been proud,” Drake solemnly nodded towards a sketched portrait above the mantel of an aged skier with both of his ski poles planted on the mountainside, his blue eye wilder than his gray hair. A twisted flowing wreath that tangled with his beard like a silver garland round a youthful face with rosy cheeks not unlike their own. Engraved in large characters on a gold plate affixed to the wooden frame were the letters GC, Gent.

“Don’t be such a phony,” said Holden. “What was that he called you, The Prospect?”

“It holds a certain gravitas, does it not?”

“For such an appellation, you must feel blessed.”

“Rightfully so. And how fortuitous that we’ll get to venerate the icon with pure snow,” Drake raised his drink to Sal who motioned towards Duke.

“Let’s make some noses bleed.” Duke said, spilling most of his rum drink to dig into what he called his doctor bag. Moments later he produced a flakey white rock that shone in his hand like a walnut-sized disco ball.

“Try not to lose the contraband, Drake.”

“Spare me the lecture, Holden.”

The European girls giggled amongst themselves.

“Get comfortable, everybody,” said Sal, pulling out a dark green square-shouldered bottle from the freezer of the mini bar.

The blonde with the pouty face squealed with delight.

“Ooh, I recognize dat. Master of zee hunt.”

“What, this? A little digestif.”

He walked over to the couch with the frosted bottle of herbal liqueur in one hand. A stack of tall shot glasses in the other.

I sat beside him with Holden on his other side. Drake, still sandwiched between his golden-haired ladies, took the adjacent couch. Duke refused a seat altogether. He merely waited for full payment to be provided before dumping the shiny rock onto a decorative mirror plate with a nonchalance that made our mouths ache. Our jittery eyes unable to divert focus from Drake who used his Amex Gold Card to flatten the large white chunks into a finely crushed powder. Sal poured out shots of the black liqueur for each of us. Its sludgy botanical aftertaste like a licorice syrup which agitated my stomach further.

Duke spoke in the meantime. “My regular guy had to seek psychological help. Which, don’t get me wrong, he needed. But it kinda put me in a bind so I had to resort to a known rip-off and charlatan.”

Another rogue stir below. Followed by another.

The very anticipation of waiting affected the physiology of my body for the worse. My discomfort grew until I could stand it no longer and had to ask Sal, who was becoming totally engrossed by the festive activities, where the closest bathroom was. He pointed towards a hallway.

I nearly ran out the trophy room.

Down the hallway. Down to the end where I sought total privacy in a bathroom with basalt stone walls and marble floor.

The biggest upside being there was no line for the toilet.

I couldn’t help but close my eyes while sitting there. Desperately hoping nobody from the party found me.

When finished it was like I was born again. Up until I tried flushing the toilet.

Its soupy contents of the bowl began to swirl and slowly rise up. Then stopped. I frantically checked under the sink while the tank refilled.

One hand on the handle, I tried flushed again. Praying for the drain to unclog.

Water rose up to the porcelain rim. Nearly spilling over and flowing onto the white-tiled floor if I hadn’t twisted the shut-off valve behind the toilet.

I checked helplessly around when someone came whistling down the hallway.

The closer he got, the clearer he became. Short, curly hair. His almost cartoonish bespectacled face and mustache drawn with the straight, smooth lines which distinguished them. He came wearing yellow rubber kitchen gloves and wielding a plunger.

“Call me Kilgore.”

That was all he said as he waved around the wooden stick with a red rubber bulb.

“Pleased to meet you.” I briefly offered him my hand before retracting it. “I sure appreciate the help.”

“I’m more than happy to jump in when necessary.”

“How’d you know I needed that?”

I gestured to the plunger.

“This plot stinks, don’t you think?”

The sparse word choice of this character might’ve been minimalist but he reeked of chain-smoking cigarettes and could’ve been mistaken for the handyman given his presentation.

“Yeah, about that. I can explain.”

“No need. It’s self-explanatory. Drake’s guest, I imagine?”

“If you’re asking whether we ski together, then I confess. We arrived here with Sal.”

“Allow me to apologize for the bumpy ride.”

I shot him a bewildered look as if he accessed the inner sanctum of my mind. He stuck the plunger into the murky toilet bowl.

Plunge. Plunge. Plunge. Plunge.

He paused plunging to explain. His mustached face revealing a blend of dark humorous wit.

“I don’t have to be there to see what I know.”

“That sure tells a story.”

Plunge, plunge, pause. “You haven’t read much by Diedrich Knickerbocker, I take it.”

“Who?”

“Well-known Dutch-American historian.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“One should be acquainted with the adventures of our countryman Captain Bonneville. If not the Leatherstocking Tales. Anyhow, I’ve nearly unblocked the toilet drain. Let’s give it a few more plunges for good measure.”

“What am I even doing here?” I confided in him further.

“Y’know, I used to ask the same thing myself.” Plunge. Plunge. Plunge.

“Have you been here long?”

He paused to consider my question, gazing into his reflection between two mirrors which faced each other.

“Can’t say. I’ve come and gone so often. You could say I’ve been here a lifetime, or several.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. It’s something I wonder often to myself.”

A loud sucking pop ensued. Followed by a swirling flush of the unclogged toilet.

“My work here is done,” he said, pulling off his rubber gloves.

“Sorry again about the mess,” I began, but he was already outside in the bathroom with only his head poking in the frame.

“Blockages happen. We all clog our fair share of toilets. So it goes.”

Exit stage left. He disappeared back from where he came.

I returned to the room with the others. They instantly quieted down as if they were waiting for me. Drake was first to make mention of my absence.

“I ran into a man named Kilgore,” I said.

“That old fish?” Drake and Holden laughed.

This odd response left me with an unsettled feeling.

“He was a lifeline when I needed it. Do you know him?”

“Do we know him? He was inducted long ago.”

I couldn’t believe it. At no point leading up to this did I consider him to be part of the Club.

“I’d be careful reading too much into his stories,” said Drake. To which, Holden further added:

“He’s ever-present even when he’s absent.”

Seven neatly racked lines on the table turned to five after Drake pressed his face to the glass. A rolled up hundred-dollar bill stuck in his nose. “One can’t put a price on good old fashion fun,” he said. “Somehow, some way, you always manage to bring the party. What a pleasure it is to share in your presence.”

“Maybe one day that will reciprocate.” Duke scoffed at the mere mention.

“Come now, I must offer something in return. Oh, and ladies, you’re up.”

“I don’t reckon,” said Duke. “Especially not for all the favors I do.”

The bravado ensued.

Slowly, the rotation circled. Of which, I was located on the opposing end.

Only four lines left.

Now just three.

Then two.

One.

“Where’s the tooter?” I asked. A hand on my knee to stop it from shaking like a jackhammer.

Drake, rubbing his puffy red nose, a diamond glint in his eye, reached for another snot-encrusted rolled up hundo stuffed inside his shirt pocket.

The force of a revolver blasted apart my skull. The burning drip told me straight away this was stronger than the stepped-on shit we’re used to back in the valley. Sinuses numbed already, I choked on the words taking permanent lodging in my throat. With every regular pleasure growing steadily intolerable.

The plate now cleared for more lines to follow.

Drake used his card to separate more broken chunks from the mini mound of cut powder. His once smooth movements becoming increasingly erratic each time the process repeated. Their four voices gradually filled the size of the small room as they conversed freely about their favorite topic: competing on the world circuit while pushing their abilities to the max. Drake would try to steer until Holden, now more wired with energy than before, effortlessly stole the spotlight back. Sal too showcased his fair share of witticisms. Backed by his syncopated stream-of-conscious rhythm. Occasionally they’d veer off onto other favorite topics like performance enhancement.

“What can I say about my penchant for speed? Maybe I’m addicted to operating at high performance.” Sal said, to which he attempted to explain. “It’s preferred. That’s all. It’s like climbing a mountain after a night of binging uppers. What’s Duke got to say? Let’s hear the doctor’s opinion on the matter.”

“You mean something along the lines of topping the podium high on coke and two hits of acid after submitting clean piss for the drug screen? Gonzo.”

Now with Duke weighing in, the room grew over-crowded with newly competing voices.

“How do you do it?” The European girls asked.

“It’s all mostly show,” Holden answered for him.

“Like your old hunting cap,” said Duke, sneering.

“That’s right,” said Sal. “Don’t forget worn backwards.”

“Hush now. The ‘doctor’ can explain it himself with his crummy storytelling.”

A dark shadow fell over Duke as he spoke next.

“I plan to keep it up until I can’t. Then I’ll go out with a bang.”

The girls broke into laughter.

Every line ripped through the soft, spongy membrane of the nasal cavity. I embraced being captive to the endless turnstile of topics, most of which pointed back to Drake who sifted through the glittery clumps to rack more lines.

The first-round excitement had long worn off and diminished each subsequent line. Along with any pleasure I may have previously felt.

Duke, formerly cool and collected, was equally on edge. Being the difference of doping in controlled measures versus abusing vast quantities of drugs in every manner possible, he was disturbed, shaken by the slightest pin-drop as he shifted in his seat until Sal asked if he might have something to take the edge off.

“Hmmm… lemme think about that.”

Duke consulted his briefcase with the air of a rogue businessman.

He threw at least a half-ounce onto the table, saying: “Of course I do. Question is, are you lot going to be ready for it?”

“When have I been known to rest upon my laurels?” asked Holden.

“The moment they were assumed, dear boy.”

Once more, Duke fumbled through the miscellaneous paraphernalia including, but not limited to, uppers, downers, zingers, stingers, and poppers. He resurfaced brandishing a newfound grin along with an orange screw-cap bottle of prescription medicine and an unopened pack of sweet cigars.

“Now that the brain’s fired up let’s dowse the flames with a beela.”

“What’s that?” Drake asked.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Somehow despite his every idiosyncratic quirk, Duke opened up not one, but two swisher sweets and hollowed them out.

I quickly hit a sluggish pace despite everyone else soaring high.

A slump brought about by the clashing voices. Always at each other’s throats. Vying to be heard. I had to strain through what felt like pure torture for another pick me up. Waiting upwards of twenty minutes at times for what amounted to thirty seconds of satisfaction. Repeat. Bumping one after another. The wear of this routine soon became reflected in the transparency of our smooth, glassy faces.

I was the only one not talking. The trophy room shrank smaller with each painstaking pass. The lump in my throat refusing to vacate its lodgings while the top half of my face leaked onto my shirt.

By this time Duke had successfully fused the two cigars together at the ends to roll up over an eighth of sticky chronic broken up with his bare hands. Resulting in a blunt so long it required two hands to support.

“Behold. A be-legit for your bitch ass,” he admired his creation with a smile.

“You learned something in school after all,” Drake admired the craftsmanship.

“I picked up this tek from a couple Frisco cats who would sling thizz by the jar. And now for the finishing touch, a shiny red cherry on top…” Duke lifted a four-ounce amber bottle half-filled with viscous artificially flavored cough syrup.

“What goodies have you in store?”

“A dose of promethazine codeine.”

“You mean a low-grade opiate?”

“In the same class nonetheless. Don’t mind the scratched off label. It took two bogus doctor appointments for me to score.” With utmost care he applied a liberal coat along the length of the ruler-sized spectacle.

“That’s why we call him Doctor,” added Sal.

“Damn straight. Wait—was that the bottle of lean or dropper acid?”

For the first time a flash of worry showed on Drake’s face.

“What do you mean? Like LSD?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Duke gave me a knowing wink.

Drake merely crossed his arms. His nose stuck in the air.

“A couple extra licks. Apply some pressure. Run a flame over it. Then top it off with a shake of kief to give it a nice spackle-finish, voila! Don’t mind the wetness. We’ll be dripping from our earholes soon enough.”

The tip fired off like a Fourth of July sparkler at the first inhale, which mellowed out Duke to his normal off-kilter self. After taking a couple sustained drags, he passed it to his lefthand side.

Once again, I was caught on the wrong side of the rotation.

The newly added haze did little to stem the flow of conversation. In fact, their chatter increased. The paper was so wet that the beela burned out as it reached Drake’s sweaty palms.

This required him to stop cutting lines long enough to bring a lit flame to his lips when Duke exploded with unexpected rage: “Not like that! It won’t burn properly causing it to run.”

About as quickly as Mr. Hyde came out, he was hidden for Dr. Jekyll to play cool with ladies present, brushing off the outburst as if done in jest.

“No worse than your sinuses. But contrary to popular belief I’ve smoked a blunt before.”

Drake cherried the charred tip before proceeding to cough out half a lung.

We enjoyed a good laugh at his expense while Drake weakly puffed once, twice more before passing it to me.

The moment the franken-blunt left your lips your fingertips vibrated. A tingly sensation which uplifted every cell of my body every hit.

There came more lines to face. Followed by hard pats on the back.

Soon exhausted, I wanted nothing more than to break free of this endlessly repeating cycle. Then things took a nasty turn as the conversation meandered its way towards me.

“I haven’t heard your name yet. You’ve been mighty quiet all night. You’re also from Carbonado?” Duke simply had to ask.

“I’m on their roster, for now,” I said.

“How come we never saw you today–er, yeah never mind,” he backpedaled at the others’ stern, nonverbal reproach. “Sorry—Sal mentioned what you did.”

“Still, this is a great opportunity to get to know our acquaintance better. He is competition, after all” said Holden, pressing further. What’s your discipline?”

“Good question.”

“There’s an air of mystery with this one.” They all laughed.

“I wish I was joking.”

“Even the most humbled skier knows in what they excel.”

“I’m no skier. Not yet, at least.”

This last response counteracted his dumbfounded look with one which bordered on shock and horror.

“At least not until I’ve raced.”

The room fell silent. Dead silent. Having been exposed on the spot.

Only Drake, the master of ceremonies for the evening, couldn’t help from feeling obliged to vouch for my uncontested character.

“He’s a little late to the party is all,” he said, quickly jumping to defend my honor. “Wait until you see this maniac on downhill. Or any speed event for that matter. He’s the real deal. A champ since our first race together and after having trained hours on the mountain together I’m glad to be racing for the same club.”

Sal, summoning up the rogue elements which made him a reluctant icon, spoke up next. “Having been a lionized young skier, the result doesn’t matter anymore. Win some lose some. You’re bound for a super ranking. I’m sure of it.”

“In a way, Drake, he’s the true winner today. If not for his DQ there’d be no savior role for you to play. And I say this in good faith knowing the added incentive to break records for the win, we’ve seen this before.”

Both blondes sat there on Drake’s either side. Visibly bored. Hands clasped on their laps until talk circled back to themselves and I was safe again.

Regardless of intent, I couldn’t help from feeling patronized by such a defining statement. By not competing I lost by default. They were double and triple winners who were all too quick to offer sage advice from Duke’s altered skiing to Sal’s practice of standing on his head three to five minutes a day. What they couldn’t answer for was the ineffable quality they possessed which marked them a born winner. Dumb luck.

Having been caught in the chase of expecting something new, something magical and exciting, the hunt had abruptly ended. Here the trophies were preserved by taxidermy like the spoils of conquest of some bygone era. With the man of the hour being no different than a trussed-up bull on the altar or a burnt offering.

Lungs burning, a hummingbird fluttered in my chest as if it might explode. I was beyond blunted. I was bagged, bludgeoned, and beaten into submission.

Paranoia sunk in. While pangs of indigestion struck with every scratchy, metallic drip.

Their rising laughter broke up the thickening cloud of smoke. And we were only midway through with a whole blunt to go.

“I still can’t think of a better performance than today,” continued Sal.

“Me either,” said Duke.

“And Holden?”

“I’ll commend your ability to rebound after bending your skis through the turn. But that’s all.”

“Because the body is a center of mass, right?”

“You mean center of gravity?”

“Same difference. The end result is the medal.”

“Speaking of metal, Sal,” said Holden. “It only molds if tested and the time is nigh for Drake.”

“As if I haven’t proven my mettle. Today I took gold. The books are open at last.”

“Nothing lasts. That’s for certain.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sal. What’s all this meddling supposed to prove?”

“If its noble or not.”

To which Holden added: “AKA phonies!”

“Who’s a phony?” Drake asked.

“Those with a weak constitution, we’ll say.”

“You’ll find I’m the touchstone of success soon enough.”

“First, let’s see what the season brings,” said Holden.

“We can take this onto the mountain right now if you’d like?” Drake attempted to stand but was blocked by the husky blond who placed a single doll-sized hand on his chest. “I’d rather swallow blood before my pride.”

“As you should. We’re not beholden to anybody. That’s what makes or breaks us,” Holden said, and as he spoke his eyes became far off, and distant as the swelling ocean depths. “Even with differing styles we aim for the same result. Win. I’m a rather solitary creature in the offseason, truth be told. You can’t tell me you only do this for glory.”

Drake’s demeanor softened as quickly as his tempers flared. Like an Atlas unencumbered by shrugging off his heavy load.

“Why else race? It’s not exactly egalitarian.”

Sal added: “Nor altruistic. I’m not responsible for how others perform. That’s true freedom.”

“How charitable of you to speak as if we have free will.” Duke said to more shared laughter. Sal poured out another round of digestifs. The botanical smell alone made my stomach turn. Aiding with indigestion.

All of this talking with nothing to say. Privileged members. All of them still paying tuition well beyond their heyday. And the more they spoke about their gamesmanship the more it started to lack substance. Obsessing over their victories as if they were notches on their belts, from number of wins, overall titles, discipline titles, and podiums. Fixed on the same determinacy which allowed religion and science to rule every major social institution. Even the formerly beautiful foreigners were no more than a living symbol of newfound interest that inevitably fades. What I was most concerned about was the way I bombed down the slopes at breakneck speeds.

Haunted by specters of paranoia, and without a sole consolation, it dawned on me I didn’t belong. Not a single person knew me and there was nothing for me here. Or at least not like there was for others in my company.

A crushing weight had settled upon my chest. Stifling each breath. The others were lost to fits of unbearable laughter while the couch I sat on became a pokey pincushion beneath me. Making it excruciating to sit patiently on and wait my turn. The plastic cup of vodka which remained untouched turned surprisingly warm in my cold, sweaty hands. I stuck around as they chewed the fat to the bone. The mental stew reaching its boiling point somewhere between rounds of the mirror plate until I got edged out and cut from the circle entirely with each subsequent pass.

I sought the magic words to grant my escape. Like a prisoner unable to finish their sentence.

After one last look around at the dead birds decorating the walls I asked if anyone else wanted to step out for a smoke.

But Drake was too busy tending to his entourage. On track for a World Cup debut at age twenty he had nothing to lose. Destined to add his name to the golden book with all the rest worthy of mention.

The shock of freezing cold air decelerated my rapid heart rate and it wasn’t until the sliding door shut behind me that I remembered I couldn’t smoke a cigarette.

Breathing steadily relaxed. Although both feet felt numb in the hard crusted snow and my head continued to throb even after my removal from the previous setting. The rubbing alcohol in my cup screwed up my face worse than my stomach. Puckered into a fitting reminder of my present disgust as I dumped it over the balcony with a shudder.

Being Cannon Club material was a badge of honor reserved for those who defied the norm. Those chosen few who competed on nothing less than water-injected race courses. Trenchant luminaries with moxie. Fated to be the champions and heroes of written history. Whereas I was barely starting to give this an honest go.

Regardless of the time lost, I was learning the competition was all for show and that I’d rather dwell in obscurity than be a dazzling light for others to fixate on for a night.

It wasn’t long before a gaping space emptied up inside that only the need for more coke could fill. Once more I made up my mind to return for another pick-me-up but the sliding door wouldn’t open. Whether locked from the inside or a subtle hint to stay out, I knew one thing for sure. I wouldn’t be tapping on the glass in the hopes of regaining entry. Abandoning that portal to pleasure and pain altogether held greater appeal than ramping up my vexations with added lines or trying to smooth talk in my common tongue, let alone a foreign one.

By now the sharp burn in my nostril had long lost its edge. I could only ponder the remaining hours until being home. That and the search for more alcohol.

The only presence downstairs was the music from a running playlist. I went straight to the bar where I pilfered the remaining bourbon right in front of the mounted buffalo head. Even if the dice hadn’t rolled in my favor, at least I would take a top shelf buzz back with me.

On my way out I happened to notice Hank at the bar. Still at his spot from before. Drinking straight from a bottle of cheap red wine.

In the hopes he hadn’t noticed me I had every intention of slipping out when he called out to me from behind. Like a herald of further bad news.

“You blew it, by the way.”

He pointed to an empty martini glass left on a soggy napkin. Its shiny green olive uneaten.

“She was here? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I already did.”

“Great.”

“Good news is that the accolades mean nothing. That’s what they fail to tell you. Want some real advice, bud?”

Hank drained the red wine to the last drop. He looked over at me again. His wrinkled eyes red and watery. The words in which he spoke held the grave finality of being etched upon his headstone.

“Don’t try.”

The foyer was empty leaving the condo. Save for the echoes which filled the hallway. The only sign there had ever been a party were the canned lights someone else turned on. Illuminating every past shadow from before while shining a good spotlight on that once terrifying and formidable overstuffed housecat.

I stepped out to meet light snowfall on a vacant street. That woody smell of fresh snow making my nose stir.

What a cold, unforgiving world it was.

As always, I left there wanting for more. And after failing to generate a buzz like so many other times I had to move on.

Such untimely vicissitudes were about as flattering as an obligatory compliment better left unsaid. Somehow with every odd staked against me I had a fleeting chance with the only person worth caring about and it was gone. Of all that remained of her memory, her hands, lips, brows, and amber breath, what stood out the most was her green eyes. The prime movers in setting the bond between us. Bright as the sun, rare as the most precious jewel. Only they appeared now as waning moons. Or at worst, enemies who betray and wound with their darts of disdain.

I was left stricken by an overwhelming apathy. Caring too much was what rendered the object wholly unattainable. Still, she would’ve grown bored either way. Leaving me to shuffle out of here empty-handed with another hole through my chest.

Hovering uneasily on the precipice of an expired high, I cracked open my newly acquired salvation. I chased the foul taste of the first pull with a second, then I zipped my jacket to the neck.

I scanned both ways down the abandoned street.

Nothing stirred in the early stillness of a morning devoid of human life. A sight more serene than any overcrowded beach. Snowflakes drifted playfully. Floating nondescripts that melted at first contact with my flushed skin.

Even the straightest narrow had its twists and turns. I was still in the throes of understanding an identity I was yet to act upon in this theater of doers versus dreamers. Cut off from the heavens when the latter falls short. Not only did I fail in a strictly biologically sense, but managed to manufacture a dreamworld to validate my life’s purpose. Then there was the Cannon Club. Illusions of splendor, legacy, and renown: all of this made available with the induction fee and proper insignia.

Being hopped up on stimulants my feet roamed in stationary shoes. Close. Yet, so far. Too far. I took the only path made available to me. Blowing back from a winter’s tale with no fireside to tell it by. I cursed my fleeting thoughts for the quickness they traveled to my cozy living room. For all my stomping around I could only think about home and how carefree I was to leave it behind. I was that much quicker to wish it back since regardless of wherever I’m whisked away it will remain in that same spot.

Tonight’s events had triggered an intense longing for Sophia and I counted the hours left between now and when I could see her again. Furthermore, I was compelled to reach out across borders. A notion which left me with a bloated feeling I couldn’t displace. I hadn’t messaged her back since earlier and I feared missing out on what might have been there for me all along.

Someone else exited the condo.

Imagine my relief to find Duke staggering from out of it. The little hair left on his head stood on end from his constant habit of running a hand through it. He was driving an all-nighter to Colorado and offered to give me a ride.

“Got EtOH?” He asked once I had sat in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ethyl alcohol.”

I showed him the bourbon I nicked from the bar.

“Hold on a minute—” Duke held up a hand, staring off into the distance until snapping free of his trance to pop open the glove box. “Ahh, there she is. To find beauty such as you is like reacquainting with an old friend.”

Duke brandished his bottle of rum and with drunken sailor swagger took a hefty swig.

“Need to wet your whistle?”

“I’ll stick with whiskey, thanks. Can I use a lighter?”

He took another swig and stuck the bottle between his legs.

“I’d take issue if you didn’t,” he punched in the circular lighter built into the car’s ashtray.

My threadbare narrative read like a stock character in another’s dynamic plot. Duke racked lines on the dashboard for us to rail with his briefcase of drugs laying open on the backseat. He dropped me off at the hotel roundabout and with an unintelligible reply sped off into the crazed moonlight.

It was some accomplishment to have returned at last. But with so much energy I wasn’t even close to thinking about bed.

I dragged my cigarette and calmly blew smoke into the starless sky. Which, to no surprise, failed to come crashing down in a deluge of glass shards and broken splinters.

The rev of an approaching motor filled the hotel drive. Three doors sprung open from a cab. From which stepped out The Jury, one by one. All three with stumbles in their step.

Immediately I flicked my cigarette to the street curb.

Judging from the looks of their skewed gait and cheeks flushed with liberal drink, they appeared to be having a much better night than myself and hardly took notice of me while gabbing on their way inside the hotel. If only I could be so invisible. For immediately upon seeing me came the piss-poor attempt to clean up their act. Most notably, Ms. Mann who straightened right up, croaking,

“What are you doing out so late?”

“I could be asking the same of you. Enjoying ourselves tonight?”

“Never mind that.” Her mouth snapped shut. Flustered, and unable to articulate a point further. “Come, Richard.”

“One moment, please. I’ll have a few words with my athlete here.”

She stood facing the other way, tapping her foot while Mr. Pantofle entered the lobby’s revolving door.

I did all I could to prevent from sniffling or wiping my nose.

Coach Price stared back at me. Instead of the stern face with the wrinkled eye and furrowed brow I was so accustomed he looked uncharacteristically calm and relaxed. Expressionless almost.

His eyes filmed over and brimming with celebratory drink as he took no time to break the silence.

“So did you get a chance to live it up?”

“I won’t lie to you,” I started slow, expecting harsh backlash to follow. If only he knew about the first night! “Drake let me tag along with him.”

“Save it, I spied the both of you leaving from the parking lot. But you earned it.”

My jaw clenched tight. No longer was I able to keep pretending to laugh it off.

“I didn’t realize condo parties were part of the curriculum.”

“How was it?” He persisted. A strong scent of alcohol carrying on his breath. “Get to know the ladies field any better?”

“Somewhat. What about you and Ms. Mann? She’s quite friendly off the clock.”

“That there, that’s strictly platonic.”

We both looked over at her shivering in the freezing cold as she awaited our conversation to end. “OK, I plead the fifth.”

I revealed the bourbon inside my coat to seal the deal.

“No, no. I’ve said too much already. But I was your age once, you know? Letting loose. Getting wild.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen from grace. Where’s Drake?”

Having already covered his ass once I figured there was no harm in lying a little further on his behalf.

“He’s already inside. Didn’t you see him?”

“I can read between the lines. Even in this state. Anyway, the real reason I stole a moment with you was to ask a favor.”

Both of my eyebrows were raised.

“Sure. What might that be?”

He glanced behind his shoulder before staring downward as if ashamed.

“A cigarette.”

“I thought skiers were supposed to have marathon lungs?”

“This is one of those rare occasions that warrants bad behavior. But I still expect to see you bright and early with everyone else to leave first thing in the morning.”

“Okey dokey. Need a light?” I offered my lit cigarette to him.

“Ahem, actually, I was planning to share it with somebody…”

“Say no more. Keep the pack.”

He studied me with a vacant look.

“I won’t be needing them.” I said with finality. “I don’t have a lighter. But the concierge should be able to provide a matchbook. Try not to smoke them all at once.”

Before leaving, he cast a far-away glance back my direction. “You’re yet to visit my office hours. You should drop by. Until then, many thanks for the last-minute crutch.”

He left to rejoin Ms. Mann. Their black silhouettes quickly slipping around the building’s far side.

This brief interaction provided levity at the end of a long over-drawn ordeal.

Yet I was still partnered with familiar company. Loneliness. At the crossroads of that defining moment, I vowed to make a change. Even if something small to regain control of my life. A superior act of will to lay the groundwork for a new foundation. One governed by bold action and bolstered with strict discipline.

Shivering, I returned to the pitch-black stillness of an empty hotel room. Devoid of all comforts and warmth and where my coke come-down came crashing over me.

Unable to sleep, I nipped at the whiskey bottle until greeted by the raising sun.

Having seen the trip through to the bitter end, I was more than thankful to pack, eat, and board the same lumbering vehicle that bore us here what felt like so many nights ago. In the range of all my roaming this adventure wound up being no longer than a short story. Now, the most difficult part was left.

Waiting. Idle as the bus which never fully warmed up when, following a false start and a backwards roll the cold machine drove off in a steady plume of slate gray exhaust. Hands sweaty. Mouth dry. Last night’s proceedings flashed by much too vividly for my liking. It came as some relief knowing I’d likely find all the states of comfort where I had left them. One upside of living in a small city was that you could plan on little change during a long absence. But who’s to say that doesn’t work both ways regarding the condition of our return as glorified hometown heroes? Only I had failed to put my mark on the mountain. All I could look forward to next week was a heavier practice schedule. But not before a snowstorm was forecasted to bury Salt Lake City in another bountiful harvest. Already loaded up with future dread, I couldn’t breathe a single sigh of relief upon the freeway. Our path quickly unraveled. Back through narrow passes that wound upon never-ending stretches of a busy interstate. Each pass opening up to a new tract of land or golf course brilliantly lit by a new horizon. Amidst the early darkness were shiny glimmers in the murk. Tiny, bright flashes to help guide our passage through the potential unknown. But mostly my thoughts were spent envisioning time with Sophia instead—and in every way possible. Outlining every conceivable plan from bowling and ice-skating downtown to buying movie tickets for whatever the latest critically-panned blockbuster of the season might be.

Ever since my desire for her crystallized there was no receptacle large enough to contain the capacity of my longing in which she dominated every daydream. If only these hard driving desires travelled faster than the speed limit allowed, I wouldn’t be passing the hours consumed by love’s rite. Cursing out my cellphone’s dead battery with my charger stowed away with the bags and ski gear underneath.

The dark grid of streets appeared drab in the all-gray dawn against the orange sandstone once we neared the mouth of Parley’s Canyon. Where Suicide Rock and the flickering streetlights drew my laborious journey to an end along with any closure that I wouldn’t return the biggest loser. I wasn’t even in the standings.

Missing the mark. Always and forever.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]