The Right Mr. Wrong

“Not yet,” Andrea said. “But this area is closed for a reason. You could trigger an avalanche.”

“Yeah, and then we have to go to all the trouble of digging out your bodies,” Maddie said. “We hate that.”

“We hate that,” Red Jacket mimicked.

Maddie looked at Andrea. “I think these two just lost their passes,” she said.

“There’s also the fine,” Andrea added. “Up to one thousand dollars.”

“You have to catch us first,” Green Hat said, and took off down the slope.

“Yep, they’re getting the fine, too,” Maddie said. But as she stared down the rocky, vertical slope, she felt a little queasy.

It wasn’t any steeper than anything she’d skied as a racer, but merely looking at it made her palms sweat and her heart race. It was strange how only certain runs and situations—such as this one—brought back the horror of her accident. She’d hoped being on patrol, skiing every day and confronting terrain like this would help her get over her fear, but so far this cure wasn’t working.

“We don’t have to chase them,” Andrea said.

“We don’t?” Maddie thought she did a good job of hiding her relief.

Andrea shook her head. “Nah. This funnels down to the top of the East River lift. We’ll radio for someone to meet them there.” She unclipped her radio from her pack and gave the description of the two boarders, requesting someone hold them at the top of East River. Then she and Maddie shouldered their skis and hiked up out of the closed area.

Maddie wished she had a camera when, twenty minutes later, Red Jacket and Green Hat looked up from their conversation with patrollers Eric and Marcie to see Andrea and Maddie coming toward them.

“Hello, guys.” Andrea smiled. “Looks like we caught up with you after all.” Before the men could say anything, each patroller had pulled out a pair of scissors and snipped off the boarders’ passes. “You can either come with us quietly and fill out the paperwork,” Andrea said. “Or we’ll call the police and have you arrested.”

“Arrested for what?” Green Hat asked.

“Trespassing on private property and violating the Colorado Ski Safety Act, for a start.” Maddie glanced at Andrea. “I’m sure we can come up with a few other things if you don’t think that’s enough.”

The two boarders exchanged looks, shoulders slumped, then admitted defeat. They waited quietly while Eric started up a snowmobile to take them off the mountain.

Once the two boarders were taken care of, it was after three-thirty and the lifts were beginning to shut down. Andrea and Maddie joined the other patrollers in sweeping the mountain—skiing each trail to make sure there were no stranded skiers or riders. It was Maddie’s favorite time of day, when she skied the mostly deserted runs, alone with her thoughts and the feeling of freedom soaring over the snow always gave her. For that brief period she wasn’t a poorly paid, overworked ski patroller, but an elite athlete who still had the potential for greatness.

By the time Maddie dragged into the locker room, it was after five. She was pleasantly tired, and feeling better about the start of her second week as a patroller. It wasn’t her dream job, but it was skiing, and that made it worth something. She sat to take off her ski boots and Andrea slid down the bench to rest beside her.

“There’s a party at the Eldo tonight,” she said. “You going?”

“What is the Eldo?” Maddie asked.

“It’s a place downtown, on Elk Avenue. Everybody hangs out there.”

Maddie shook her head. “I’m not really in the partying mood.”

“Come on,” Andrea pleaded. “Are you just going to hang out at the condo by yourself and brood?”

“I’m not going to brood.” But if Maddie were completely honest, that was probably exactly what she’d do.

“You need to get out and meet people,” Andrea said. “And there are a lot of good-looking guys in this town. Some of them are even worth knowing.”

Guys like Hagan Ansdar? Maddie dismissed the thought. She already knew all she needed to know about Hagan. He was a playboy who took his good looks and athleticism as his due—as if he were somehow immune from mere human frailties that plagued those around him.

“Come on,” Andrea said again. “If you don’t like it, you can always take the bus back up to the mountain.”

Maddie couldn’t argue with that reasoning, so ended up seated next to Andrea on the free shuttle bus headed down to the town of Crested Butte, which sat in a little valley a few miles below the ski resort. The main street, Elk Avenue, was lined with restored Victorian buildings and newer buildings made to look old, most painted in bright colors. Light from streetlamps and storefronts spilled across the mounds of snow that lined the sidewalks. Noisy groups of tourists and locals alike navigated the slippery walks and crowded into the restaurants, shops and bars.

The Eldo occupied the second story of a building near the end of the street. The outdoor balcony was already crowded with revelers who greeted newcomers with shouts and whistles. Maddie followed Andrea up the stairs and through the glass-front doors, into the throbbing pulse of music on the jukebox, the crack of pool balls and the low roar of conversation. How many such bars had she been in, all over the globe, with her fellow skiers? This one felt no different, right down to the woman on crutches in the corner, the guy in the knee brace by the bar and the assortment of outlandish knit hats worn by the patrons. This was her world, what she knew. And this feeling of belonging, of recognizing the social landscape, was part of the reason she’d settled for such a menial job as patrolling.

As she and Andrea squeezed past the crowded bar, Maddie waved to a few familiar faces. After only ten days in town she was getting to know people, though more of them recognized her thanks to her brief flirtation with fame. Not for the first time she wished that photographer from Sports Illustrated had never snapped the shot of her and two of her teammates posed with their skis and a collection of medals. America’s skiing sweethearts, the caption had read, and the article inside had described them as the United States’s top medal hopes for the 2006 Olympics.

But instead of standing on an Olympic podium, Maddie had watched the games from a hospital bed, alternately weeping and cursing her fate.

She shook off the memory and followed Andrea to a long line of tables pushed together and crowded with Eric, Scott and other patrollers. Hagan was seated a few chairs down from her, with a couple of snowboarders Andrea introduced as Max and Zephyr.

Scott filled plastic cups with beer from a pitcher and passed them to her and Andrea. Maddie didn’t really like beer that much, but it was nice to be so readily included in their party. When she’d still been on the circuit, she’d been part of an insular group who’d descend upon a resort en masse. They’d be the ones shoving the tables together and mostly hanging with each other before heading to the next race venue. It had been many years since she’d stayed in one place long enough to really get to know people, and she still wasn’t sure how to respond to the friendliness almost everyone in town had shown her. She wanted to return their warmth, of course, but she didn’t want to come across as overeager and needy.

After years as a skiing nomad, she was out of practice making new friends. It didn’t help that she had no idea how long she’d stay in Crested Butte. Unable to imagine a winter away from skiing, she’d taken the patroller’s job as a stopgap—something to do until she figured out where to go next. Ever since her injury her life had been plagued by uncertainty and the feeling that everything she did was temporary. She was on edge, waiting for something, but she had no idea what that something would be.

Maybe the next thing to do was to go with the flow. Get to know these people. It couldn’t hurt, and it might help her to feel less alone. Less isolated by her private misery.

She studied the dreadlocked blonde next to Hagan. “Zephyr?” she repeated, not sure she’d heard the name correctly.

“Yeah. I’m a rock guitarist.” He pantomimed playing a guitar.

“Cool.” Maybe he was famous and she didn’t know it. She’d slept, breathed, thought and lived nothing but skiing for the previous ten years, so she was a little behind on pop culture.

“Right now I’m taking a break from music to pursue fame as a snowboarder,” Zephyr continued. “I’m entering the Free Skiing competition next month.”

The Free Skiing competition was the biggest event in the country, with the serious daredevils of skiing and snowboarding competing. All the big names in alternative winter sports would be there. “Have you ever competed before?” she asked.

“No. I’m not really the competitive kind.” Zephyr grinned. “But I’m good.”

“He is.” The man next to him, a muscular guy named Max, said. “He’s also crazy.”

“It helps to be crazy to compete.” She took a long drink, not really tasting the beer. What else but insanity drove a person to do things like race at top speed down steep, icy mountains or jump off cliffs into canyons of snow? There was no greater adrenaline rush. She wondered if she’d ever stop missing that feeling.

“I think you ought to be committed.” A woman who could have been Jennifer Anniston’s double frowned at Zephyr, who sat across from her at the table. “Aren’t you afraid, doing all those crazy stunts?”

“No. I know I can do it.”

“You should be afraid,” Maddie said. “In racing we had a saying—it’s not if you get hurt, it’s when.”

He shrugged. “I refuse to think about it,” he said. “It’s a Zen thing.”

“Zen is drinking a nice cup of tea at my coffee shop and listening to Indian flute music,” the woman said. “Zen is not hucking your body off of cliffs on a snowboard.”

Zephyr grinned again. “Aww, Trish. It’s nice to know you care.”

Trish flushed. “I care about stray dogs and lost tourists, too. Don’t assume it means anything.”