The Right Mr. Wrong. Cindi Myers
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she’d thought of if Hagan said anything to her about what had happened up there on Peel.
In the ladies’ room, she used the facilities, then lingered in front of the mirror, brushing her hair and touching up her lip gloss. Anything to delay going back out there. Not that she had anything to be afraid of. She was ready for anything Hagan had to say to her. As she’d discovered during her long period in rehab, anger could get her through all kinds of uncomfortable situations. Focus on the anger so that the hurt and shame didn’t have a chance to creep in.
At last she put away the gloss and brush, slung her purse over one shoulder, and shoved out the door.
Straight into a solid wall of unyielding male muscle. Hagan steadied her with his hands on her elbows. “I was hoping I would have the chance to talk to you,” he said.
She had to crane her neck to glare up at him, which spoiled the effect. It was tough to look fierce when you were scarcely five feet tall, especially when confronting a giant like Hagan. She tried to move out of his grasp, but he had a grip like iron. Short of hitting him with her purse and making a scene, she was stuck. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice firm. “About what happened on Peel.”
Here it came. He was going to tell her she had no business being a patroller if she couldn’t ski the double blacks. He was going to question why she’d been chosen for the Olympics in the first place, maybe even accuse her of trading on her reputation and that infamous Sports Illustrated cover to get her job with the resort.
“I apologize for taking you up there,” he said. “I should have backed off when you told me the first time you did not want to go.”
She blinked, all the angry words she’d been rehearsing stuck in her throat. He was apologizing? Mr. Perfect was admitting he was wrong?
He released one arm, but kept hold of the other and guided her gently toward the door. “Let us go somewhere we can talk. Alone.”
Disarmed by his unexpected humility, she let him lead her out the door, down the stairs and across the street to a new bistro that had opened on Elk Avenue. “The coffee here is almost as good as Trish’s, and they have good desserts,” Hagan said as they sat at a table for two near the front.
Maddie nodded, still dazed. She swallowed and found her voice. “I can ski those runs,” she said. “I’ve done it before. It was just that morning, in those conditions…” Her voice faded and she looked away. She couldn’t explain exactly what had happened there at the top of Peel, except that for a moment she’d been back on the course at St. Moritz, and the memory of her fall had overwhelmed her.
Hagan said nothing else until their order of coffee and crème brûlée was in front of them. He stirred sugar into his cup and regarded her with a sympathetic look. “I watched the video of your accident on YouTube. I had not realized before how horrible it was.”
“YouTube?” She gave a weak laugh. “Figures it would end up there. Me and that guy from The Wide World of Sports who illustrated ‘the agony of defeat.’” She’d watched that show as a kid and winced every time they’d replayed the anonymous skier’s crash. Now she was the one making people wince.
“Zephyr said that day on Peel that maybe you were reliving what happened to you. Something like post-traumatic stress in soldiers.”
“Zephyr knows what happened?” Did everyone know? Were they all discussing her behind her back and she had no idea?
“He is the only one. I did not tell anyone else.” His voice was stern. “It was none of their business.”
She relaxed a little and nodded. “Yes, I guess that’s what happened. I looked down that run, all the swirling snow, and just…froze.” She shuddered, remembering. She had never been so terrified in her life, absolutely paralyzed by fear.
“Why not leave skiing altogether?” Hagan asked. “Or be a tourist? Why take a job that puts you out there every day?”
She’d asked herself that question often enough, and always came up with the same answer. “Skiing is what I do. I was given a talent and I screwed it up.” She swallowed hard. “I hoped being on patrol would help me figure out how to move past the fear—to get over it and go back to doing what I’m good at. And to…I guess I figured if I used my talent to help others, it would make up for that mistake.” She’d spent a lot of time lying in her hospital bed, alternately reliving the accident and bargaining with God, as if the right combination of penance and practice would bring her old life back.
“It is a dangerous sport,” he said. “What happened was not your fault.”
She shook her head. “I was being reckless. Taking too many chances. I knew I had to pull off an exceptional time to win, so I went for it.”
“That is what competitors do, is it not?”
“Yes.” She scooped up a spoonful of the crème brûlée and studied it. “But my coach had warned me to be careful on that curve, to pull back a little. He knew I had a tendency to push and warned me not to press my luck. But I didn’t listen.”
“Your gamble could have paid off. You might have won.”
“It didn’t, and worse, it ended my career.”
“You could have been hurt on Peel. I should not have let you continue when I saw what was happening.”
She looked him in the eye, some of her earlier anger returning. “I’d like to have seen you try to stop me,” she said. “It was my decision to go down that run, even if I didn’t do it with the best form. I don’t want anyone making allowances for me and don’t you dare pity me.”
He nodded, his expression serious. “Pity is not the word I think of when I think of you,” he said.
“Oh? Good.” She ate another bite of the dessert, then curiosity got the better of her. “What word do you think of?”
He paused, as if considering the question. “I think of words like grace. Determination. Courage.”
“I wasn’t very brave up there on Peel.”
His eyes met hers again, so blue and clear and unblinking. Eyes that held no false flattery or flirtation. “There are different kinds of courage,” he said. “And there are ways in which every one of us is a coward.”
She didn’t believe Hagan had ever been a coward; he was only saying that to make her feel better. But the knowledge warmed her more than all the hot coffee or fleece mittens ever could. She smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re not such a bad guy after all. Even if you are a player.”
He acknowledged this little dig with a nod. “Think what you will about my relationships with women,” he said. “You are better off as my friend than you would be as my lover.”
The sudden tightness in her chest at his words caught her off guard. Why would he say something like that, and use such a charged word—lover? Unless, perhaps, he’d been thinking about the possibility.
She tried to dismiss the thought outright, but could not quite let go of it. Hagan was a strikingly handsome man who was rumored to have had many lovers, which implied a certain skill. She, on the other hand, could count her own serious relationships on the fingers of one hand. What would it be like to have a man like Hagan as her lover? She felt flushed and out of breath at the idea.
Of course she didn’t want Hagan as her lover. He was the last man she’d ever consider.
But she couldn’t quite ignore the small voice in the back of her head that whispered, Liar.
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