Jawny Blake stepped out onto the rear balcony of his slope-side condo, zipping his jacket over a pair of tightly fitted overalls, brown on brown. The lights from Vail were still mostly off, making the white chute appear nearly fluorescent as it snaked vertically into the pre-dawn night.
With another flurry beginning to fall, it was time to get moving before visibility was compromised any more, though he had traversed the route every day for the past few months and knew it well. First one up, first one down, every day, no exceptions.
He felt a jolt of excitement, nearly skipping down the stairs before clipping into his Porsche HEAD 7 Series racing skis, a graduation present from his father the previous spring. Black and gold. The colors still made him smile, bringing him back to freshman year when he’d felt untouchable, winning an NCAA championship in Alpine Skiing for the University of Colorado, at Boulder. Sophomore season wasn’t my fault, everyone crashes…eventually.
With the traction-inducing Angora goat hair skins attached to his ski bottoms, he did several exaggerated windmill stretches, then began the arduous upward journey into the storm, the stiff pain in his left knee fading with each perfectly measured stride. Today is your day, Blaze. Act like it.
Reaching the summit just after dawn, he struck a power pose, briefly catching his breath before removing the strips of goat hair from the bottom of his skis. Toned legs, powerful lungs, a recipe for winning. Physically he’d come a long way since taking the job in the late part of fall, his body naturally responding to the stimulus he’d demanded for it. But everything else, the emotional, spiritual, social, hierarchical aspects of working here had been nothing shy of a hopeless disaster. Each day was a constant reminder that he didn’t have what he really wanted. What he needed. Of course, that was until yesterday, when everything changed. That little freak better have been telling the truth or today will be his last.
He’d just toweled off after a particularly grueling steam room session the night before, splashing cold water on his face from the sink. The Vail Racquet Club felt like his second home with as much time as he’d spent there. Brushing his thick, dark hair back, he couldn’t help but admire how defined his trap muscles looked in the mirror. Changing the angle, he flexed again, his upper back tattoo still beaded in sweat. BLAZE in block lettering. Looks fuckin’ sick.
Regardless of how unfortunate things at work had been going, his off days had been his saving grace. They were sacred, affording him the time to do what he cared most about – ski without distraction, followed by a marathon session of acupuncture, massage, body work, dry needling, hot-cold therapy, even Rolfing, the granola pseudoscientific method of realigning fascia to improve movement, then it was straight to bed for a minimum of nine and a half hours of unadulterated sleep so he could get up and do it again. When it came to Jawny’s body, and life in general, he wasn’t above trying anything to gain an edge. No matter the cost. Not like it’s my money.
Thoroughly pleased with his reflection, he’d dropped the white towel, took one more look at the mirror, then strutted through a sea of grey, sagging bodies to an empty shower stall. Stare all you want; you’ll never look this good.
“Jawny? You’re not going to believe what I just heard.” The voice coming from the adjacent stall startled him, and not just because he recognized the man’s feet, it was the odd satisfaction in his voice.
Fuckin’ guy always creeps me out. “How long have you been in here?” His face flushed at the thought.
“Long enough,” the man said a little too enthusiastically.
Couldn’t they just have one normal conversation, preferably with their clothes on?
“Cut the shit.” Jawny bristled. “Tell me what you heard?”
“First, I want you to do me a favor.” Soap squashed loudly as if the man was cleaning his arm pits with an excessive amount of suds.
Now we’re making demands, from me…can’t be serious.
“No.” Jawny didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. His father had taught him the powerful negotiation technique years earlier, and it had always worked like a charm. Haggling over an 89 with a philosophy professor, avoiding ritualistic hazing with his fraternity brothers, even when it came to tipping the local barista, no was a complete sentence.
“That’s not how this works.” The soaping sound stopped and the feet were now facing him under the divider. “I’m looking for a partner here, Jawny. I tell you things I hear on the mountain, and you promise to reciprocate by making me your ally. I told you before, I can get you onto Icon. Me. Time you started trusting.”
Icon Mountain Resort wasn’t just the neighboring ski slope that shared the same mountain with Beaverridge. It was the most exclusive resort in the world. A private club, selective beyond measure. One that required more than just money to get into it. Influence…and a shit ton of money.
Father will have no choice but to respect that. “You have an in?” Jawny’s tone softened, curiosity outweighing the odd man and his painfully perverse tactics.
“You could say I have a…two-in-one.” The man let out a pitchy laugh, his feet padding the wet floor.
Disgusting. Jawny shuttered, not loving the sound of the arrangement, or whatever it was the man was doing in the adjacent stall. Then again, words were only that. Words. Meaningless sounds. Not like anything was written in blood. Besides, spending another day bumbling around Beaverridge in the clad brown suit was not the ideal way of spending his first year out of college. It’s been disgraceful. His sights were set on something much more impressive. “I’m listening.”
Anything for an edge.
Atop the mountain, frozen beads rushed past him in the unobstructed wind, sweeping hard in a horizontal sheet of grey. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until the morning brief, but he’d be down much, much sooner. Fastest man alive on two skis.
He adjusted his Prada snow goggles, an Oakley collab, another gift from his father. The blue rimless lens optimizing his visibility as he brought himself into the ready position, both skis perfectly aligned, the steep face nearly pulling him down if it weren’t for his poles pressing in to arrest the fall.
If that guy wasn’t jerking my leg last night, today will be the day it all turns around for Blaze.
He cleared his mind with a well-rehearsed breath routine, rocking forward and pulling back, teasing gravity, reminding it who was really in control. There was an opportunity for a respectable career in skiing outside of competition, one that did not involve hedge funds and investment banking or moving back home to work at his father’s firm in Aspen.
His knee, his Olympic dreams, his father’s respect, it had all been destroyed in the accident. But you know what, I’m no fuckin’ quitter. He’ll see.
Efficiency, power, speed, finesse; skiing was a form of domination, a language he spoke fluently. After all, Jawny had been bred to dominate, he just needed to find the right arena to showcase his gift.
With a powerful clench of his glutes, he sent his hips forward, ripping his poles through the ground with a strong thrust before silently disappeared into the powdery abyss.
Today it all falls into place.