Free Slippery Slopes by Emily Franklin Page B

like I’m desperate to find him.”
    “Sure. Right.” Melissa smirks.
    “I only want to tell him about …” Dove stops herself from continuing.
    Melissa’s interest is piqued. “About what?”
    Dove shrugs and shakes it off. “No. Nothing. Forget it.”
    Melissa wants to ask more but the race is about to start. Nudging her way to the very edge of the fan line, she wants to make sure she’s as close to the finish as possible. I remember reading that if you’re right up front, the skiers are likely to hug you if they win. Or smile at you. Or spray you with champagne. Any of which would be fine. As the first racer speeds down, she turns to Dove. “You think he’ll see me here?” Melissa plants her boots firmly on the snow and fluffs out her signature curls.
    “He’d have to be visually impaired to miss you.” She smiles. “If James grabs anyone from the crowd, it’s got to be you.”
    Fascinated with the incredible speed of the racers, the crowd oohs and ahhs each time they swish by. Over the loudspeakers, an announcer comes on. “Translate for me?” Melissa asks Dove.
    Dove keeps looking forward but explains, “She’s saying that the Super G race is like a combination of downhill and giant slalom. It’s viciously fast and physically demanding. Only top-form skiers can handle it.” She grins at Melissa. “Hey—I know what you’re thinking.”
    “What?” Melissa lets her eyes leave the hill just for a second so she can give a mischievous grin. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not thinking about a certain someone’s physical form—if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
    “Okay, whatever you say … but if you lean any farther into the guard rail you’ll fall onto the course.”
    This makes Melissa take a small step back. “I really could be that person—I’m just that inept.” She squints at the hill. “Oh my god—here’s Gabe.”
    “Monsieur Gabriel Schroeder …” the announcer says, rattling off his height, weight, birthplace, and past achievements as he dodges the massive gates on his way through the course.
    Despite waiting for James, Melissa’s pulse speeds up as Gabe nears. His yellow-and-black jacket makes him appear beelike, buzzing through the gates until he comes to a fluid stop at the finish line. His skis aligned, he looks up at the clock, then right to the crowds.
    “You do realize he just looked right at you,” Dove says, squeezing Melissa’s gloved hand.
    Without breaking her plastered-on smile, Melissa speaks under her breath. “No, no. That wasn’t at me. It must’ve been someone else.”
    As a reporter begins interviewing Gabe, he does one more glance over to the sidelines and waves to Melissa. This time, she’s sure he meant the wave to go to her, since all eyes look her over, and the whispers begin.
    “Great—now I’ll be the subject of tabloid fodder.” Melissa blows air out of her mouth in a puff of white and feels a bump from behind.
    “What’s wrong with tabloid fodder? Who wouldn’t want to be a celebrity for at least a day?” Charlie nudges between Dove and Melissa, out of breath. “God, I didn’t miss the whole thing, did I?”
    Melissa feels a chill, thinking about Charlie moving in on James, her easy beauty, how great she’d look in a paparazzi photograph compared to Melissa. “What brings you out of the chalet?”
    “I love skeleton races—all speed and nothing else.” Charlie slides a tube of pink gloss over her lips.
    With the sun reflecting off Charlie’s slick mouth, Melissa fights the urge to hand her fellow chalet girl a tissue. “Well, the skeleton’s on the other side in an hour. It’s still the Super G here. Sorry to disappoint.”
    Charlie frowns. “Oh, well.” In her skintight black ski pants and bright pink turtleneck top, Charlie wraps her arms around herself and looks up the mountain. “Who’d I miss?”
    Dove clears her throat. “A few skiers.”
    Charlie furrows her brow, peering over to the paparazzi