Page 8 of Rise After Fall

“My mom would have my ass if I made a lady sleep on the floor. Besides, it’s good for my back,” Scooter insists.

“Then, count me in,” she squeals, leaning over to click the top of her bottle to Scooter’s.

“Cool,” Clay says.

“What about you, Morris? What are your future plans? Wanna come to Switzerland with us?” Scooter asks.

“I’ll be here, helping Langford manage the ranch and resort,” Morris replies.

“The resort is going to be open, even after the season?” Clay asks.

“Yep. It’ll be a full-working ranch-style resort spring through fall with ATV trails through the mountains, horseback riding, mountain bike trails and rentals, paddleboarding on the lake, guided hiking, rock climbing, clay shooting, guided fly fishing, and yurt glamping options.”

“Shit, man, so this is going to be a full-time vacation destination, not just a ski resort,” Scooter muses.

“That’s the dream,” Morris claims.

“Pretty fucking cool. Maybe after our Alps adventure, we’ll head back this way and get in some summertime sports,” Clay says.

“I’d love that,” Morris says.

“What about you, Zoey?” Scooter directs his inquiry to me.

“Me? Thanks, but I don’t think I can tag along to Zermatt either,” I say.

“So, where do you plan on going from here?” Joanna asks.

“I’m not sure. I figure the season here is going to end early to mid-March. Then, I’ll have a few months before I head to Canada.”

“What’s in Canada?” Morris asks.

“I teach a summer racing camp and a freestyle training camp at Whistler every year.”

“What does that entail?” Joanna asks.

“Freestyle? Oh, you know, the usual—royal christie, proper binding adjustment, spread eagle somersaults, mogul skiing, advanced tip-overs, a one-sixty twister with a backward rollover somersault with an eagle deflater.”

“So, the basics,” Morris quips.

I laugh.

“I spent one awesome month in Whistler once. Met me a handsome ski patroller and fell head over heels,” Joanna muses.

“Yeah, well, I’ll be there to teach. I don’t mix business and pleasure, and I don’t date skiers or snowboarders,” I say as she takes a slow pull from her beer bottle.

“Didn’t you date that professional snowboarder, Troy Holleran?” Scooter asks as he hands me a plate, piled high with a burger and barbecue chips.

Morris’s eyes come to me, and he grins. “Troy Holleran? As in number eight onSnowboarder Magazine’s list of the most influential snowboarders of the past decade? The Troy Holleran who managed to launch and land a hundred-eighteen-foot gap jump at last year’s Superpark? The winner of an Olympic silver medal in halfpipe for Team Australia? That Troy Holleran?” he asks.

I set my bottle down on the porch floor and take the plate. “Is there any other?” I ask.

His eyes glitter with amusement, and that damn dimple pops out on his right cheek.

“Well, well, aren’t you a big fat liar,” he quips.

“I don’t mix business and pleasureanymore,” I clarify.

“Troy Holleran,” he mutters under his breath before taking a huge bite of his burger.