“Hey!”
Oh, he’d give them hey.
They turned away then, probably seeing his ski patrol jacket, and hustled inside.
That’s right, you should run. Gage unbuckled his bindings, hot on their trail.
He propped his board up, unhooked his helmet strap, and strode inside.
T. rex and pal were making a getaway into the packed Base Camp Saloon.
“You!” he said, pushing past families seated on the vinyl chairs of the luncheon area. The smell of burgers and onion rings lifted off the grills, and the familiar thump of heavy ski boots thundered around the room. Exhausted skiers looked up, their mittens and helmets scattered across tables, as he stormed through the room.
“You, Mr. Dinosaur!”
T. rex didn’t turn and disappeared into the saloon.
Gage reached the door four strides later and yanked it open.
The après-ski crowd rocked the room. A country singer crooned on stage, ski bunnies dressed in leggings, turtlenecks, vests, and UGGs sang along while bums in jeans and flannel shirts danced in the middle of the room, frothy beers held high.
Gage knew the party too well and set his jaw, looking for the duo.
He found the pair scooted into a booth with a group of ladies. T. rex was busy deflating his suit.
The kid looked like an escapee from a prep school out East, with short red hair, a smattering of cedar whiskers, mischief and youth in his eyes. He lifted a beer—probably an illegal one—and toasted his partner in crime.
Said partner looked about his age, dark hair, narrow nose, wide cheeks—he looked English, or at least high bred.
Both of them reeked of too much money, too little sense.
Gage had met the type before, and the memory dug under his skin and lodged there like a burr.
“This is where the fun ends,” Gage said, stepping up to the table. “Show me your passes.”
T. rex jumped up and out of the booth. “Dude! We were just havin’ fun.”
His buddy edged up next to him, GoPro in hand.
Gage palmed it and yanked it out of the kid’s grip. “Sorry, this isn’t going on YouTube.” He tossed it onto the table. “Your passes. Now.”
He spied one of the dinosaur’s mittens on the table, with a pass attached, and grabbed it. “I just scored me a season pass,” he said and glanced at the picture. “Oliver Blair.”
T. rex was peeling off his costume, no more fun and games in his eyes.
Gage spied GoPro’s pass on a lanyard tucked inside his jacket. He yanked it over Pro’s head.
“Hey!”
“And Bradley Van Dosen.” Yeah, the kid looked like a Van-something.
A small crowd had formed around them.
“Leave them alone,” said one of the ski bunnies in the booth. She’d scooped up the camera.
“No,” Gage said and swiped it away from her. The last thing he needed were pictures of him on the internet. “You think I’m just wrecking their good time, but if they got hurt, we’d have to send our crew out there in the night trying to track them down in an avalanche zone. And every second we’re out there, the temperature drops and suddenly it’s our lives in jeopardy because you guys thought it would be fun to break a few rules.”
“It was for the powder,” Bradley snapped. Gage wondered if there were a few hash marks after his name. Maybe a Jr., Tripp, or Iver variation.
“I get it—I do. I love riding powder as much as the next guy. But you’re not doing it here.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Oliver said. “You are kicking us off the hill?”
It was the change of tone, dropping a few pitches away from anger or outrage to something that gave Gage one second of warning before the kid continued. “Of all people—seriously? Gage ‘Watts’ Watson?”
And, despite the warning, for a long, clear second, Gage couldn’t move. Just blinked at Oliver as the kid stepped back, a crooked smile forming on his face, half disbelief, half awe.
“Guys, do you know who this is?”
“Stop,” Gage growled.
“I saw you this morning, and I couldn’t place it—that feeling like I’d seen you before. And of course—dude! I have all your videos, that descent down the Broken River face off Craigieburn—that . . . that was over the top. He did a 1080 front flip off a 150-foot face—”
“Please, stop.” He glanced over Oliver’s shoulder and noticed one of the girls thumb-tapping on her phone.
Maybe texting.
But probably googling him.
Perfect. He had no doubt what might pop up first. Hopefully it would be his world championships. Or maybe that North Face commercial shoot.
But most likely—
“Wait, Gage Watson, that guy from Outlaw?” said one of the girls.