Something to Prove. Cathryn Parry
But that wasn’t saying much. When skiing came on television or showed up in the newspaper, then Amanda Jensen, daughter of the famous alpine ski coach, MacArthur Jensen, tuned out and turned the page.
Jeannie studied her nails. “Brody won’t be happy when you tell him who your father is.”
“No problems there,” Amanda said dryly. “Because I’m telling Brody Jones nothing.”
“And I wouldn’t expect him to give you any quotes.”
Amanda just stared. Her sister knew as much about being a reporter as Amanda knew about ski racing. “That’s what interviews are for, giving quotes. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I give you print space to please your sponsors and attract fans, and in return, your exposure gives me readers and advertising. It’s an age-old deal.”
“She really doesn’t know Brody,” Jeannie murmured to Massimo.
“Doesn’t matter,” Amanda said. “He signed up for this interview, so he should know he’s expected to give quotes in return.”
Massimo laughed. Rather loudly, Amanda thought. Which was strange, considering she could see Massimo encouraging any media attention sent his way. As all the top-ranked skiers she’d known from childhood would have done.
Massimo turned to Jeannie and smiled gently. “Do you want to tell your sister about the American skier, or should I?”
BRODY PAUSED AFTER HIS THIRD set of single-leg squats and poured the last of the water in his bottle down his throat. The tiny resort gym was like a sauna inside.
“Um, are you Brody Jones?”
He glanced down to see a gangly American teen, his ski-team vest too big for his frame, standing beside the bench gawking at him as though he was his everlasting hero.
Brody shriveled inside. He wasn’t anybody’s hero. But he smiled at the kid anyway. Why disillusion youth? They grow up soon enough. “Yeah, I’m Brody. What’s your name, kid?”
“Aiden.” The teen shifted. “I, uh, want to be a great ski racer too.”
“Do you like to work hard?” At the kid’s awkward nod, Brody figured he’d spare him the lecture and just sign the autograph pad the kid was shoving in his face. Brody made a scrawl approximating his signature. Depending on his next race, the thing might end up on eBay.
Or not. Depending on his next race.
He smiled at the kid and handed it back. He really didn’t care where the autograph ended up. That was the beauty of it.
“You gonna win next week, Brody?” the kid asked.
“Of course. Are you gonna win your next race, Aiden?”
Aiden blinked at him. “Yes?”
“Say it proud, brother.”
“Yes!”
Brody high-fived him and the kid laughed, which made him laugh too. The world thought Brody was washed up, but he wasn’t. He had just one more race he needed to compete in, but that was nobody else’s business but his own.
“Can I take a photo of you, Brody?” The kid held up his phone.
“Sure.” He looked like crap, but he obliged Aiden with the photo op. Even smiled for the camera.
A throat cleared behind him. “We need to talk strategy.”
Brody turned from the kid to his longtime agent, Harrison Rice, hopping from one foot to the other, looking as if he was being raked over the coals, which he usually was.
“Yeah?” Brody picked up his dumbbells and decided to let Harrison say whatever he needed to say. Brody didn’t need to talk anything with him. He had his own strategy. Always had had.
He lifted the weights and blew out the tension. One more set. He knew the routine cold, and nothing and no one could snap him out of it.
Harrison sat on the bench beside him and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. It was hot in here, but Harrison was the only guy Brody knew who actually carried a handkerchief in his pocket.
“Here’s the deal, Brody—you can’t say anything this afternoon. If the reporter starts digging too much about your last season with MacArthur, or about your injury, then we’re screwed.”
Brody paused in his reps. “Exactly why did you agree to this interview, Harrison?”
“Because the Xerxes people wanted it.”
Right. Brody rolled his eyes. “You don’t see the irony of my sponsoring an energy drink?”
“It’s an excellent deal they’re offering.” Harrison spread his hands. “What am I supposed to do? If you want a comeback, you need training money. If you need training money, you need sponsors.”
True. Though Brody didn’t want a comeback, not a full-fledged one, anyway. Harrison knew that. Of everyone on his business team, Harrison was the one guy who’d been with him since the beginning when Brody had been a pimply rebel teen fleeing a lousy home life to the ski slopes of a New England prep school.
He lifted the weights again. There weren’t too many people he trusted and he surrounded himself with the few he did as coaches and equipment specialists. And Harrison, who was both agent and business manager. “Do we have any other options?”
“No. And I would tell you if we did.”
Brody breathed out and set down his weights. “Who’s the reporter?” he asked quietly.
“A woman from Paradigm magazine.”
“Paradigm? The monthly New York glossy?”
“They have reporters who cover sports stars,” Harrison said defensively.
“Great.” He felt like spitting. “A celebrity reporter. Even worse.”
“It’s what Xerxes wants, and it’s a puff piece. It’s tailor-made for our purposes.” Harrison shifted. “I’ve been thinking about it, Brody, and here’s how we’ll handle it. I’ll write up some quotes and put them on index cards for you. When the reporter turns on her tape recorder, you read from the cards. Better yet, memorize them. That’ll satisfy her, and get us what we want.”
Brody just stared at his agent. If Harrison wasn’t such a miracle worker with the sponsors—which unfortunately he really couldn’t afford to give up—then he would’ve told him to forget it. The same way he’d cut himself loose from his former coaches, trainers and the whole national ski-team organization in favor of forming his own team.
“So, are we on board?” Harrison adjusted his cuff links, and Brody couldn’t help smiling. Yes, his agent was a slick suit inside a sweaty gym. But he’d never turned his back on Brody after the accident, unlike almost everybody else in his life.
He curled a clean towel around his neck and headed over for his cool-down stretch. As a young hotshot, he hadn’t believed in stretching. But at thirty-two, with two debilitating crashes and rehabs behind him, he’d learned that wisdom was better than bravado.
Not always, but usually.
“Brody? Are you even listening to me?”
He gave Harrison a look. “Freaking journalists.” They mangled quotes. They chopped up quotes. They quoted out of context. They took old quotes and applied them to new situations. “Why don’t we just tell her to write what she wants, because that’s what those guys do anyway.”
“Yeah, I know. Everybody’s a lying jerk.” Harrison sighed.
But Brody grinned at him. “Everybody except you, Harrison. You’re the real deal.”
“That’s why you love me, Brody.”
“Don’t make light of it, or I’ll