Page 93 of Famous for a Living

I squeeze my eyes shut for several seconds, not interested in watching something gruesome I’ll never get to unsee (again). But when I open them, there he is going strong around the next turn.

I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Cat.”

See Zaiah’s piercing gaze.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing, but it’s really not a big deal to forfeit,” he says.

I hold back a bark of laughter. “Try telling that to Mina. If I don’t at least try, I don’t think she’ll let me back in the cabin.”

The man with the megaphone calls over the crowd, “And now for our reigning champion, the team that has won two consecutive years in a row, our beloved local park . . .”

I bend down. Grab the rope attached to Zaiah’s horse.

“If you need me to stop, just raise your hand. Okay?” Zaiah’s dark-green eyes are so intense, so probing as he looks at me.

I find myself having to swallow before I give a little shrug. “Sure. Yeah.” My voice is quiet. Squeaky. I clear my throat. Try again. “C’mon, Kannery. Let’s represent.”

Chapter 14

The Tenth Annual Skijoring National Race

I stand at the starting line, clutching the red rope and staring at the closed metal gate like a bull at a rodeo moments before it swings open. This has to be how bulls feel.

Heart pounding.

Sweat starting to itch my thighs.

Restless legs as I wait in this bizarre Montana version of a Kentucky Derby meets Jet Skiing meets skiing.

Swept by the intense hush of the audience into feeling this is all somehow very, very important.

Ears attune to the breathy exhales of Zaiah’s horse as it jerks its head against the reins, also impatiently waiting on the call to run.

Eyes attune to Zaiah as he sits on his horse, holding the reins with steady hands.

His broad shoulders poised and still as a statue.

Focused.

One.

Two.

Three.

I breathe the numbers slowly, forcing myself to focus on something besides my own heartbeat knocking against my rib cage. Knees bent in position, I tell myself to think about something besides the rising temptation to drop the rope and call it quits now.

Then the voice cries through a megaphone, “Gooo!”

The metal gate is thrown open and Zaiah’s horse launches toward the track.

My shoulders jolt as I’m swung forward, locking my knees in a bent position as my skis begin to slide over icy snow.

The crowd is already whooping and hollering.