“Grady, gonna win gold?” Mr. Kettle asks, positioning the mini chalkboard listing the specials outside his door. The butcher slaps me on the back as I walk by his shop.

“I hope.” I smile and continue my way down the small downtown street of my hometown.

A ski town would best describe where I grew up. Growing up everyone was either a skier or snowboarder because there isn't much to do in this town. Cedarwood, Vermont is known for small bed and breakfasts, small lodges. During the winter, the streets line with tourists who love Mr. Kettle's beef jerky, or Ms. Greer's chocolates. Kids skate in the square while their dads drink coffee under the heaters and their moms shop in the boutiques that are really just rows of overpriced homemade goods that help to keep the town alive.

I should know how much the people of Seasalt depend on the tourists. My parent's own Cozy Cocoa Cottage, a ten-bedroom bed and breakfast which paid for all my equipment and training before any sponsors came aboard.

“Grady!” Mr. Ecker screams from across the street. His arm up in a wave with his pipe in the other free hand.

“Morning, Mr. Ecker.”

“I heard you and Mia are the hot tickets this year. Do our town proud.” I give him a wane smile and he heads back into his tobacco shop.

Hoping to dodge anyone else, I duck into the Cup of Beans coffee shop, crossing my fingers they'll be too busy to recognize me, or at least to corner me into a conversation.

“GRADY KALE!” A voice booms from the back of the small cafe and before I can even gather my senses, two big burly arms wrap around me and lift me up off the ground.

“Hey, Olson,” I say, looking at the small group of customers obviously not understanding why this, six foot six, three-hundred-pound guy is excited enough to bear hug me.

“When did you get back? How long are you here for?”

“Hey, O, mind putting me down?”

His deep laugh rumbles and my feet land on the cement floor. He ruffles my hair like I'm ten and he’s the uncle I haven’t seen in ages.

“Just the weekend. Injured my shoulder, so I took the time to come home.”

“Shit. Did I hurt you?” He eyes both my shoulders, but I wave off his concern. It’s a sprain which just needs rest—still it sucks.

“Nah. I'm good.”

He smacks me on the back. “Always are. Hear you're gonna represent Seasalt Springs again in the Winter Classics.” He rounds the corner of the counter, grabbing a cup and pouring me a coffee. Without asking, he opens the back of the pastry display case, reaching toward the last of their famous Spandauers with chocolate pouring from the middle.

“No way, O, I'm training.”

He glances at me from behind the case, crinkles his bushy eyebrows and then grabs two with the wax paper in his hand.

“You're on a break,” says the man who samples too many of his own goods.

Not that I'd say that to my Danish friend.

Handing me the plate and the coffee he nods to the back of the cafe at an empty table.

“Here.” I balance the plate and the cup to pull out my wallet.

“It’s on the house.”

“Come on, let me pay.”

He shakes his head. “Think of it as my congratulations.”

My shoulders deflate. “I haven't won anything yet.”

The bell rings over the café door and his gaze shifts to over my shoulder, the easy smile that's always plastered on his face falling short.

I glance over my shoulder and a long stream of air leaves my lungs. “Fuck,” I murmur.

“Want me to sneak you out back?” O asks me, and without an answer, he steps in front of me, blocking me from the intruder.

“I'm sorry, you're not welcome here,” he greets them in a foreign manner.

“It's fine, O.” I look the unwelcome customer in the eye. I'd remember him anywhere. Mr. Weazel, the man who pointed a finger at me as an asshole who doesn't have the character a snowboarder is supposed to possess. Like the fact that I want to win is a bad thing. The man uses his keystrokes and small blog like a gun or knife to injure people.

“Olsen, I need you,” a cook from the back calls out to him, but Olsen ignores him in favor of towering over the small beady-eyed man in front of us.

“I'm good,” I tell Olsen and he wavers slightly before ultimately heading to the back to help out his staff.

“So, Mr. Kale, I wasn't expecting you to return until after the town holds the parade.”

“Well, as I'm sure you've heard, I injured my shoulder. Might as well see the fam before I head off to Korea.” I sip my coffee and walk by him deliberately leaving my shoulder inches from him. I lean in close. “You going to write some more bullshit stories to try and get some eyeballs on your little blog?”

He backs away to gain a few inches of space. Without his computer, he's like a skittish kitten.

“Tell me, you ever head over to the Salty River Lodge? It’s not lost on me that you haven’t been by Brandon’s place since shortly after the accident.” His voice holds an arrogance that's begging my fist to gut check him.

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

His eyes narrow and he locks gazes with me. He has no idea yet that Mia is my sidekick for the tour and I wish like hell I could be there when he finds out that the gossip he's profited off of the last four years is about to die.

“You and Mia at the same Winter Classics will be…classic.”

“Is that gonna be your headline? Real original.”

“How about Is Mia Salty on Grady? The Tell-All Story.”

“You don't even know the story so don't pretend you do.”

A smug expression creases the corners of his lips. “Well, Brandon Salter has granted me an exclusive. He should be here.” He weaves by me to check out the clock behind the counter. “Any minute now.”

My throat closes up and my body warms from something other than the coffee. Hearing my former friend’s name from this weasel’s lips steals my confidence.

After the accident, this creep wrote all about how irresponsible Brandon was with taking risks and how anyone could have seen it coming. I didn’t find out about it until I had returned home from the previous Winter Classics months later. Maybe Brandon finally had enough and is willing to talk about who’s really to blame for what happened.

I'd search for the nearest exit if this guy wasn't watching my every move like he's a vulture about to eat roadkill. I'll never grant him the satisfaction of knowing he's getting under my skin.

“Like a guardian angel, O hollers from the back. “Grady, your mom called. Can you bring back a pound of coffee and some danishes for her?”

I nod and wave my hand at Olsen. He has no idea how much he just saved my ass. “See you, Weazel. Keep publishing crap no one gives a shit about and I’ll keep doing what I do. Maybe I’ll wave to you when I roll by on my float in the town parade this year.” I wink just to irritate him.

I head to the back, grab the box O hands off to me.

“Thanks, man.”

“Saves your parents a trip.” O stuffs another bag in there and hands me a fresh coffee. “Since the weasel ruined your first order.”

“Thanks, O, you're the best.”

He nods. “Come back though, okay. I need an updated picture with your signature for my wall.”

I laugh. “Got it.” I head out the back door determined to push Weazel to the back of my mind, along with everyone else. It’s too painful to dwell on.

---

It’s late and my parents, along with all the guests have gone to bed for the night, so I make myself comfortable in the quiet and dark bed and breakfast and use my phone to catch up on my emails and social media. The incident with Weazel is still rattling around my brain and before I can convince myself that what I’m about to do is a bad idea, I find myself on his blog page.

A picture of Brandon sits front and center. An Athlete's Family Legacy is the title of the post. Fuck Weazel and his insane notion about that night. I click off quickly before reading anything else. Brandon and I might not be friends anymore, but I know him and the last person he'd ever confess my sins to would be Weazel.