Shooting for the Stars Read Online Free

wane. He’d been given every chance in the world to prove himself. And then some. But the fact that Stella was having trouble picking up sponsorships was just plain wrong.
    “Okay, Chad,” she said. “Then I’ll just have to win the next one, too.” A minute later she set down the phone.
    “Everything all right?” he asked quietly.
    “Sure,” Stella said, but she swallowed hard. “I was just hoping to pick up a decent sponsorship from this win. But Chad isn’t sure that it matters.”
    “Of course the win matters,” he practically growled. “It’s just that in an Olympic year…”
    “They’re going to throw all the money at medal winners,” Stella finished. “I know that. He’s going to make another round of calls for me. But…” She let the sentence die.
    Bear didn’t get it. He really didn’t. Stella wasn’t just an awesome snowboarder, she was flat-out gorgeous, with thick, shiny hair and cheekbones that most women would sell their souls for. So what if freeriding wasn’t a sport that people followed? They would start watching it if Stella Lazarus were on the front of their cereal boxes.
    “You know what?” he declared. “We’re not thinking about sponsorships tonight. This is a sponsorship-free zone. Tonight we’re all about the win.”
    She sat up a little straighter in her seat. “Okay. I can do that.”
    “Speaking of your win, I got the whole thing on video.”
    “Thank you! Can I see it?”
    “Not until it’s edited.”
    “What?” Stella yelped. “You are such a tease.”
    He chuckled. “No, buddy. I have to put you to some killer music, okay? And tag on the podium shot, the billboard with your name. The whole package.”
    “Don’t forget to edit out that bobble from the first jump.”
    Bear shook his head as the hotel came into view. “Other guys I have to edit. But not you. There weren’t any bobbles.” He pulled Stella’s rental car up in front of the main doors to the nicest hotel at the southern end of Tahoe. This was where Hank Lazarus stayed when he came to town, whereas Bear had made a reservation at a cheaper lodge a few miles away.
    A valet leaped forward to ask for the keys, but Bear shook his head.
    “Aren’t you coming in?” Stella asked, one foot on the curb.
    “I was going to check in at the lodge so they don’t give my room away,” he said.
    Stella lifted her chin toward the hotel. “Bear, it’s cocktail hour. If they give your room away, you can crash in the suite Hank left us. Just come inside. I want a margarita, like, yesterday.”
    An argument formed on the tip of Bear’s tongue. It was a reflex, really. He and Stella had locked horns over everything from pizza toppings to politics for more than two decades. But tonight he just didn’t have it in him. Sitting beside her over cocktails was the best fucking idea he’d ever heard.
    Bear got out of the car, handing the keys to the valet—another damn thing that Hank was paying for—and followed Stella into the hotel lobby. She rolled a small suitcase along behind her, and Bear knew better than to try to take it from her. In the past, he’d received several lectures on feminism by giving into the impulse to carry things for her.
    “Wow, it’s jamming in here,” Stella remarked inside.
    She wasn’t wrong. It was après ski hour. Every table in the bar had a group of wealthy Californians around it. Returning from a day of skiing, they’d have a beer or three before deciding where to eat dinner. In their brand new parkas, and the occasional fur hat, they dressed as if they owned the place. (Some of them probably did.)
    Mixed in with the A-list crowd was a smattering of ski and snowboard bums, some of whom were familiar to Bear. He raised a hand in greeting to a couple of Canadian kids who’d joined the freestyle circuit just last year. They stood by the door, hands jammed in their pockets, probably waiting for friends. Now that Hank thought about it, they weren’t even of legal drinking