Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I gave him a slow, sideways glare.
He glanced between us. “I mean, it was just for the application.”
“With that in mind”—she clicked again—“I propose that you, my mother, sign the following permission slip for me to join the county’s big mountain team.” She scurried forward and picked up a manila envelope I hadn’t noticed, putting it into my hands.
I sighed but opened the folder. The entire application had been filled out, and sure enough, there was Weston’s quote in his own handwriting. “Et tu Brute?” I whispered with more than a little side-eye.
“Hey, I just helped her get her ducks in a row. Nothing more.” His arm shifted down and I leaned back, his forearm supporting my neck.
“My proposal has been well researched, and I believe I have eliminated all but a few reasons to say no.” She clicked. The cost was on the next slide. I wanted to vomit. “Because I’d be starting two months later, the coach of the team has already dropped my fee to this much more manageable one.” A new number popped up.
My daughter and I had very different views on manageable.
“I’ve also spoken to the”—she glanced at the screen—“Director of Madigan Mountain’s Heli-skiing Division,” she read right off the television, “who has told me that if I’m the only big mountain skier from Madigan Mountain, I might be able to secure a sponsorship.”
My jaw dropped. “Ducks in a row, huh?”
“And what was the caveat?” Weston asked.
Sutton’s brow furrowed.
“Conditions,” he said. “What were the conditions?”
“Oh!” She clicked the remote for the next slide. “I, Sutton Thorne, will keep my grades up, my equipment well cared for, and get my mother’s permission.”
I set the folder on the end table and shoved the rest of the cookie in my mouth. It tasted like defeat.
“I know you have concerns.” She clicked again, and a picture of caution tape filled the screen. “My dad died before I could even meet him, which has made you worried about my safety my whole life.”
I choked on the cookie. Weston pounded my back and handed me the glass of milk. Two swallows later, my airway was clear. “That’s rather inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“Not really.” She shrugged. “He was my dad.” She clicked and stats slid onto the page. “You see, only eleven skiers were killed last year in Colorado, and none were under the age of fourteen. That makes the chance of death point-eight-nine per million…” She started shaking her head as she looked at Weston, a perplexed look on her face, and I turned to see Weston shaking his head vehemently.
“Not helping,” he muttered.
Okay, this was on the ridiculous side.
“Oh. Right.” She clicked. “As you see here, the rate of car crashes is way higher, so I’d be far more likely to be hurt or killed on my way to practice—”
“Not helping either,” he mumbled.
“I mean, to school, than I would on the mountain.”
The fact that my daughter thought statistics played into any part of my fear was so ludicrous that I laughed.
She took this as a good sign and smiled, clicking again. “Because Weston trains with me in the afternoons when he can, the county coach said I only had to come once a week.”
My eyebrows shot up. That was a serious concern. Breckenridge was forty minutes away, and I wasn’t exactly swimming in free time over here.
“I’ve already solved that problem by securing a ride.” She glanced at Weston.
I stared at him with a cocked eyebrow.
He shrugged. “She asked. I said yes. It’s once a week.”
“And when it comes to competing”—she pressed the remote—“there are only two competitions I’d have time to qualify for this year. One is at Breck, and the other, Steamboat, and that’s not until the end of March, so you’d have plenty of data by then to make a choice.” She clicked. “And my last point. You should try everything once, just to know if you like it.” Her eyes landed on me. “I’m quoting you there, Mom.”
Well. Shit.
She clicked one last time. The sign read please.
I breathed out a sigh. The days of keeping her tucked away and safe in the little snow globe I’d created just for her were over. I could say no, but she’d be back next year, asking again. Or worse, she’d just stop asking and start doing.
“You care about this so much that you made a PowerPoint?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s all I want.”
Man, did I know that feeling well.
I sagged back against the couch, leaning my head on Weston’s shoulder. “You think she’ll be safe?”
“I think safety is a relative term,” he answered gently.
I looked up into his eyes, and they softened. Weston had been up there on the mountain with her. If he didn’t think she was safe, he would have told me.
“Okay.” I leaned forward and snagged the conveniently placed pen on the cookie tray. “You win.” It took less than thirty seconds to scrawl my signature across the permission line.