Winner Take All: Superstars, #1

WINNER TAKE ALL

Mary B. Rodgers

Copyright 2017, Mary B. Rodgers

All rights reserved. Published by Cassadine Press.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to cassadinepress@gmail.com.

Cover designed by Rachel Anne Marks

(https://www.rachelannemarks.com/)

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

(www.polgarusstudio.com)

Electronic edition, 2017

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

SAMPLE: Freeze Frame

Also by Mary B. Rodgers

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

Carly

It started with an insult. That much I did remember.

Wincing, I swung my legs over the side of the narrow bunk and sat up. My head swam. I grabbed the lip of the cold metal bedframe for balance and blew out a choppy breath. The yeasty aftertaste of too much vodka lingered in my mouth as I blinked and tried to make sense of my surroundings.

Vertical iron bars, a closed door featuring an intimidating lock and a small sink standing next to a toilet with no seat or lid.

Damn it. Not again.

My work hard, play hard, mantra had its drawbacks.

I scrubbed a dry palm over my face and cracked lips. My ski jacket reeked of charcoal.

Water. I needed water.

I lurched across the tiny cell to the sink and reached for the faucet just as a large, fat roach popped out of the drain.

Eww. Ah, no, no. I recoiled, stumbling back against the bunk bed.

Get off, an irritated voice said, followed by the emergence of a scowling female face from the top bunk.

I peered blearily up at my cellmate. Sorry, I…sorry. I didn’t realize—

You snore. The woman sat up, tugged her micro mini leopard-print skirt a few millimeters farther down her thighs and adjusted the neckline of her low-cut sweater.

Oh.

I’m Rita, the woman announced.

Carly.

I know. Rita smirked and flicked a dismissive finger toward an open office to the right of the cell. On top of a gray metal desk, a pair of boot-shod feet twitched back and forth, the owner of which remained hidden. Above the feet, a small television hung in an upper corner. Although the sound was off, someone had thoughtfully turned on the closed captioning. I froze as I read the scroll.

And in our latest news update, Carly Carrington, the U.S. national champion and enfant terrible of the ski world, allegedly flew into a drunken rage and set an opponent’s team banner on fire in the new Colorado hotspot, the Double Diamond, precipitating a life-threatening blaze that firefighters have only just now managed to extinguish.

Oh my God. I put a hand over my mouth in horror. What the hell had I done? What had I been thinking?

The picture on the screen switched to the bar in question, or what was left of it. Rivulets of water leaked from blackened planking, carving sooty trails into the surrounding snow. Bits of singed furniture littered the smoking remains of the Double Diamond’s multi-level sun deck.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Gone, all gone, and it was my fault. I buried my fists in my stomach and doubled over. I remembered that bit now, the taunting from the Austrian team, that stupid banner they’d hung from the rafters, and the lit candles on my table, so close, so tempting. One angry, vodka-fueled impulse later…

Oh God. Had anyone been caught in it? How fast had it spread? Did they get everyone out in time? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My voice came out as a strangled croak.

I bet you are. Arson, disturbing the peace, destruction of private property, being a public nuisance— Rita laughed as she ticked off the criminal charges.

I ignored her as the picture on the screen switched back to the newsroom. The scroll continued, There were no fatalities, but two firefighters are currently being treated at County General for smoke inhalation.

I sagged against the bunk again as relief swept through me. No fatalities. Thank goodness for that. I hadn’t killed anyone.

But I’d screwed myself, bigtime. It had taken some fast talking by my lawyer to appease Judge Whiting the last time I’d been arrested. The angry judge had threatened to throw the book at me if I showed up in his courtroom again. Two days after that, my lawyer returned his retainer fee and dumped me as a client.

Disaster. Absolute disaster.

I shivered, zipped my parka up a bit farther and hunched my shoulders. How could I make up for this catastrophe? I’d finance rebuilding the bar, of course. And apologize to tons of people. But I wasn’t due the next payment on my sponsorship deal for several months. And I’d blown through the last one in record time.

Assuming I still had a sponsorship deal after pulling this stunt.

Rita clicked one of her claw-like nails against her teeth. You know, arson is a felony. Mandatory time in the big house.

I didn’t deliberately start that fire. Well, I mean I did, but—

Rita snorted.

I thrust out an obstinate jaw. What are you in for, anyway?

Solicitation.

Oh. I tried to think of a polite response, failed, and opted to dig my cellphone out of my jacket instead. The digital readout flashed 12:56 p.m.

12:56? That couldn’t be right. How could it be that late?

They let you keep your stuff? Huh. Must be nice to be a cham-pee-on. Rita sniffed and folded her arms.

I chose not to answer her and attempted to focus through the pounding in my head. A quick glance up at the mute television screen confirmed the time on my phone. Close to 1:00 p.m. on Tuesday the 23rd. Holy hell.

A fresh wave of dismay sent me stumbling over to the door of the cell. In-person registration for the World Cup trials. Today, at 2:00 p.m. I had exactly one hour to make it there.

If I didn’t show, that was it. I couldn’t participate in the trials. Racers had to register in person on the day. No exceptions. No trials meant no World Cup entry. And no World Cup attempt meant no shot at the Hahnenkamm, the biggest race of the year and a win I wanted so badly I could taste it.

I grasped the bars of the door and yelled toward the office, Hello? Hello, is anyone there? I need to speak to someone.

The boots shifted off the desk. At length, a sour-faced guard appeared at the door clutching a thick folder. Well. Looks like Sleeping Beauty finally woke up.

Yes, I’m…I’m awake. What do I need to do to get my release processed? I really need to get out of here. I pasted what I hoped was a winning smile on my face.

The guard snorted. Easy. You just post your bail, like everyone else. In your case, it’s, ah… He made a great show of rifling through the papers in my folder. One million dollars.

My jaw dropped. How much?

You heard me. The guard tossed the folder on a corner of the desk and retreated inside the office. Judge Whiting is not happy with you.

Damn. Rita guffawed, slapping her thighs. That is serious money, there.

My nausea ratcheted up a notch. It was serious. Much more than I could lay my hands on at the moment, even if I managed to liquidate everything I had, including my house. And I’d never be able to do it in under an hour.

Alex probably could. Captain of the German Olympic squad and my boyfriend of two years, Alex was far better at managing his money than I was. Also much better at staying out of trouble. He’d been with me at the bar last night, at least at first. But I couldn’t remember when he’d left.

I punched in his number on my cellphone. It went straight to voicemail. Where are you? I mumbled. Call me.

No texts or missed calls from him, I noticed.

How was it that Alex, dubbed Alexander the Great by the media, always seemed to come out of these things with his reputation intact? Never arrested, never caught on camera in an embarrassing position.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t sneeze funny without some paparazzi jerk taking an unflattering photo and making up a story about it. And my media nicknames? The less said about those, the better. Didn’t matter how many races I won or records I broke. Reporting on my multiple wins apparently didn’t sell nearly as well as shallow musings about my choice of clothing, or who I’d had dinner with on any given night.

God, it was frustrating.

I kept hoping that some of Alex’s easy charm might rub off on me, that I might capture some of his glow. As it was, I often ended up feeling as if I wasn’t quite good enough when he was around. Second-best.

Irritated, I fingered my silver choker, a recent 25th birthday present from him. A heart-shaped lock secured the chain around my throat. Alex wore the key to the lock around his neck. Because you have the key to my heart, he’d said. So now I have the key to yours.

Damn it. Why wasn’t he picking up? I called him again.

Voicemail.

This was bad. Really, really bad. I clutched my phone and tried to control my panic. Who else could I call? Who else would have that kind of cash?

Antennae waving, the cockroach that had startled me earlier crawled up the shallow basin of the sink, only to slip down the side. The insect struggled again and again, continually defeated by the slick surface of the stained ceramic, until at last it flipped onto its back. Helpless, it wriggled its many legs in frantic bursts of motion, unable to right itself.

I shuddered, the back of my neck prickling.

My best friend Jess could front me the cash. She’d have a lot to say about it, none of it good, but she’d do it, although I cringed at the thought of asking her. But Jess and her band had just started the Asian leg of their world tour, which meant it was…I did some quick mental calculations. 4:00 a.m., Hong Kong time. And Jess didn’t party when she was on tour. She’d be out cold right now.

Great.

I punched out a 911 text to her anyway, just in case.

As I scrolled through my contact list a third time, one name jumped out at me. Buttoned-up Paul Blackburn, an old classmate of Jess’s, and my sports doctor. The best in the business.

Paul knew knees inside and out, how to strengthen them, and how to protect them. And knees were every skier’s weakness, easiest to damage and toughest to manage. That made Paul an ace in my pocket as far as my training was concerned.

And as the first-born son of a powerful old New England family, Paul certainly had the kind of money I needed. Trust fund money. I-don’t-need-to-work money, although he did anyway.

But damned if I’d ask him for it. No matter how desperate I was.

My cheeks flamed. Of all the humiliating situations I’d gotten myself into, the night I’d lost my mind and come on to Paul had to be one of the worst. Yes, alcohol had been involved. Came with the territory, where I was concerned. But on the rare occasions when I allowed myself to think about it, how his strong, muscled body had pressed against mine, how for just a moment I imagined his lips had softened under my own, well. I really couldn’t blame it on the booze.

Which only made me feel more ashamed.

Because Paul had made his feelings very clear. He’d pushed me from him and snapped out two words, Sober up, before walking away without a backward glance.

I honestly didn’t know why I’d gone after him in the first place, booze or no booze. With his stiff, precise mannerisms, formal speech patterns and eyes that always seemed to be judging me and finding me wanting in some respect, Paul was the polar opposite of the men I liked to date. Nothing adventurous or fun-loving about the guy. If he wasn’t so damned good at his job, I’d have gotten rid of him ages ago. But he gave me the extra edge I needed to win, and that made