It had been about two months since Alex Bertschy had dropped anything to do with social media. He never asked for anyone to look into his life. No more interviews, ads, endorsements—heck, he even deleted his twitter and facebook when he made the decision to throw out anything to do with the press. Except his sponsors, of course—snowboarding was still something very important to him, and he would never throw away all the hard work that brought him there. It was always just him and his snowboard to begin with. The last time Alex had a drink with a friend on his birthday, someone wrote up a two-page testimonial on why alcohol was not good for the body titled "What'll Happen to Bertchy's Career." Why? Because another article used one of his pictures from later in the night and blew up his comment about enjoying a beer or two once in a while (without the once in a while part, mind you). He was just tired of explaining himself to people he didn't even know and worrying other people he didn't know. It was crazy; all he wanted to do was board—that wasn't going to change for a while. His phone rang, a familiar name out of the five recorded in his phone blinking in his face. "Talk." "You're a bit late. It's 9A." "...What?" A chuckle. "Just look at the time, you'll see what I mean." Alex checked the time on his phone and practically jumped out of his bed. He pulled on various garments clumsily with one hand as he headed for the bathroom. He sighed audibly into the receiver. "Sorry, man—I guess I overslept. I'll be there in ten minutes." Skipping the usual morning routine, the pro snowboarder settled for a run of his fingers through his hair and a swish of mouthwash, running out of the door with a large, wrapped box in one hand and a bagel balancing on a thermos in the other. He smacked himself inwardly as he got in his car. How could he sleep in on someone's birthday? That was just rude. He had to admit, he was a bit uneasy that someone would see him heading for the ski resort for another party after what happened the last time, but he was hopeful that his sunglasses and new haircut would shake any suspicions about him. It wasn't too long before he reached his destination, and he was pleasantly surprised that he got there in under the ten minutes he had promised. He yanked the box out of his car and left his empty thermos in the holder. Practically tripping over himself, he rushed to his friend's party, finding himself walking in on a small group of maybe fifteen people—All of which he had all seen before. Someone came up from behind him and took the box out of his hands, and some of the party-goers got up to greet him up close. Grey eyes fell on the party host, sitting comfortably near the fireplace. "What's wrong with your breathing? You look like you just ran a marathon!" The shorter man laughed as he closed in for a hug and a pat on the back. It seemed more like a "get-together", which was completely contrary to the image he was keeping in his mind of what the invitation had meant by "casual party." He sighed as they pulled away. "This is definitely not what I pictured when you said you were renting out a room for your birthday."