Epilogue
Lucky
Bode stood tall on the stage, his voice steady as he talked to a roomful of young athletes about the thing that had nearly broken him a year ago.
The spotlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the way his hands moved when he talked, restless energy channeled into something purposeful now.
Wade’s fingers tightened around mine, and I knew without looking that his eyes hadn’t left Bode either, as we waited backstage for the first in a series of appearances he’d planned to finish up.
After a year together, we’d developed that silent language, the three of us, where a squeeze of fingers or the slight shift of a body told stories no one else could read.
“And yeah, I crashed hard after the gold,” Bode was saying, pacing a few steps across the stage before stopping himself.
“Not physically, though I’ve done plenty of that too.
” A ripple of laughter from the audience.
“I mean mentally. I’d spent my whole life chasing something, and when I finally caught it, I realized I’d never asked myself whether or not I wanted it in the first place.
I knew I was talented, that my coaches believed in me, and… I guess I thought that was enough.”
He paused, his dark eyes scanning the room.
The auditorium at Elkhead High was packed with student athletes, coaches, a few parents.
Sachi had arranged this talk through her connections with the school board, part of Bode’s new role as a brand ambassador for Moriko Outerwear and Kona Snowboards, a title they’d created specifically for him, but that had worked out in the most wonderful ways, allowing Bode to explore projects that centered on his passion for snowboarding, on introducing new people to the sport, and on advocacy for athlete mental health.
“The worst part wasn’t the depression,” Bode continued.
“It was the isolation. All my friends were riders. You’ve probably heard of most of them.
Mack Burgess is my best friend, and has been since I was a teenager.
Lila Greene was my closest teammate on the US Snowboard team, and Ashton Reeves, Leif Haugen.
Okay, fine, Leif is kind of an asshole.”
Another laugh from the audience told me Leif’s personality defects were well known.
“But even he was trying to get me back to snowboarding. Every conversation circled back to the sport, to the next competition, the next trick, the next sponsorship deal. And suddenly, I couldn’t stand being around any of that.
Which meant I couldn’t stand being around any of them.
Hell, even my mom runs a snowboard company, Moriko Outerwear.
Grandma was safe though. She kept bringing me her ginger scallion rice like a true champion. ”
Wade’s head dropped slightly, and I rubbed his back, knowing he was exhausted from a long day at the hospital.
But, Wade being Wade, he’d still insisted on coming out to support Bode’s first talk.
And it was worth it to see him shine. The man standing on stage now still had sharp edges, but he wasn’t afraid to show the soft places too.
“So there I was, a professional snowboarder with Olympic gold, living on the side of a ski run, which I couldn’t even look at without having a panic attack.
Talk about an identity crisis.” Bode ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair.
“Turns out, when you make your sport your entire personality, losing one means losing both.”
He grinned suddenly, a flash of the wicked humor that still caught me off guard sometimes.
“Pro tip: Make at least one friend who doesn’t give a shit about your career highlights.
Just for the conversational break, if anything.
It doesn’t need to be anything deep. I mean, my girlfriend’s best friend is more boy-crazy than a middle-school-aged girl, and some days, I’d take gossiping over the cute guy at the bike shop over talking about snowboarding. ”
The students laughed, and behind me, Emily whooped. I felt Wade’s silent chuckle beside me, because the joke really was about finding us. About Bode having people who saw the whole of who he was, not just the professional athlete.
The moderator stepped up for the Q about the competing, about his most memorable X Games moment, about why he retired. Bode answered each with an easy charm, deflecting the more intrusive ones with humor.
“Do you miss competing?” A young girl in the front row asked, her snowboard team jacket marking her as one of the local talents.
Bode took his time answering. “Sometimes. Not the way you’d think, though.
I miss the feeling of stomping a perfect run, that flow state where you and your board and the mountain are all one thing.
And I miss the people I don’t get to see as much anymore.
But I’ve found other ways to get that feeling now. ”
His eyes flickered toward the wings where Wade and I stood, so quick most people wouldn’t have caught it. Heat bloomed in my cheeks. Some of those “other ways” weren’t exactly appropriate for a high school audience.
Wade leaned against the wall beside me, his body a familiar weight against my shoulder.
He was in scrubs under his jacket. He had come straight from the hospital when his shift ended.
I could read the exhaustion in the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he blinked a beat longer than usual.
But it was the good kind of tired now. The kind that came from hard work well done, not the bone-deep weariness he‘d carried during his residency.
“He’s killing it,” Wade whispered, squeezing my hand.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Watching Bode speak so openly about his struggles still hit me in a tender place. A year ago, he could barely admit to himself that he was in trouble, let alone talk about it in front of hundreds of people.
The Q&A wound down, and Bode gave a final thank you to the audience before walking off stage with that athletic grace that made my mouth go dry even now. His eyes found us immediately, relief washing over his features as he crossed the space between us.
“How was it?” he asked, his voice dropping to the register he used only with us, lower and more intimate.
Wade pulled him into a hug first, strong arms wrapping around Bode’s shoulders. “Fucking amazing,” he said into Bode’s ear. “You’re incredible.”
When they separated, I moved in for my turn, breathing in the familiar scent of him, cedar and coffee and something uniquely Bode. “You did great.”
“So good.” I pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, mindful of our semi-public setting but unwilling to deny myself the contact.
“Lucky! Wade!” Emily’s voice cut through the moment, high and excited as always. She bounced toward us, pink-streaked hair flying, Sachi following at a more measured pace behind her.
Emily threw her arms around me in a quick, enthusiastic hug.
“Wasn’t he incredible? I was sitting in the back and these two coaches were like, totally taking notes.
And I can’t believe I got a mention.” She barely paused for breath.
“Are we still on for brunch this weekend? With Aimee from the Aimee Position?”
“Yes, of course.” My podcast was a hit, and I was looking forward to finally meeting Aimee in person… and somehow Emily had managed to invite herself to join us.
She bounced up and down letting out a little squeal. “I’ll leave you to your fun. Text me.”
Sachi approached, smiling broadly, and gave Bode a hug. “Well done,” she said simply. “The school’s already asked if you’d be willing to come back for their winter sports kickoff in December.”
Bode’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. “Yeah, we can talk about it.”
A man I didn’t recognize stood a few steps behind Sachi, tall, with the lean build of an outdoor athlete and a square jaw.
He wore a Kona Snowboards jacket, one of Bode’s few remaining sponsor relationships.
Bode didn’t have the lifestyle he’d had at the height of his career, but we were fine, and we all contributed in our own way: Bode with the house and his small sponsorship income, me with my Moriko salary and still growing DeviDraws following, and Wade, who made enough at the hospital that he very nearly had his student loans paid off.
Sachi followed my gaze. “Lucky, Wade, this is Alex from Kona. He came down from Denver for Bode’s talk.”
The man stepped forward, shaking our hands. “Great to finally meet you both. Bode talks about you all the time.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Bode said, but there was no heat in it. He moved closer to Wade and me, our shoulders forming a line.
“The video series is getting amazing engagement,” Alex continued, pulling out his phone. “The one where you talk about finding joy in backcountry has almost a million views already. What are you thinking for the next one?”
Wade’s fingers brushed against my wrist, a silent signal. I glanced at him, then followed his gaze to Bode’s right hand, which hung at his side, thumb and forefinger pressed together in our private code. He was feeling the beginning signs of a panic attack, and needed space.
We‘d developed the system six months ago, after a disastrous dinner with some industry people where Bode had pushed himself too far, ended up locked in a bathroom having a panic attack.
The hand signals were his idea. A way to ask for help without having to say the words out loud in front of others.
Now, I watched Bode’s face carefully. To anyone else, he would look engaged, nodding at appropriate intervals as Alex scrolled through analytics.
But I could see the tension building in the set of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils.
He was still in therapy, still learning to navigate the complicated landscape of his relationship with snowboarding. Some days were better than others.