Chapter 17
Seventeen
Caleb stood at the top of the half-pipe run, his board solid underneath his feet, swaying back and forth a little bit. He was visualizing the run in his mind, knowing that on this second one he’d have to do everything crisp and clean and perfect, no matter how much his foot hurt.
His first run hadn’t exactly been a shit show, but one of the Japanese guys was on fire, and Nakao was just enough ahead of Caleb that he was a little bit worried.
Coach had talked his ear off, which Caleb had learned to tune out, even without his headphones in. That was their process. Coaches talked; Caleb ignored them. He knew what he needed to do.
He grinned a little thinking about the text he’d gotten this morning when he woke up.
Hawk had texted him a couple of times since his practice run.
Mostly just telling him what his schedule looked like and where he was going to be when.
But this morning there had been a bedhead selfie and a thumbs up. And a,
You’ve got this, baby
That had made him happy because he didn’t want to go into the day feeling as if he was at odds with Hawk. He knew the injury was a concern for Hawk, but he thought it was probably more that the RA diagnosis had been sprung on him with no warning.
He put Hawk out of his mind, then, because the starter gave him the go-ahead to begin his run whenever he was ready.
He rolled his shoulders one more time, moving his head to visualize the last of the aerial tricks he had to do, which was the most difficult in the run. It was a triple cork 1440. He’d landed it many times, but it was still intimidating, especially at the end of the run.
Amplitude, style, timing, clean landing. He kept running that through his head. Then he nodded, took a deep breath, and dropped into the pipe.
When he was in the halfpipe, Caleb never thought about anything. He used muscle memory and relied on his training and knowledge of the course gained from practice runs and the preliminary rounds to guide him. He also counted tricks off in his head as he did them.
That way, he never had to worry that he had missed something.
By the third landing, his foot was killing him. But he was keeping it upright. He hadn’t ass passed or face-planted. And he was trying to make it look as if he was landing lightly, even if he felt like a fish flopping on a hook.
Digging deep, Caleb pushed to finish his round. He had three more tricks to do, and he was feeling pretty damn good about his speed, amplitude, and crispness, and just needed to stick the landings.
Up. Catch the board. Flip and twist. Down. Up. Down. Last one.
He was soaring and he knew it. His amplitude was amazing.
If he could only stay on his feet when he hit, he could have this.
The last trick was the triple cork, which was a trick that only one person had landed in Olympic history, and he’d managed it on his preliminary run so he knew performing it late in the routine like this would pull a lot of attention and a lot of points if he could land it, but it had sent more than one person to the hospital.
He knew he had the momentum to do it. He knew he had it, because this was one of those runs that was so crystal clean and so high that he could pull this off.
Up. One, two, three, full twists. Down. Stay on your feet, clench the abs and the ass. Stay upright. Slide smoothly into the waiting area to get his score.
Something snapped when Caleb landed. Something in his foot.
Something that made him scream in agonizing pain.
But he didn’t go down, and he made it look damn good.
He pumped his arms in triumph as he coasted into the bottom of the course, the crowd going nuts and cheering for him.
He knew the cameras would be on him, so he tried to keep his expression normal.
But something was broken. Really broken.
He did the whole arm pumping, cheering with the crowd, “Yeah I did it,” celebration. Then he bent in to unclip his board and landed on his butt.
He tried to stand so he could get his score.
Tried to make it look like everything was cool, but when he struggled up, he fell back making a noise that sounded like a freight train trying to stop on a broken track.
Pain shot from his foot all the way up into his groin, and there was no way he was going to get up without help.
Caleb looked around frantically and then found and waved at the guys who helped with the medical team, letting them know he needed assistance.
Fuck that hurt.
The two medics came running over, both of them squatting down to ask him what was going on. And he grunted, “It’s my foot; it’s fucked up.”
“Let’s get that boot you took off and put it back on so we can take you to the med tent.”
“Get me up, I need to wait for my score.”
They each just took one side of him and hauled him to his feet, and he stood there with one foot dangling. The pain was so intense he thought he might pass out. One of his buddies got cleared to jog out and grab his board. “Where do you want me to take this? To the village?”
“Just get it to my coach.” His breath kept hitching in his chest, and he sucked in a huge lungful of air through his nose, then blew it out a few seconds later.
The announcer called out his score, and the crowd went nuts because he was a full two points ahead of the guy who was about to get the silver medal.
He had won his gold.
Was it crazy that he only wished that Hawk was here to share it with him?
When Hawk got back down to Milan, a couple of days passed in a total blur of hockey games he had to work, and he stumbled to bed at night in the hotel, exhausted from having to be on and having to talk to people and act nice all damn day.
He totally missed Caleb’s gold medal round, even on the live feed, and it took him a while to catch up that night.
When he saw the news ticker that Caleb was hurt, he wasn’t sure what he needed to do.
Fear roiled in his gut because what if Caleb was badly injured, but he couldn’t make it up to Livigno and back in time to get up in the morning and start his next round of games.
And he didn’t know if he should text or call anyway. They’d left things in a weird spot, and Hawk felt like shit because he wasn’t mad at Caleb. He was scared and worried, and pretty much what he had feared happening had happened with Caleb getting hurt, but it wasn’t a deal-breaker.
It wasn’t a deal-breaker at all.
Finally, when he got a lunch break the day after the gold medal round and ceremony for Caleb, he texted.
Hey, are you okay?
I am stuck in my room here at the Livigno village and kind of going nuts.
Hawk was gratified at how quickly Caleb texted him back.
Can I call?
His phone buzzed, and Hawk answered it right away. “Hey, babe.”
“Hey.” Caleb sounded kind of scratchy and hoarse, but awake and aware. “I’m glad you texted.”
“I am too. I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to be a dick. How’s your foot?”
“Broken.” Caleb chuckled. “It’s gonna take surgery, but we’re going to wait until I get back to Colorado. Right now, I’m trying to figure out logistics with my coach and shit.”
“So, what you’re just air-casted now or something?”
“Yeah, they’re putting me in a great big boot, and as much as I can do it, they’re going to want me to be on crutches, which will probably be good because it hurts pretty damn bad.”
“Are you going to be able to come down to Milan? Or will you go straight home?” Hawk wanted Caleb with him in his hotel room. He wanted to make sure Caleb was comfortable and pampered a little bit.
“I’m clear to come to you. In fact they want me to hang for a few days before flying for the swelling to go down.
I’m just waiting on Justin, who’s one of my buddies.
He’s going to help me with all the gear and stuff, so I can come down and not have to bring things in stages or whatever.
Jamie said he would help, but slopestyle is a ways off. But I’ll be coming down today.”
“I’ll call the hotel and tell them I’m adding you to my room. There will be a key waiting for you at the front desk. That way you’re not stuck in the village. If you have appointments, I can get you there.”
There was a long pause, and he could hear Caleb’s steady breathing. “So, not a deal-breaker, then?”
“No, babe, not at all. I just freaked out at the idea of you letting yourself get hurt. But you were right. It was hypocritical. We all do dangerous stuff for our sports.” He’d had way too much time to think about all of this.
He’d broken his damn knee and not let them take him off the ice until he’d accepted the damn Cup.
Who was he to fucking judge Caleb out of fear?
Caleb’s soft, pained chuckle made him smile a little. “I’m officially retired, by the way.”
“Yeah?” Relief made him a little light-headed. “Got your gold, huh?”
“Fucking A.” Caleb chuckled. “Okay, so in the morning I have an appointment with the doc at the main village, but other than that, probably nothing until I get home. So I’ll, um, I’ll see you tonight.”
“You will. I need to grab a sandwich, baby. If you need me to come up, though, my last game ends about five, so I can come get you.”
“No. No, I’ll be down by then. Just— Can we get room service?”
“Fuck, yes.” He would let Caleb rest and wallow in the big bed and get him soup or polenta or fucking kids’ cereal for supper. Whatever he wanted.
“Okay. I’ll get Justin to help, and they’ll probably send me on a bus or private car. I’ll see you tonight.”
Thank God. “If you need me between now and then, text.”
“I will.”
“Bye, baby.”
“Bye. See you soon.”
Hawk hung up before heading back to the broadcast break area, grinning with a mixture of relief and gratitude that Caleb hadn’t told him to fuck off.
“Hey, Puck. You okay?” Casey came to hand him a plated panini with veggies, dip, and polenta fries. “You’re smiling again. That’s good.”