Epilogue–A Mini Marshmallow
RYDER
“Ryder, can you tell us how you’re feeling heading into today’s competition?”
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m nervous as hell. Even though this isn’t our first go-around, the pressure is still intense. But I have faith in the trainers, the team, and everyone involved. And I know that no matter the outcome, the Quinn-Finch family will be an overflowing well of love and support.”
I give the reporter a polite nod and move on, adjusting the noise-cancelling headphones on Marshall’s head.
It’s too cold for him to be outside for the entire half-pipe competition today, but Mom assured me that as long as he bundled up and has his ear protection on, Marshall will be just fine to join me in the stands for Mabel’s runs.
“C’mon little buddy,” I coo to the baby strapped to my chest. “Let’s go find your grandmas and grandpas! We gotta watch Mommy earn a medal! Aren’t you excited?”
Marshall burps in response, and that’s pretty much all I can ask of my six-month old son. I walk with an extra pep in my step all the way to the stands, because Marshall loves to be bounced around. By the time we reach mine and Mabel’s parents, my kid is giggling like a maniac.
“You’re just in time. Sweden is up next and then it’s Mabel’s turn,” Dad says as I squeeze between Mom and Melanie so that both grandmas have equal access to baby cheek squishes. Marcus holds out a fist for knocking, and I pick up one of Marshall’s squishy little arms and meet him with a bump.
“I know, I had to hit the presser though. You know the people can’t get enough of our little third generation Quinn-Finch.”
“This snowsuit is too cute, Ryder. He looks like—”
“A mini marshmallow?” I smile, finishing Mom’s thought for her.
In his all white Team U.S.A snowsuit, the blue beanie covering tufts of baby soft red hair , and the spray of freckles across his cheeks, Marshall is almost the spitting image of his mother.
Except his eyes. Those little emerald orbs I could stare at for hours are all mine.
“Exactly,” Melanie agrees, her voice rapidly devolving into almost indecipherable baby talk. “Marshall The Marshmallow. Are you ready to watch Mommy compete? I bet you are, I bet you are.”
“I can’t wait until this winter when we can get him on his own board and start familiarizing him with the mountain, you know?
” Really, I can’t wait to recreate the photo I keep in my office at home, the one of Mabel’s first snowboard ride taken from behind moments after she let go of my hands and started gliding all on her own.
If my son ends up half as brave and talented as his mom is, I’ll be a happy dad.
“You ought to get him into a pool. I have a feeling our guy here is going to take after his grandpas and become a diver,” Dad says, pinching one of Marshall’s cheeks.
The eighteen-year-old from Sweden finishes her run, putting up a respectable 91.50 points on the board, and I join the crowd in a respectful round of applause.
“Do you miss it?” Mom asks, and I shake my head.
I knew pretty soon after Milan four years ago that I was ready to retire.
Most pro-snowboarders don’t compete after the age of twenty-five, and I had plenty of success to be proud of.
I was ready to focus on the next phase of my life—teaching beginner snowboarder lessons back home in Colorado and being the perfect house spouse to my badass wife.
A year after our Vegas disaster, Mabel and I renewed our vows at the base of Blue Mountain, the place where we took our first steps towards our careers together when we were just kids and where we built a lifetime of memories before we knew we had another lifetime ahead of us.
We both changed our last names, officially making Quinn-Finch the second generation of an American sports legacy.
Mabel was one hundred percent on board with my retirement, as long as I didn’t expect her to give up competing just yet. Which, of course, I would never ask her to do. The only thing that turns me on more than Mabel being mean to me is Mabel getting a new gold medal placed around her neck.
The little white stick that informed us of Marshall’s impending arrival back in late fall of 2028 was a bit of a wrench in the plans, but under the supervision of her doctor’s (and a lot of sleepless nights for me), she was able to keep training through her thirtieth week and was back on the mountain six weeks after Marshall was born.
At twenty-nine years old, Mabel is the oldest snowboarder in this year’s Winter Games, and is the favorite to win all three of her competitions for a second year in a row.
Did I mention I married a real-life superhero?
“Ryder, come with me,” a voice calls out just as the announcers are calling Mabel up for her run. I turn to see Trina giving me her best “don’t fuck with me” look.
“Trina,” I whine, even as I stand to meet her. “I’m gonna miss Mabel’s first run.”
“No you’re not, you doofus. You’re coming down to the end with me. She’s going to want to see you two standing there, waiting for her.”
And so from our spot at the end of the run, along with the press and Mabel’s teammates, Marshall and I watch as Mabel executes another flawless halfpipe run.
I can’t help the tears that spring in my eyes when she hits her second double cork 1260, finishing out the run and finally breaking the record height I set four years ago in Milan.
And I definitely can’t help the way I sob like a baby when she cuts across the finish line and scrambles out of her straps when she spots Marshall and I waiting for her.
“Baby, holy shit! Did you see that? I think I caught a lot of height!” Mabel squeals, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing Marshall’s cheeks as she hugs us tight.
“You totally did, Marshmallow. Look at the screen, you beat me by .2 whole meters!”
“Hell yeah I did. Suck on that, Rye Bread!”
The judges tally their scores and it’s no surprise when 100.00 flashes next to Mabel Quinn-Finch on the screen. With one run, my wife has secured her second consecutive perfect score and second consecutive gold medal in the women’s halfpipe competition.
And a few days later at home in Colorado, I add another photo to the collection in my office.
Sandwiched between our second wedding photo and a shot of Mabel and I wearing our medals in Milan, I hang the photo of Mabel on the podium in France, a single tear on her face, a gold medal around her neck and our son in her arms.
“Looks good there, baby. You sure you don’t want to come out of retirement for one more Winter Games? 2034 is right around the corner, and they say thirty-five is the new twenty.”
Mabel wraps her arms around my waist from behind, nuzzling against my back as she teases me. I turn so we’re face to face, then tilt her chin up with my thumb and my forefinger.
“No way, baby girl. I’ve got everything I need right here.”
The End