Chapter 14 Tian
FOURTEEN
Tian
Marco Bellini, a former Big Air legend, was the official pundit for too many TV channels to mention, and he was with me and Silvan Roth waiting to be counted in for the introduction to the show and a brief interview.
I didn’t much like the media attention, but it was the Olympics, and I was here, and I was one of the favorites, so I could give them a little time.
The camera operator counted in, and then a light blinked on.
“Good morning, everyone! Thank you for joining us! I’m Marco Bellini, former Italian Big Air gold medalist, and I’m absolutely fired up to be here for day one of the FIS Snowboard World Cup Big Air event!
” he exclaimed, vibrating with energy as the camera zoomed in.
“I’m here with the top two seeds for the event, but before I start asking them questions, let’s get into it. ”
He waited as the camera panned to the mountains, and the runs we’d be using, and then back to Marco.
“If you’re new to this incredible spectacle, let me break it down!
Three days of pure adrenaline: qualifiers, semis, and then the grand finale!
” Everything he said was layered with so much excitement it was infectious.
“Riders can hit speeds of nearly forty miles per hour as they fly down the in-run, launching off the towering kicker, and every one of the death-defying flights they do is called a trick. Every trick has to be both clean and progressive—we’re talking mind-bending spins, grabs held as if your life depended on it, and amplitude so big it makes the judges leap out of their chairs.
” He leaned into the camera as if he were sharing a secret.
“Land sloppily and you’ll get hammered on points!
” Then he waved at us, “But these riders stick it clean, and the scores climb, and with them their shot at Olympic glory!”
He gestured at us. “Here with me today I have Silvan Roth, Team Switzerland, with an Olympic bronze in ’18 and a silver in ’22, and also Tian-Lei Cai-Wilder of Team USA, fresh off a strong qualifier.”
We both said hi, Silvan all cool, me with a small wave and a quick rock-on sign—index and pinkie finger raised—that riders and fans always threw out to show excitement. Marco joined in, but Silvan was too cool to do that and laughed at us both.
Marco turned to Roth. “So, Silvan, looking all serious there!”
“Winning is a serious business,” he deadpanned.
“This is your third Olympics. A bronze, a silver, already, so I’m assuming you’re going for gold this year?”
Roth grinned. “That’s the plan.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” I smirked, earning a chuckle from the small crowd beyond the camera, as well as Marco himself, and a mock glare from Silvan.
Marco beamed at us both. “Gentlemen, before we let you go, let’s talk conditions. Viewers at home want to know—what’s the snow like today, how’s the course running?”
Roth nodded. “Perfect conditions. The powder’s packed just right, not too icy, not too soft. It’s fast out there, which is exactly how we like it.”
Marco turned to me. “And the weather? It looks incredible on camera—clear blue skies, hardly a cloud. How does that affect you when you’re up top, ready to drop in?”
“Honestly?” I took the question and grinned. “It’s ideal. Visibility is everything. No flat light, no shadows to mess with spotting landings. The mountains look gorgeous, but more importantly, I can see every detail of the course when I’m spinning.”
Marco clapped his hands together. “There you have it, folks—perfect snow, perfect weather, and two riders ready to throw down!”
My three jumps had been a mix of safe and ambitious.
First, I opened with a switch-backside 1440 melon, clean and controlled, a banker to ensure I was on the board.
I even spotted my dad at the bottom of the course, standing just a couple of people away from Jack and his sister.
My heart leapt, and I waved at them, grinning so wide my face ached.
Dad waved back, his whole face lighting up.
The barrier was there for a reason, but before the next heat started, I jogged down, ducked around the rope, and wrapped him in a hug.
Security didn’t even blink—it was part of the culture here, family meant everything, and riders always got a second to ground themselves.
His arms around me, his laugh in my ear, it steadied me more than any pep talk ever could.
Then I pulled back, breathless, and I was high on the clean jump and gestured for Jack to step closer.
I wasn’t going to hug him on camera, but…
“Jack, meet my dad. Dad?” I lowered my voice. “This is my Jack.”
Jack’s eyes widened, and I think he was going to say something, but before I got into trouble, I was ready to climb back up for my next run.
This time, I pushed harder with a frontside 1620 mute, big amplitude, but I over-rotated slightly and had to fight for the landing.
The adrenaline rush was fierce, the kind that made my vision blur at the edges.
For a split second, I felt the board slide out from under me, panic roaring, but muscle memory snapped me back.
I wobbled, fought like hell, and somehow pulled it back under control to land safely.
My legs shook as I rode it out, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the crowd, relief crashing through me even harder than the jump itself.
I bumped fists with Dad, then Jack and Fiona, no hugs, but fuck, I was high on life. There is nothing like winning a battle with myself.
For the third jump, I came back swinging with a backside 1800 Indy, stomping it clean—the kind of trick that made the judges sit forward.
That combination—safety, risk, and redemption—was what landed me in third overall at the end of day one, not a bad place, tucked right behind Silvan Roth in first and a Japanese rider, Renji Sato, in second.
I might not be at the top, but I had a solid foundation for what was to come next.
I wouldn’t lose my shit on another jump like my second.
Brett was just a ball of sunshine, thrilled with his twelfth-place finish, which was just enough to slide him into the semis. He bounded over to chat with Sato like they were old friends, and even Roth gave him a smile. I watched them, amused, then glanced at Roth.
“Were we that young once?” he asked.
“I’m only twenty-seven,” I pointed out.
“And I’m only thirty-one,” he said with a shrug, then his smile dimmed. “But still… last Olympics for me, though, right?”
This was his third Olympics, all while I’d been trying so fucking hard to make the big show, attempting to fight my own impulses to try too hard and crashing out.
I’d come good for this year, but that sad, wistful note in his voice made me really see the clock ticking for him, and probably me as well.
Maybe I could make the team for ’30, maybe keep traveling the circuits a few more years—or maybe I retired.
How easy would it be to give it all up? Impossible.
Still, the thought crept in. Perhaps I’d coach someday, passing on what I knew.
Working with the youngest kids, shaping the next generation.
Maybe even settling into a base in the US, closer to my sponsors, closer to the scene…
maybe even near Harrisburg, where the Railers team were and where Jack lived.
The idea felt both terrifying and strangely comforting.
At the hotel that night, the coaches from each team scattered around the foyer, comparing notes and laughing over coffees.
Brett was so high from his result I nearly had to peel him off the ceiling, buzzing around like he’d just won the whole damn event.
Not that I was any better—I was just as pumped, the adrenaline from my runs still burning in my veins.
We shot the breeze with a few other riders, catching up on news from the other events, the kind of chatter that made the Olympic Village feel alive and connected.
And then I caught sight of Jack walking in, shoulders squared, looking every inch the sexy man I wanted.
I froze as I saw him heading for the same door we’d disappeared through the first day we got here.
He didn’t even have to gesture for me to follow; I was already moving.
Making some quick excuse to Brett, I strolled in that direction, heart pounding as I trailed after him and got yanked to one side as soon as I reached the laundry nook.
Jack grabbed me, pulling me hard against him, his mouth already on mine before I could breathe. “That was beautiful,” he whispered between kisses, his voice kept low, cautious—as if he was terrified that same woman might come storming over to tell us to keep it down again. “Fucking amazing, Tian.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Fuck, Jack, seeing you at the end of the jump—”
He kissed me again, harder, his excitement spilling over, and I gave up trying to talk and laughed against his mouth, then swallowed the sound as his tongue slid against mine.
What started frantic softened, slowed, became a kiss that lingered, his forehead resting against mine, our breath shared.
I pressed into him, our hips grinding, the desperate edge turning into something almost tender.
We kissed and rubbed, our eyes locked, and in that moment, it wasn’t about medals or points, just about being here, together, wanting each other so badly it hurt.
Jack murmured against my lips, words tumbling out between kisses, praises, and curses that made my skin burn.
“So, fucking proud of you… God, you’re gorgeous…
can’t believe what I saw… can’t believe I have you here.
” Every whisper made me shiver harder, made me grind against him with more urgency.
My fingers dug into his back as the heat between us spiraled until I couldn’t hold back—I lost it first, breaking apart with a muffled cry into his mouth.
Jack didn’t stop, kissing me through it, until he groaned and followed, clutching me tight as if he’d fall apart without me.
Breathless, sweaty, we slumped together, foreheads pressed, our hearts hammering in the same wild rhythm.
I wasn’t long back in my room, Brett heading down to the gym, when my phone buzzed with an incoming video call from Dad. I answered, and both he and Mom were peering into the camera in the way that only parents can.
“Amazing day one, son!” Dad boomed, pride dripping from every word.
Mom chimed in, her voice warm and teasing.
“Dad said you were incredible out there. We’re so proud of you.
” Then she cut to the chase as all the best moms do.
“But more importantly… who is Jack? I mean, we know he’s the captain of the Railers and a hockey player—I looked him up—but who is he to you and when do I get to meet him? ”
I froze, then grinned so hard it hurt. “He’s the man I’m gonna marry,” I blurted, then laughed at myself. Because, jeez, we were barely at the start of things, but god, I wanted more.
There was a pause on the line, and then Mom laughed too, delighted. “Oh, sweetheart!”
Dad cleared his throat, but I heard the smile in his voice. “Well, he’d better be worthy of you.”
“He is,” I said softly, more sure of that in that moment than I’d ever been. “You’ll see.”
“Dinner, as soon as your event is over, and before his starts,” Mom replied.
“Of course.”
We said our goodbyes, Mom promising to watch my runs on the highlights that Dad curated so as not to freak her out too much, and then I was on my bed, restless but tired, knowing I needed to get some sleep before tomorrow’s day two.
My phone buzzed again just as I was plugging it in to charge. A message this time. Jack.
Jack: Can’t make tomorrow’s runs. We’ve got a mandatory media block—press, interviews, all that PR crap they love to shove at us.
Tian: I wouldn’t swap you for that.
Jack: Not when you’re flying like you did today. Fiona will be there, and I’ll be thinking of you, though.
Tian: Good. Maybe I’ll throw a trick just for you.
Jack: Just land it clean. Gold looks better on you than bruises would.
Tian: On it.
Jack: BTW, what you said to your dad?
Tian: What?
Jack: About me being your Jack?
Tian: Seemed right at the time
Jack: I like it. Very possessive
Tian: Asshole
Jack: Now get some sleep, Tian. Second day tomorrow.
Tian: xx
Jack: XX
I set the phone down, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, my body still buzzing with adrenaline and heat.
Day two of the Big Air was all about tightening the field.
Another three runs, each rider trying to outdo themselves and secure a spot in the finals.
The conditions held perfect—clear skies, packed snow—and the crowd was louder than ever.
I landed two of my three clean, upping my average and pushing myself into second place overall by the end of the day.
Not bad company to be in, right behind Silvan Roth with Renji Sato breathing down my neck.
Brett didn’t make it out of day two, but he didn’t seem that worried, just excited. Oh, to be that young.
And then it was day three—the final showdown. Each of us had three runs, but this time only the top two scores counted, so consistency mattered as much as risk. I was ready for it, my body humming with nerves and adrenaline, knowing this was where Olympic dreams could be secured or shattered.
The last jump was all or nothing. I dropped into the in-run faster than I ever had, board humming across the packed snow, and when I hit the kicker, I threw every ounce of myself into it.
A backside 1980 indy, five and a half full rotations, and in the middle of it I added the twist I’d been saving—switching the grab from indy to tail mid-spin, a split-second adjustment that made the whole thing twice as technical.
The world blurred, the roar of the crowd vanished, and it was just me spotting the landing, knees tight, body screaming from the G-force.
I hit the snow solid, legs like shock absorbers, arms up clean.
The crowd erupted, and my breath came ragged as I rode it out to the corral.
Jack was there today, next to my dad, both whooping and hollering.
Sato and I were vying for silver, with Sato already having completed his final run—Silvan had already sewn up an untouchable gold.
As soon as the scores flashed on the board, I knew.
Silver was mine.