Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The conditions on the mountain are perfect.
There’s been a lot of snow this winter, but nothing new in the last few weeks, which has given the stuff that’s already fallen time to be compacted down under skis and the grooming equipment the resort uses to maintain terrain.
The air is cold and the sun is bright, so it’s easy to see the dips and shadows where the pitch changes, even before the course team has put down the stripes of spray paint meant to indicate the start of jumps or the bank of a turn.
It’s absolutely perfect, and I am a mess.
It begins where all races do: at the start.
Austin, Matthieu, and Kage are doing drills.
Ski cross is different from most other ski events in that the races are done with four competitors on the course at a time, and our starting gates have handles.
They’re small horizontal bars that you grab onto, so you can rock yourself backward, then launch yourself forward when the barrier comes down, sort of the way swimmers will use the edge of the starting platform for leverage to get into the water faster.
I take my place next to the others, gripping the bars tight while making sure my poles are pointed behind me and out of the way.
I take a deep breath, letting the tension pull through my shoulders as I bend my knees low and lean into the tough plastic of my boots.
I’ve started from gates like these thousands of times.
It all comes down to breath and timing. The trainer counts down the seconds until the start and as the barrier drops I pull myself forward, getting ready to launch onto the course .
. . only to find myself faceplanting in the snow as something below my shin snaps.
What the fuck?
The guys, only a few metres beyond as they rock over the first set of rollers on the course, look back to find me sprawled on the ground. Kage hoots. Matthieu puts his hands to his hips, leaning against his poles. Austin skates back toward me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Cedric, what the hell was that?” Ivan calls from above the gates. I roll onto my back, swinging my skis wide to avoid snagging them in the snow. I didn’t even fall hard enough to pop the bindings, but it’s okay. My ego is still plenty bruised.
Also, one of the buckles is hanging off the front of my boot like a dangling tree limb waiting to fall on an unsuspecting jogger. The damn thing must have popped off under the pressure of the start.
“Fine,” I say, getting back up to my feet. “Just a technical malfunction.”
“Do you want to walk the course instead?” he asks.
My jaw tightens. I don’t need to be treated differently than the others. My late arrival and my spill already have me feeling like a bit of an outsider while the three of them are clustered together, chatting and leaning against the tops of their poles while they wait for me to recover.
“Just let me get fresh boots.”
By the time new boots are brought over from where the equipment team has staged themselves, the rest of my own team has already moved on from starts and is traveling the course slowly, stopping at each turn and feature to discuss lines, tactics, and strategy.
Inspection like this is usually my favourite part of the pre-competition days.
A chance to really break down the run into its individual parts and look for every possible chance to make up time or gain the lead over the rest of the pack.
Especially for a run I’ve never done before, this is where the idea of my victory starts to form.
Piece by piece I build a winning run, while the people I spend my whole winter with—and most of the off-season too—do the same.
A shared goal, even if there can only be one first place.
But today, instead of joining in the conversation, I’m left rushing through the components with one of the assistant coaches.
We examine turns and consider things like pitch and spacing between jumps.
Hailey, the assistant coach in question, is good.
She knows the snow almost as well as Ivan.
But there’s something calming about talking it through with everyone.
We may be competing against each other, but at the end of the day we’re still a team.
And yes, I’m a sudden and unexpected addition to this particular version of the line up, but I wasn’t expecting to feel so much like it.
When I’m done, the others are waiting for me.
“All set?” Ivan asks.
I blink, my poor jet lagged brain trying to follow his question. I fail.
“For what?”
“Pursuits.” Kage’s grin is excited.
I groan. The desire to tap out and head back to the hotel is extreme, but my opportunities to prepare are limited. I can sleep when I get back to Canada. So instead I clack my poles together and push off toward the chairlift.
“Let’s do it.”
Pursuits are like mini races. Instead of four men on the run, it’s only two.
On its face, it’s about who can get to the bottom fastest, like any other trip down the mountainside.
From a training perspective, it’s more about getting a feel for the course even when your ideal line isn’t available because someone else is already on it or is so far up your ass you have to make changes to your plan.
We take turns. Kage and Austin go first. Matthieu and I wait for our signal.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
I wrinkle my nose beneath my goggles. “Pretty sure Spinner would disagree with that sentiment.”
He makes a distinctly French-Canadian sound that is equal parts amusement and denial. “Andrew will have his moment. This was supposed to be your season. It’s good you found a way, after everything.”
Maybe it’s gamesmanship. He’s trying to get into my head before we take our turn down the hill.
Maybe it’s his version of sympathy, but all I can think is “after everything,” I’m the one who blew my shot, and that no one here even knows how far “everything” goes.
If I couldn’t talk to Austin about what happened, I wasn’t going to kiss and tell with anyone else either.
Ivan whistles and we take our positions in the gate.
My boots hold together this time, at least. Matthieu takes the lead quickly and I let him have it.
That’s not the way pursuits work. It really should be a race, but my mind is elsewhere.
My body goes through the motion of taking the turns and keeping my hands low on the straightaways, but my head is all over the map.
A million places, in fact. Part of me thinks I’m still on the plane.
Another part is standing on the sidelines in San Mosino, watching Andrew celebrate his qualification and knowing that spot could have been mine if I’d gotten myself together.
But the problem is there’s a huge part of me that’s still sitting among the trees, desperately begging Austin not to die on me while we wait for help, and a further part that’s still in bed with him, listening as he talks about the future like it’s already a done deal.
If only he could see us now. So much for the done deal.
By the time we reach the bottom, Matthieu’s got a good distance between us, and when I cross the line, he’s already stopped and scowling at me.
“What?” I ask, glancing around me. The base is busy, with other teams clustered around, talking strategy, checking times, and prepping equipment. No one seems at all interested in my abysmal performance.
Matthieu makes another French-Canadian noise, this one all exasperation and annoyance. But instead of saying anything, he simply shakes his head and skis back to the lift for another ride to the top. It’s fine. I know what he’s thinking. If I’m not even going to try, what am I doing here?
We ride up in silence. Chair lifts have always been a weird social microcosm.
Austin and I had some serious conversations as teens while riding the lift at weekend practices and races.
We talked about school, family, and our sexualities.
Austin told me with trembling words about how he’d kissed Ridley Haynes, a boy in his geography class, at his first school dance, and how when he’d gotten home he’d had to jerk off three times before his lingering erection had gone down enough he could go to bed.
Years later, I told him how I thought we should skip university and focus on making the senior team.
On this particular ride, Matthieu and I are silent. Nothing personal. Keep it focused on the race.
Today, we say nothing.
The next pursuit is with Kage. I expect Ivan to put me with Austin, but when he says Kage’s name instead, I shoot him a look and all I get in reply is a thin press of lips that is wordless head coach speak for don’t fuck with me, so I get in the gate next to Kage and we go.
My run is better than the last one until the second to last jump, where I hit the back of it awkwardly and find my arms windmilling through the air in a desperate attempt to keep my balance.
I land badly and too far downhill. Kage is already several seconds ahead of me, but he still cheers like I’ve set a new record as I come over the line.
“That was awesome,” he says as we ride up together.
“So awesome, right? I mean, obviously not you. That jump was ugly. Like, super gnarly. That’s the one that Ivan said we should—” He pauses, giving me a glance.
“Oh right. You weren’t there for that conversation because of your boot.
Anyway, he said—” He chatters in an endless stream of consciousness fueled entirely by excited adrenaline.
I nod, and listen, silently wondering if my late arrival means I’m going to get the short end of the team stick right up until the start of competition.
But Ivan wouldn’t do that. It’s not his fault I was a late substitution or that my buckle broke.
I’m creating conspiracies where there aren’t any, and I already have enough going on.