Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Afternoon practice goes better. Which isn’t to say it goes well, but at least I don’t fall on my face.
With so little time left before competition, we aren’t here to push ourselves.
Everyone wants to be in peak shape for the first seeding heat and the eliminations that follow.
No need to risk serious injury by doing runs at top speed now.
Instead, we go through individual sections of the course, taking the turns slowly, then riding snowmobiles back to the top of the curve to do it all over again.
By the end of the day, I’ll be able to visualize the whole run while standing still with my eyes closed.
Or I should be able to. I’ve done it many times before.
Somehow today, each approach to the turn feels like an entirely new trail.
I find new dips and previously unexpected places where the ground drops away.
No matter how many times we do it, I still feel like I’m learning it all over again.
“Berard, get your head out of your ass,” Ivan growls, proving my point.
At least I’m not alone. If I’m struggling to find a consistent line, Austin is failing.
This time it’s him who wipes out as we work through the initial hurdles of the start sequence.
I try not to look back to see if he’s okay.
He said he could take an impact, and it’s not like I can look for him or anyone else if they fall in an actual race.
Someone’s fall is my gain, after all. But when I hear Austin’s muffled oof, it’s everything I can do not to spread my skis out to slow and check on him.
“Grimm, you okay?” Ivan calls, because of course Austin gets the kid glove treatment. Nice to know I’m not the only one worried about him, at least.
But the challenges he has today hold me back too. Every time he falls behind, or I hear him slip a little too far off the ideal line, grinding his edges into the hard surface of the snow, I tense, waiting for the sound of his body hitting the ground.
Just like it did during that ridiculous relay race. Tackling me like that was a huge risk for Austin. How does he know he’s okay? Even the doctors are guessing at best. They’re assuming, but they don’t know for sure.
Distracted by nightmare scenarios of Austin lying bleeding in the snow, I catch an edge and, even though I’m not going very fast, tumble into the bank of the turn, jamming my shoulder.
“Ow. Shit.”
“Third place is first loser!” Kage calls as he slides past me.
“Okay?” Austin asks, stopping just below me.
I scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You fell.”
His attention makes me uncomfortable. I pick at the snow with one of my pole baskets. “That was hardly a fall. I’m not made of glass.”
“Neither am I,” he says, making my pole skitter on the ground. “Don’t treat me like I am.”
I look up at him. He’s standing with his back to the sun, and the light in the dry winter air makes a halo effect, punctuated by sparkling flecks of snow that float lazily around him.
He looks like an angel, and I have to shake my head, because now is not the time to get all sappy about my best friend.
Not when things are finally starting to feel normal.
All I need to do is focus on getting through the next few days skiing the best I can.
Yesterday won’t win me a medal. Not that mindset and not that lack of focus.
If Austin wants to be okay, I have to take him at his word and concentrate on skiing my race.
“No problem,” I say, pushing up to my feet.
The others are farther along the run. Austin stops with his methodical exploration of the course and instead points his skis downhill.
I do the same. He doesn’t even have to look at me.
Just his posture tells me what’s coming.
He pushes off, arms, thighs and feet working to get him moving as fast as possible, and I follow.
He’s slightly ahead of me, aiming for the midline of the turn.
If I duck under him, I can take the shorter path and—
We rocket off the turn side by side. My body is crouched, trying to make myself as small as possible on the flats. When we hit the next jump, I hear a soft grunt from him as we’re launched into the silence of open air while the mountain drops away for one . . . two . . .
Wh-whap.
Shit. Austin hits the snow a split second before I do, and that’s all he needs to press his advantage.
He tucks in, skis parallel and aiming directly for the next turn, where Ivan, Matthieu, and Kage are waiting on the side of the trail.
We shoot past them, moving too fast to even hear what they say.
I’m a half ski-length behind Austin, but I won’t let him get away.
The next section is a fast chicane with gates marking the path we have to take.
Each turn pushes us to the brink of control, and with every second, Austin inches further ahead.
The force needed to hold onto the snow here is extreme, like some invisible monster is trying to push me off course the whole time.
My thighs scream as they bounce up and down in a rapid staccato like shock absorbers.
Austin’s fully in front now and he shouts.
It’s a loud, joyous sound. Relief. Delight.
Slick tears stream from the corners of my eyes, and I tell myself it’s the cold and the wind.
As we come over the last ridge, the world drops away one more time. I’ve closed the gap so my boots are in line with the backs of his skis. If I can hit the snow before he does, I might have a chance to—
Whap.
We come down at nearly the same time, but he’s still faster.
The bottom of the race is in view. Nothing now but to head straight for the ending.
His form is perfect, and I find myself forgetting about passing him because the view from here is spectacular.
Strong back and legs. Shoulders tucked in and his arms framing his torso.
He’s a bullet. As good as I ever remember.
How could I have thought he’d be anything less, even after everything that happened?
Austin slides over the finish line two lengths ahead of me and holds his arms up in conquest like he’s actually won something.
When he glances back at me, his victory now secured, his smile is playful.
There’s no pain. No fear. He’s the same person he’s always been.
The one from before the accident, who cracked jokes and dreamed big with me.
It’s only the mass of team and race officials, trainers, and athletes that keeps me from flinging myself into his arms when I finish our improvised race.
Who cares our skis would get in the way?
That we’d inevitably wind up in a tangle of limbs on the cold, hard ground?
That one of us would probably tear something less than forty-eight hours before go time?
He’s here. Austin is here. I only had to look for him behind all my own hang-ups and trauma.
Maybe all that therapy with Adi actually is working.
Instead, I slide to a stop behind him, bending at the waist and supporting myself on my poles as I breathe hard.
“Gonna have to ski faster than that if you want to win,” Austin says, eyes crinkling at the corner as he smiles so hard his face might break.
“I was going easy on you. Wanted to boost your confidence. Comeback kid and all that.” But my bravado gets undermined by my heavy breathing. I was much closer to giving that everything I had than I’d ever admit, and Austin looks like he was out for a five-kilometre fun run on a sunny morning.
He laughs at my display, then pushes off. He sways from side to side as he skates over the snow, headed toward the lift.
“Come on. Ivan will be pissed.”
Worth it. No amount of preparation and talking through the course was going to fix what was going on inside my head. It was never a strength and strategy problem.
When we slide onto the lift, I let out a long exhale.
The kind I’ve been holding in the very bottom of my lungs for months, maybe longer.
Austin pulls the safety bar down over our heads, leaning against it, face pointed up to the thin winter sun.
His eyes are closed and his mouth is turned up in the corners, making the gentlest smile.
“That was really fun,” he says, and the relaxed ease in his voice pours over me like warm honey.
“The winner always thinks racing is fun,” I grumble, but I don’t have any heat to put behind it.
I’m not actually sore about losing. Getting to watch him ski like that was incredible.
I have lots more days to beat him, along with the thirty other athletes who will try to take my place at the top of the podium. Today isn’t about that.
“Oh my god,” he says with a happy groan, leaning back. “You should have seen my first day back on skis. You’d have laughed so hard. My legs were like noodles. No strength in them whatsoever.”
The light feeling in my chest sinks. I don’t want to think about that. All the months. The work. The pain. I only want to think about now. The after, when he’s okay and everything can be like it was before.
Austin opens his eyes and looks at me. His smile fades.
“What?”
I shake my head, pressing my lips together tight to keep from saying all the things that are trying to get out at once. The chair is wide, made to seat four skiers across and we’re alone, but Austin shimmies over until he’s close enough to bump my shoulder.
“What is it?” he asks, and now his voice has gone soft and serious, and the care I hear breaks me.
I look away, staring out over the snow reflecting bright in the sunshine.
It makes me squint as I wipe a gloved hand awkwardly at the corners of my eyes.
No wind to hide my tears this time. Austin bumps me again, leaning into me. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
I shake some more. My head. My whole body. If I start talking, I might never stop, and this ride on the chair will end soon enough.
He threads an arm through mine, the material of our coats swishing against each other.
Austin rests his head on my shoulder, or at least he tries to.
Our helmets bang together with an empty thunk that has me wondering if there’s anything inside our heads to protect.
Not in mine, that’s for sure. I got so worked up over seeing him.
Speaking with him. Just being around him.
I nearly killed our friendship and my chance to reach the goals we set for ourselves when we were only kids dreaming big.
The chairlift comes to a sudden halt, swaying on the heavy cable overhead.
“Oops,” I say. It’s not uncommon for lifts to stop. A staff person traveling to the top of the hill needs extra time to unload gear, or a newbie misjudges the procedure and falls . . . or stays on too long and has to be rescued.
Except there aren’t too many newbies around.
This whole mountain is closed to non-athletes.
Could be staff then. Someone bringing an extra pair of skis up, or ski patrol carrying a sled, just in case .
. . though more often than not in a big place like this and when high-speed crashes mean every second counts for a response, they’ll travel by snowmobile with the sled hitched to the back.
The world falls silent and we stay perfectly still.
There’s no danger. There are urban legends and freak accidents where lifts and gondolas detach from the cable and fall, but most are myths, and the few that do happen are pretty rare.
I slap my hands together, the impact pumping blood at my wrists and arms, trying to keep warm.
The chair ahead of us is empty, as is the one behind.
“Zed,” Austin says softly, and something about the sound of my name makes all the hair on my neck stand up on end.
“Yeah?” I ask. It’s only a few letters, but my voice wobbles on every one and I blush. Watch him tell me he has to pee. Or that the energy bar he ate while waiting for our practice session isn’t sitting well.
But instead he says, “I need to tell you something. I want to tell you something. I was going to wait until after the games, but then . . .” He bounces a fist off the safety bar and when he glances at me, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes shine.
Oh god. He’s going to say it. Again. Except he thinks it’s for the first time. That this is going to be some surprise revelation. And what am I supposed to do? Be surprised? Shocked? Pretend like it was always going to be that way?
I don’t want that. I don’t want to be friends. I want the man who fumbled and laughed and promised me forever. And if he says it, he’ll think that’s what he’s giving me, and he’ll never know that we’ve already been forever to each other before.
Because I spent months hiding from him. I was scared. For him. Maybe a little scared of him. Of who I would have to be for him if I told him what had happened. That was selfish and I’m sorry. I’ll tell him how sorry, once he knows. Because I’m not going to lie to him. Not going to hide anymore.
His lips are moving, like he’s speaking, but nothing comes out. Austin plucks at one of the fingers on his glove, still looking nervous. I put a hand on his, squeezing reassuringly as I force myself to smile confidently and keep my voice steady.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I already know.”
His eyes go round. For a minute, he looks like the kid I met on the mountain all those years ago. Big eyes and a round helmet.
“You . . . you do?” he stammers.
I could pretend I’m psychic. Tell him we’re best friends with no secrets.
But I’ve kept so many secrets. And that ends now.
“I do,” I say slowly. “Because you told me the night before your accident. You said you were in love with me. Austin, I’ve known for months.”