Chapter 21 #2
Austin’s in the heat behind me, and he struggles at the top, trying to find a clear path, but the problem is solved for him when an Italian skier lands badly on the first jump and takes out two of his three competitors, leaving Austin with clear sailing all the way to the finish.
It’s not the way anyone wants to win a heat, but it happens in ski cross, and Austin is all smiles as he pulls up his goggles to check the big board with race results.
“Nice one,” I say, offering a fresh round of fist bumps. I’ve lingered in the finish area again to watch his race. The crowd of spectators has grown since the seeding runs. People from all over the world wave different flags and ring bells and cheer for their favourites.
“Cedric! Cedric!”
I turn, and my mom is there, waving a red and white maple leaf with my dad.
I gasp. They’re supposed to be at home in Ottawa.
How did they get here? They’re cheering deliriously and I wave.
I want to go to them, but not right now.
It might have been better if I didn’t know they were here at all. Stay in the game.
Austin’s waving too, and that’s when I realize his parents are there as well.
He also doesn’t approach. My mom snaps a picture, then a few other people around her do too.
Then more. The Canadian contingent seems to realize who we are.
No doubt they’ve all read the article. I think I hear someone shout “Kiss!” but before I can look to see who it is, Austin slides in front of me, jerking his chin toward the exit from the finish area.
It’s a silent command. Not now. There are still three more races to go. No time for diversions.
Except now that we’re into true competition, the exit area is actually a media gauntlet.
Reporters from each of the competing countries’ major news outlets are waiting to get clips and sound bites from competitors.
Normally, we wouldn’t really need to do more than stop to talk to whoever is here from the CSBC, but as we approach, our names go up in a clamour.
Phones and cameras are raised. If they can’t talk to us, they at least want a picture.
The ski-crossed lovers. I shouldn’t have waited for Austin.
Being seen together today is a stressor neither one of us needs.
He’s hesitating too, staring down the chute of shouted questions. Then Tara steps in front of us, looking like a warrior going into battle.
“Follow me and do not stop,” she says.
“Not at all?” I ask. Technically, we’re required to at least stop for the CSBC. National duty and all that.
She whirls, glaring daggers at me. She’s bundled up and looking far more polished than she did before six o’clock this morning.
Hair in place. Eyeliner etched on. The purse of her lips is a hundred percent “do not argue or fuck with me” so I nod once and we follow as she hurries us through the line of reporters, shouting “No comment!” and waving her arms to make space as people volley questions in our direction. The Olympics really are a team effort.
Only, the last question catches my attention.
“What?” I ask, skidding to a halt. I turn so fast that the skis perched on my shoulder nearly take out a volunteer who has gotten a little too close in an effort to guide us back toward the lift area.
“Who’s going to win in the next heat? You or Austin?” I don’t recognize the journalist speaking, and her heavy accent says English isn’t her first language, but her question is clear enough.
And that’s when the realization hits me.
Between my anxious wait for Austin to finish, then the sudden appearance of our parents, I didn’t have a chance to think it through until now.
We both survived our heats, but that means we’ll be in the starting gate together in the next one.
Four men, including the two of us. Two skiers will advance to the semifinal.
Two will not. From here, it’s a fifty-fifty shot that we’ll both move on.
I glance at Austin. His face is blank, but the twitch in his cheek says he’s doing the same math.
I say, “We’re going to stick to our game plan. Ski our best race and see what happens.”
We walk on. I expect Tara to scold me for saying anything, but once we’re clear, she gives me an approving look.
“I’ve taught you well,” she says. “Now don’t do anything to fuck it up.”
Then she melts into the crowd, no doubt on her way to do some more media damage control. We’re all working hard today.
Austin and I stand still for a moment, watching the organized chaos unfolding around us.
The spectators vying for a better place to see the racing.
Officials and coaches moving here and there, talking into radios in a multitude of languages.
Skiers heading back to the lift for another run, or standing at the bottom, realizing their day and their Olympic dream is already over.
It’s everything I imagined it would be. And it’s not over for us.
“Let’s go,” I say, nudging him. From here on out, we have to be perfect. To be the two at the top of the podium this afternoon, we have to finish one-two in the next three races. No room for mistakes. No accidents.
It’s time to put the plan into action.