Chapter 2 #2
“Sorry,” I respond with a forced smile. “What did I miss?”
“Coach wants you and the other new team members to go get your athlete photos taken on the balcony.”
“Thanks, man,” I say as I stand and make my way toward the door where the two other new guys are waiting for me. They are both young, I’d say early twenties, like Jackson and I were when she made racing her full-time career.
We fill the time with small talk as the three of us make our way through the Elite Training Center.
I’ve studied so many pictures of this place that I feel like everything looks familiar even though this is really only my second time here.
My first visit, for my interview with the coaching staff, took place after -hours so no one outside of the small group of coaches would know it was happening.
I don’t love the backdoor way I made this team, but I did what I had to do to make it happen.
I deserve this spot even if I didn’t earn it in the traditional way, and the coaches know that I can compete at this level even if extenuating circumstances prevented me from competing sooner.
“Your videos are pretty dope, dude,” one of the guys says to me.
He’s a snowboarder and I can’t remember his name—Zach, maybe?
He has a baby face that makes him look even younger than he is.
I’m pretty sure he’s on the development team, where I would have started were it not for an emergency surgery immediately following ski season my senior year of high school.
“Thanks, man,” I say. I’d hoped the focus here wouldn’t be on my social media, but I’m not surprised that someone’s already brought it up.
My most-watched video where I heli-skied the Cathedral in Alaska last year has over ten million views, and the video of me doing a back flip into Corbet’s Couloir at Jackson Hole, my second most-watched video, has eight million views.
“What’s it like, being famous?” the other dude, also probably ten years younger than me, asks.
“I’m really not famous.” Sure, a lot of people follow me on social media to see me ski crazy lines in the backcountry, but it’s not like I’m a household name—not even among ski racing fans. “I’m just lucky to have sponsors willing to support me in doing what I love.”
“But you’re not going to be able to do that anymore, are you?” Maybe-Zach asks.
“Nah. But that was just a stand-in until I could get back to racing.”
“I can’t believe you even did all that after your surgery,” he says.
Is there nothing about my personal life that’s actually personal?
“Yeah well, I knew my body could handle it, and sometimes the only way to show the doctors what you can do is to go out and prove them wrong.” It was a risky move on my part, but it’s paying dividends now that I’m back in the same place as Jackson.
In some ways I still can’t believe that I’ve finally overcome every hurdle to making this happen.
In other ways I can’t believe it took me five long years.
We approach the glass doors leading out to the balcony that runs along one side of the Center, but the younger of the two guys I’m with puts his hand on my forearm as I reach for the door.
He nods toward the balcony, where a very angry woman with long blond hair is pacing frantically and yelling into her phone.
She sees us standing at the door and holds her finger up asking for a minute.
“What the hell?” Maybe-Zach asks.
I shrug even though I know exactly what her problem is, she’s just now found out that I’m on the team. A minute later she hangs up the phone and shoves it in her pocket before taking a fortifying breath and waving us out to the balcony.
“Sorry about that, guys.” Her tone oozes professionalism, nothing like the freak-out we just witnessed, but the familiar voice sends goose bumps over my spine.
As nervous as I was to see Jackson, and as much as I knew it wasn’t going to go well, I’m almost more nervous to see her best friend.
Sierra and I have a history that’s been complicated by my idiocy and her protective nature.
Sierra’s got a tripod set up in front of her, facing a white backdrop that’s hung along the exterior wall. I let the youngins move toward her, and I hang behind them because I’ve already been punched once today.
She gives a welcoming smile to the other two guys and greets them by name, “Zach . . . Tim,” she says before shaking each of their hands. Then her eyes move to me and if looks could kill, I’d be slain. “Nate.” The word is hostile, my name dipped in poison. She makes no move to shake my hand.
“Sierra,” I say, my emotions carefully checked behind a mask of indifference.
She works efficiently, setting each of us up in front of a white backdrop. I can practically see the wheels turning in these guys’ minds, hoping that eventually they’ll replace this photo with a photo of themselves holding up an Olympic medal.
Once the photos have been taken, Sierra dismisses us, letting us know that we’re free to go for the day, and reminding us what time we need to report back tomorrow.
“Nate,” she says as I turn to leave, “a word?”
“Sure.” I turn back to her, letting the door shut behind Zach and Tim as they leave. I take a small step toward her, trying to appear open to this conversation while still staying out of her reach.
“What the fuck, Nate?” she says, her voice low and calm and she sweeps her hand behind her neck to pull her blond ponytail to the side.
“What do you want me to say, Sierra?”
“What do I want you to say?” she spits back at me. “How about, I’m the world’s biggest asshole?”
“Okay, I’m the world’s biggest asshole.” My flippant tone coats the words until there’s no joy for her in hearing them.
She rolls her eyes at me as she removes the camera from the tripod, placing it carefully in its bag. “Why are you here? How are you here?”
“You know why I’m here. And how? Coaches’ discretion. You probably know that too.”
“Why are you doing this to her?” she asks, but she doesn’t wait for my response before starting her rant.
“How could you just show up like this? Five years of no contact. You deserted her. You didn’t even reach out after her accident to make sure she was okay.
You didn’t come back. And now she’s finally happy, and in love, and you decide this is the time to show up? ”
In love. Those words worm their way into my brain, triggering questions I don’t yet have answers for. Does she really love Marco? Does it affect my plans if she does?
I don’t try to justify my choices to Sierra. I don’t tell her about my path back into Jackson’s life. I need redemption, but not from Sierra. And Jackson deserves to hear about these missing years before I tell her best friend.
“You just can’t be on the team,” she says when I don’t respond. She sweeps the tripod up, aggressively releasing the levers and collapsing the legs.
“I already am.”
“You need to go,” she spits out. “Just pack your bags and jet off to some other ski resort where you can film yourself jumping out of a helicopter like an idiot. Go back to your millions of YouTube fans and your groupies. There’s no place for you here.”
“My place—” I catch myself just before I say is with Jackson. “My place is on this team, Sierra. I’m not going anywhere.” It’s not a challenge, it’s the truth. Now that I’ve found my way back to her, I’m never leaving again.
She zips up the tripod bag and slings it over her shoulder so violently it hits her in the back. She doesn’t wince at the impact, but her eyes water. “Does she know you’re here?” Her voice is fiercely protective, like she’d kill me right now if it meant she could save Jackson from having to see me.
“She does,” I say, and my hand involuntarily moves to my jaw. I can feel the swelling already starting, despite the earlier ice pack.
“This is going to go very, very badly,” she warns me.
“I’m counting on it.” It’s a truth I’ve accepted, it’s going to be bad before it gets better.
Sierra storms past me, then turns back around so the tripod bag comes barreling into my stomach; it feels like she’s punched me in the gut, but looks like it was an accident. She shoots a withering glance at me as she watches me double over, then turns and swings the door open, stomping inside.
And that went about as well as I expected too.