Chapter 5
Bo
“Don’t let go,” I say. And without a second thought, I grab her mitted hand in mine, and we continue on the journey.
This reminds me of all the times that I wanted to hold her hand but didn’t when we’d walk home from school together.
She probably doesn’t know that I’d wait long after practice, or even on days when we didn’t have baseball practice, just to walk with her.
“I guess it’s fine that we’re racing together because it’s just as much about the race as it is about the question cards at each station,” she says, making conversation to lighten the mood after that scare.
“I’ll just have to beat you at every question.
That shouldn’t be a problem considering I helped edit your work in high school despite you being two years ahead of me. ”
“Ya,” I mumble back at her sass, but I’m thinking other thoughts, and not for the first time.
Like, I wish I could feel her hand against mine.
I wish she could just be mine. But as kids it was never an option.
I was too old for her back then. And after I went pro, she made it clear that she wanted to stay in Lit Creek.
Even if I thought there was a chance, I blew it to smithereens last Christmas. Like a jackass.
She gives a small shiver and we pick up the pace, walking in—not exactly companionable, but maybe just less than hostile—silence.
After thirty minutes, we reach the first station where we pick up our individual question cards from Ted who doesn’t say a word, just points to a sign that reads, No cellphones.
She tears hers open and grins ear to ear. With the pencil provided by Ted, she writes down her response and plops it into the little box he’s holding.
“Thanks Ted.” He just nods in reply.
All the while I’m groaning. Name the nine famous reindeer.
Fuck. I dunno. Comet. Dancer. Prince. Oh ya…
Rudolph. Yup. Not gonna nail this one. I scribble down my answer, shove it in the box, and watch Ted take off to the next station.
What even is the point in us racing? Pure torture?
A test of our determination? Commitment?
“Let’s go slowpoke,” she calls out.
“I’m not a slowpoke. I’m a fast—”
Her raised brow cuts me off. “You were not going to say that.”
My lips kick up into a smile. “Say what?”
“That you’re a fast poke.” But she can’t keep the red out of her cheeks as she finishes what I was going to say.
“Maisy, seriously.” I just shake my head at her. “Where’s your head at?”
Ignoring me, she sits down on the log where the cross-country skis are ready for us.
Shit. This is not going to be a good look on me. Snowshoeing is one thing, but I was never very good at finding my balance on these things. Downhill skis, yes. But cross-country? A whole nother beast.
“What? Scared?” Apparently she’s regained her composure after the fast poke comment. She knows exactly what she’s poking at now.
“Not sure if you remember—”
“Oh yes. I do. Let’s see what you’ve got, big boy.”
And fuck if I don’t like her calling me that. So I strap on the skis with renewed determination. If anything, I’m sure I can pull this off to impress a woman. Men have done way crazier shit than this to win a heart.
Win her heart? What am I talking about? I’m just hoping that I can get her to look at me the way she used to. Like she cared. Like she…fuck…like she admired me.
I clear my throat. “Ready?”
“Readier than you are.” She glances down at my feet. No, I will not admit that they’re trembling a bit. That’s just the flutter of snowflakes around us. Purely an illusion.
With a graceful glide, Maisy takes off down the path.
And wow, I’m actually doing it. I watch her movements and try to mimic them.
I’m a professional athlete, I train on the daily.
I accomplish what few can by hitting some of the fastest pitches in baseball.
I have obtained a .350 batting average. I’m an elite athlete.
I think I can manage a little bit of gliding—
“Watch this upcoming hill, Bo,” Maisy’s voice calls to me from several yards away. How’d she get so far ahead of me?
“This isn’t a hill,” I say stupidly. Because ya, to the average or better cross-country skier this is not a hill. It’s a slight decline. But to me, the noob, it’s basically a fucking mountain.
My skis pick up speed and my center of gravity shifts. Probably because I’m bending over like a pretzel, and well, let’s just say in ways that a grown man should never bend.
I can’t stop myself. I see the snowbank, and the fucking tree, but there’s no going back.
SPLAT.
“Bo?” She screams.
And that’s real concern in her voice. That’s my takeaway from this. She still cares.