Chapter Thirty-One
Liam
I’m sitting in a sterile room at the local doctor’s office, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air.
The hum of fluorescent lights above feels louder than it should, grating against the edges of my already-frayed nerves.
Mr. Glowen, the town doctor, came in on his day off to help me prove what I already know—I’m clean.
He’s wearing his usual white coat, his glasses perched so low on his nose they look like they might fall off at any moment.
He’s an older guy, the kind who’s been doing this for decades, and he has the no-nonsense attitude to match.
He glances up from the paperwork he’s been meticulously filling out and offers me a small, reassuring nod.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he says, handing me a sterile collection cup.
I stand, my legs feeling heavier than usual.
The tremor in my left hand has been worse today, subtle but persistent, and it’s been throwing me off.
I shove my hands into my pockets to steady them as I head for the restroom.
It’s not just the stress of the day—it’s my MS flaring up, probably triggered by everything going on.
In the bathroom, the stark white tiles feel colder than they should.
I grip the counter for a moment, steadying myself as a wave of fatigue washes over me.
My legs feel like they’re filled with lead, and a faint buzzing sensation has started in my feet.
I breathe deeply, trying to focus, trying to push through.
The procedure itself is simple enough, but the weight of what it represents makes every step feel monumental. I follow the instructions to the letter, sealing the cup tightly before placing it in the designated bag. I walk back out, my movements careful and deliberate, and hand it to Mr. Glowen.
“Thanks,” I say rougher than I’d like.
He nods again, his face unreadable. “We’ll run two tests. A rapid test which should take less than thirty minutes for the results. We’ll also run a standard test, which will take a day or two to get the results. You’re welcome to wait here or step outside if you need some air.”
I glance at the chairs lined up against the wall. They look about as comfortable as they feel—hard plastic, unforgiving. But the thought of standing too long makes my legs ache just thinking about it. I drop into one of the seats, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.
The waiting is the worst part. Each passing second feels like an eternity, the weight of the accusations heavy on my shoulders.
I rub at my thighs, trying to ease the pins and needles sensation that’s been creeping up steadily.
The fatigue feels like it’s dragging me under, but I can’t let it win. Not today.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but Mr. Glowen says, “Liam,” and startles me out of my thoughts. He’s holding a clipboard, his expression carefully neutral as he approaches. I sit up straighter, bracing myself for what’s coming.
“We’re almost done running the panel on the rapid test,” he says. “Initial screens are negative so far, but we’ll confirm everything shortly.”
I nod, my jaw tightening. It’s a small relief, but it’s not enough. Not until it’s official.
Leaning back in the chair, I let out a slow breath. My hand trembles slightly as I run it through my hair. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been in this sport or how much I’ve sacrificed for it—moments like these remind me just how fragile it all is.
For now, all I can do is wait.
The minutes tick by like hours, each one dragging on longer than the last. I shift in the hard plastic chair, my legs aching with a dull throb from sitting still too long.
I know the fatigue is the MS, creeping in at the edges of my stamina, but I refuse to let it get the better of me.
Not today. Not when everything I’ve worked for is hanging in the balance
Finally, Mr. Glowen steps into the waiting room, holding a small sheet of paper. His face doesn’t betray anything, which makes my heart lurch uncomfortably in my chest. He stops in front of me, adjusts his glasses, and holds out the results.
“You’re clean,” he says simply, his voice calm and measured. “No signs of any substances, performance-enhancing or otherwise. As I suspected.”
Relief crashes over me like an avalanche, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders sag slightly as the tension drains from my body, replaced by a cautious optimism. “Thanks,” I manage. It comes out a little hoarse.
He nods, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll send the full report to your publicist for her records. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I clutch the paper in my hands, my name bold at the top of the results.
It’s a tangible piece of truth—proof that the accusations are baseless.
I take a picture of the document with my phone and immediately send it to the family group chat, Gail, and Lon, my coach, who Gail looped in earlier this morning.
A flood of messages comes in almost instantly.
I stand and roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion. This isn’t over yet, but at least I’ve got this piece of the puzzle locked in. I thank Mr. Glowen again before heading out into the cold. The crisp mountain air hits my face, jolting me awake as I slide into my car.
The drive to the lodge is slow, the roads still slick with fresh snow.
The morning sunlight glints off the icy trees, painting the landscape in shades of silver and gold.
Normally, I’d take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the mountain, but my mind is racing ahead.
My final run looms large, and I need to put every ounce of focus into making it count.
When I pull into the lodge’s parking lot, the crowd is already gathering near the slopes. The energy is palpable, a mix of excitement and tension that buzzes through the air. I park and grab my gear from the backseat, my breath visible in the freezing air as I jog toward the main building.
Inside, the atmosphere is chaotic but familiar—athletes warming up, coaches shouting last-minute advice, and spectators milling around with steaming cups of coffee. I head straight for the lobby, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination.
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a message from Mom.
Mom: Remember, you’re already a champion in our eyes. Just have fun out there.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I pocket the phone.
It’s a good reminder. No matter what happens on that mountain, I’ve already won in so many ways.
But as I lace up my boots and adjust my helmet, I know I’m not just riding for myself today.
I’m riding for my family, for my reputation, and maybe—maybe just a little—for Maggie, too.
With my gear in place and my nerves steady, I head outside and into the crisp mountain air. The slope rises before me, a glistening challenge waiting to be conquered. I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, and set my sights on the run ahead.
It’s time to finish what I started.
I find Zach waiting near the lift, leaning against one of the support poles with his arms crossed over his chest. His usual easygoing demeanor seems absent, replaced by a stiff posture and an unreadable expression.
When he spots me approaching, he straightens up and adjusts his hat, avoiding eye contact.
“Hey,” I call out, trying to gauge his mood. “Ready for this?”
Zach nods, but it’s a tight, almost reluctant gesture. “Yeah. Everything good with the test?”
“Clean,” I say simply, holding up the paper for emphasis. “No surprises.”
“That’s great,” he replies, but there’s no relief in his voice. He rubs the back of his neck and glances around, as if looking for someone. “We should get moving. Don’t want to waste any more time.”
“Sure,” I agree, though his odd behavior sends a flicker of unease through me. Zach’s been by my side for years, always the steady, dependable presence keeping me grounded. Seeing him act so cagey now feels like stepping onto unfamiliar terrain.
As we step onto the lift, the crisp mountain air whips around us.
The chair creaks and sways as we ascend, the world falling away below.
I glance at Zach, who’s uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.
Normally, he’d be running through last-minute strategies or giving me a pep talk, but today he’s silent.
“You okay?” I finally ask, breaking the tension.
“Huh?” He snaps out of his thoughts and forces a smile. “Yeah, just… a lot on my mind.”
“Like what?” I press, narrowing my eyes.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” he says quickly. Too quickly. He shifts in his seat and adjusts his gloves. “Let’s focus on your run.”
I want to push further, but the lift jerks to a stop at the top of the slope, cutting off the conversation.
Zach hops off first, his movements stiff and mechanical.
I follow, my legs already feeling the telltale signs of fatigue creeping in.
The slight tremor in my thighs, the heaviness in my calves—it’s all there, subtle but unmistakable.
The MS is flaring again. It’s not enough to stop me, but it’s enough to make me second-guess every step.
Zach hands me my board without a word and steps back, giving me space to strap in. The weight of the snowboard feels heavier than usual, the bindings stubborn as I try to secure them. My fingers fumble, stiff and clumsy, but I manage to get everything in place.
I glance up at Zach, who’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “What’s with the death stare?” I ask, trying to inject some humor into the moment.
“Just… be careful out there,” he says, his voice low. “You’ve got nothing to prove.”
“I’ve got everything to prove,” I counter, tightening the strap on my helmet. “This run isn’t just about me anymore.”
Zach doesn’t respond, but the look in his eyes lingers as I turn and approach the edge of the slope. The mountain stretches out before me, a pristine canvas of untouched snow. The crowd below is a distant blur, their cheers muffled by the wind. I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and push off.
The first few seconds are smooth, the familiar rhythm of carving through the snow settling into my muscles.
But as I pick up speed, the strain in my legs becomes harder to ignore.
My balance wavers slightly on a sharp turn, and I have to throw my weight into the movement to avoid veering off course.
The limb fatigue is relentless, a subtle thief stealing precision and control.
My thighs burn with every turn, my movements slower and less fluid than they should be.
The tremor in my legs grows more pronounced as I hit a patch of uneven snow, and I barely manage to correct my course in time to avoid wiping out.
Come on, Liam. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
I force myself to breathe through the discomfort, my eyes locked on the path ahead. The next jump looms, a high arc that requires perfect timing and balance. I crouch low, gathering momentum, and launch myself into the air.
For a brief moment, I’m weightless, the world falling away beneath me. But as I come down, my legs falter on the landing, and I have to throw my arms out to steady myself. My heart pounds as I regain control, the adrenaline masking the pain shooting up my calves.
The rest of the run is a blur of grit and determination.
Every turn feels like a battle, my body fighting against the very thing it’s trained to do.
By the time I reach the bottom, my lungs are burning, my legs trembling with exhaustion.
The cheers of the crowd are distant and hollow, drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.
Lon is waiting for me at the edge of the run, his expression vacant. I unstrap my board and lean on it for support, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice loud with concern.
“Yeah,” I lie, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Just need a minute.”
Lon nods but doesn’t look convinced. He steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Liam, if something’s wrong—”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I cut him off, sharper than I mean to. “I’ve got this.”
The man who has coached me my whole career studies me for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then he steps back and gestures toward the lodge. “Let’s get you inside. You need to rest before your final run.”
As I follow him toward the lodge, the unease from earlier floods my system. Zach’s behavior, my struggling performance, the weight of everything riding on today—it all swirls together, a storm I can’t quite shake.
But I push it aside. There’s still one run left, one chance to prove to myself—and to everyone else—that I’m not done yet.