by E. J. Noyes
“That she does. I’m managing her and O’Reilly’s not getting his contract renewed. She’s scheduled to have her first World Cup start early next year.”
“O’Reilly? I’m not surprised. Why’d you even have him coaching her?” Chris O’Reilly was one of the biggest wankers around. Arrogant and rough, he was well known for pushing his racers too far. At once, I twigged on the reason for this call.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It was out of my hands. Anyway, it’s beside the point. She’s a great kid and we need someone to drive her but not over the cliff, you know? You’re it. I need you.”
I grunted. “If O’Reilly’s been involved, I bet this kid’s been coached a million shitty ways to Sunday and I’m going to have to fix all of it.” I knew the coaching wasn’t going to be a problem. Being back on the circuit, albeit this time behind the scenes was concerning but at the same time a little sliver of ego came to the forefront. I knew what I was doing. I’d been there, won, and I could help this kid. Excitement bubbled under the surface but in my only-just-awake state, it was struggling to make it past the grogginess. “Where’s she training now?”
“Still at Beaver Creek.”
My old training ground. “How old is she?”
“Turned sixteen last month.”
“Good age to aim for twenty twenty-two.”
“Is that a yes?” Brick asked slyly. Dammit, he had me.
“It’s a ninety-nine percent yes, pending an assessment to make sure we click.”
“Knew you’d bite. You’ll click, trust me. Got a pen?”
“I’m naked in bed at two in the morning, Brick. Of course I don’t have a pen.”
Brick laughed heartily. “Good for you. When are you back?”
“In Colorado? Sometime in November.”
“Perfect. We need you from the start of December.” His glee was evident in the high pitch of his voice.
“Fine, email me, same address.”
“Done. Can’t wait to see you, Doll. I miss you.”
Sleepily, I said, “You miss my lucrative sponsorship contracts and your seventeen and a half percent.”
“That too.” He laughed again, and in typical style hung up without a goodbye.
The next day after work, I skied some groomers in the hope that something mindless would help me reconcile why I’d had a complete turnaround in how I felt about going home. I trusted Brick, surely he wouldn’t offer me something I couldn’t handle, or wouldn’t enjoy. Still, if it didn’t work out, I’d have to make a decision about what to do next. I toyed with the idea of taking a break for six months. Travel a little, spend some more time just being myself. Deal with my shit. Financially, I didn’t need to work and if I was honest, I could use some time away.
Making a wide, slow turn, I cut across the mountain into a group of trees off the trail, pulled up and tugged off my gloves. Standing clear of the snow coating the branches, I stripped off a few leaves, crumbled them in my hand and breathed in the unmistakable clean eucalypt scent. Snowgums. Alive and thriving. They’d evolved by following one of the oldest rules of nature—adapt or perish.
It was time for me to do the same.
* * *
Rach cornered me a few days later at lunch. “Hey! Karen sucked up to head office and they’re going to let us play on the NASTAR course.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet, as though she was about to launch herself into the air. “You wanna come with us after final lessons today? Twenty-five bucks buy in, winner takes all.”
NASTAR was a recreational ski program that allowed people to run permanent slalom courses set up on ski resorts around the globe. Then they could compare their results against other people worldwide, and also with members of the U.S. Ski Team. I almost laughed. Where would I rank now?
“Sure. Why not,” I agreed, surprised to find that not only was I completely unafraid, but I was excited.
“Sweeeet!” She planted a smacking kiss on my cheek then practically skipped out of the locker room.
After work, I went over the basic rules with the other ten instructors who were buying in. We’d use only one of the two parallel courses, one run, winner takes all, and no challenges or protests would be accepted.
“Are we just going to ignore the obvious thing here?” Edward whined as he wiped a cloth over his poles.
Kyle looked confused. “Which is?”
Ed leveled his ski pole at me. “Aspen’s a professional ski racer. We should have a handicapping system.”
I raised my hands. “Hey. It’s been like, seven and a half years, and the ol’ body ain’t what she used to be.” Besides, my brain was handicap enough. “Plus, slalom’s never really been my thing.” I was a more-than-serviceable slalom skier, usually good enough to get on the podium in the Combined, but not at the level needed to win pure tech events.
“Doesn’t matter, like riding a bike, isn’t it?” His pout was model material.
Fair enough. “Why don’t I use my powder skis instead of my all-mountains then?”
Ed considered it, thick dark eyebrows furrowed. “No, I don’t think that’s enough.”
“Maybe Archer should ski on one leg only,” Kyle suggested.
“As long as it’s my right, then we’re good,” I shot back.
The shit-talking quickly devolved into loud, obnoxious back-and-forth between my coworkers, as they tried to figure out how to pull me down a few competition levels. Eventually, Rach climbed up onto a chair, windmilling her arms. “Hey! Shut it!” When the room grew quiet, an impish smirk appeared on her face. “She’ll use a pair of rentals of our choosing.”
I couldn’t stop my own grin. “Do I at least get a practice run?”
“Nope. You’ll get enough practice skiing from the station down to the race course.”
“All right.” I made a gimme motion. “Bring it.”
We made quick stop at Gear Rental, and everyone crowded around while the techie fit my boots to a pair of beginner skis for someone a foot shorter than me. They also looked like they hadn’t been serviced in five years. No wax and blunt edges. Piece of cake.
Rach settled on the chairlift beside me and for the first time since mentioning the mini-competition, she seemed uneasy. I poked her gently in the ribs. “What’s going on?”
She looked up, and gave me an immediate, “Nothing.”
“Liar. Come on, Rach. Spill it.”
Rach crinkled her nose. “Just…you sure you’re okay with this?”
We’d never talked about my old life, and I wasn’t quite sure what I should say. Mostly because I wasn’t sure what Rach knew or if it was just that she’d picked up on something during our time together. I slung an arm around her shoulders, hugging her to my side. “Couldn’t be better.” I let go of her just in time to yank the lift bar up. “So good in fact, I’m gonna go win some cash.”
Her pole tapped my butt as I skied off the lift but she rushed away before I could retaliate, laughter trailing in her wake. Sometimes people made better friends than they did lovers.
The trip down to the racecourse only took a few minutes and I took the time to adjust to the short, entry-level skis. I made a few quick, sharp turns and was surprised by the feeling building in my stomach. Adrenaline. The good kind. The kind I used to chase after.
Word had spread, and by the time we’d all gathered at the timing huts, a group of thirty or so people waited at the bottom outside the bright orange plastic mesh fencing. I recognized coworkers in their trademark red jackets and blue pants, but other skiers had also joined the group and were looking up the slope. My excitement increased. I welcomed it. I relished it.
To determine our start order we drew numbers from a beanie. Number nine out of eleven. After a quick clarification of the rules, there was nothing left to do but ski. I twisted my torso back and forth to loosen up while I watched my friends make their way down the course. Some of them made decent time, others stacked it as Rach would say. None of them came close to the time I knew I could get.
Kyle’s expression was both alarmed and interested. “What the hell are you doing?”
I smiled patiently. “You’ve seen race suits, right? Aerodynamics.”
He brought his hands together and looked skyward. “Please tell me you’re not wearing thermals and your choice of underwear is a thong.”
“Pervert.” I did a little fake striptease then shucked out of my ski pants, revealing a very boring pair of dark gray thermals. Rach steadied me as I hopped around, trying to pull the inner elastic cuff of my ski pants over my boots. I could imagine the headline: Aspen Archer Races In Thermals And Astro Boy Tee.
Kyle looked like he was considering following my lead, even unzipping his jacket halfway before zipping up again with a hell no headshake. I leaned down to ratchet the top buckles of my boots up one notch and tighten the power straps. “Gotta sacrifice if you wanna win,” I teased him.
Rach laughed. “Taking it a little seriously, aren’t you, A?” She couldn’t know what it really meant for me to be standing there waiting to race against others, even if it was all for fun. She couldn’t know that sometimes, underneath all the fear and self-recrimination, I hungered to do this again, to feel the rush, listen to people cheering for me.
Her comment was meant to tease and I took it as such. “Once an Olympian, always an Olympian.”
Jiggling to keep warm, I watched as one by one my friends skied the course. Ben had a good run, faster than Edward. Ollie missed a gate. Josie was slow but she was laughing the whole way. I pulled my goggles off, cleaned them on the edge of my shirt then slid them over my helmet, slotting the elastic strap back into the keeper.
Squinting down the course, I imagined the line I’d take, recalled the sharp clack of gates against the handle of my poles and limb guards. My pre-race rituals hadn’t changed in all the years I’d competed and I was surprised at how easily it all came back. Closing my eyes, I imagined the special fist bump handshake I’d always exchanged with my coaches before taking my place at the start.
As I was pulling my goggles down over my eyes, Rach called, “Aspen. Here!” I looked to her, and smiled widely as she raised her phone to take a photo of me. “You look like such a dork,” she said.
“It’s about to get even better.” I tucked my shirt into the waistband of my thermals. “Sexy, huh?”
“I think we have different ideas about sexy.”
I laughed, then turned back to watch the course. When the skier before me left, I closed my eyes again and thought about every winning run I’d ever taken. I remembered the way it felt to let go. I remembered my control. The speed. The thrill. I pushed aside all my fears and doubts then let my mind go blank.
As I took my place in the starting hut with my boots millimeters from the timing arm, the seven and a half years since my last competitive run may as well have been seven and a half minutes. I tapped the tips of my poles together three times. The beep of the timer countdown, the coil of muscle as I pushed off the start all felt like coming back home. The feeling grew with the brush of each gate past my body and the almost psychic clarity with which I saw the next turn then the one after.
How had I forgotten that this was where I belonged? How had I let myself get so broken? I’d never race competitively again, but my body still knew what to do. And it loved it. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t even fast by my standards and it didn’t give me quite the old thrill, but it was fun and fear free.
A moment after rushing over the line, I raised my arms victoriously, then turned hard to stop. Before I could recover, I overbalanced on my too-short skis and tumbled, falling on my ass in front of a crowd of fifty-ish people and all the people traveling overhead on the lifts. I lay in the snow, cold and wet seeping through my underthings, and I laughed and laughed.
The bar tab I’d started with my race win profit was almost gone when Rach sent me the photo she’d taken before my start. I looked goofy. I looked relaxed. Most importantly, I looked happy. I stared at the picture, thinking about the one from Vancouver on my dresser. They were of a similar moment in time, but they were of two completely different people.
I uploaded the picture to Instagram and linked it to my Twitter with the caption It’s been a while. This is what you wear to race in, right? Since my retirement, my social media following had atrophied a little but I still had over five hundred thousand combined Instagram and Twitter followers who seemed to like my snow-selfies, scenery and wildlife shots, worthy-cause promotion and commentary on Team USA performance.
All night my phone buzzed with notifications. Comments, retweets, the occasional rude or snide remark which I muted and promptly forgot about. Two responses in particular caught my eye. A retweet from @staceyskeez – Looking good coach! #killingit. Clearly Stacey was confident I’d take her on. I tapped out a quick reply – Don’t get any ideas…
Then there was a comment from @gemstone04 – LOL! That looks cold. Hope u won!! I’d forgotten Gemma had followed my social media accounts. Unable to help myself, I responded – Of course I did! World record time ;)
The excitement of the small victory from earlier was tempered by an overwhelming rush of loss and I had to close my eyes against a sudden wave of longing. How much longer would I be reminded of them? When would I finally accept that they were fleeting visitors in my life? Finally get it through my head that Cate was nothing more than a passing pleasure?
I had to set the emotion aside when Ed linked the video of my run and the hilarious fall at the end with #AAComeback. Of course it started a fresh wave of responses and meant I had to tweet that it was all for fun and no I wasn’t coming out of retirement. Rachel slid into the bench seat beside me and passed me a fresh beer. “Maybe I should become an official event photographer.”
I raised my glass, clinking it against hers. “Perhaps you should.”
She smiled into her drink, then at me. “That run was awesome to watch.”
My brain went immediately to self-deprecation, its default for so long. The run sucked, it was just for fun and wasn’t anywhere near what I could do, I’m a wash-up, I’m a failure. But I dug my nails against the butt of my thumb, smiled and said, “Thanks. It was really fun. It’s been so long I’d forgotten just what I’m capable of.”
Chapter Eighteen
Knowing it would be some time before I returned to Thredbo made the mid-morning drive to the airport bittersweet. People overtook me time and time again as I slowed to take in the flat fields of dried-off winter grass backing onto rolling hills. I passed mobs of sheep and cattle wandering their pasture, interspersed with kangaroos—some milling about and others threatening to kamikaze in front of the car.
The verge was dotted with what seemed like hundreds of dead ’roos and wombats, and every now and then I spotted black-shouldered kites hovering for a meal. I had countless memories of my time in Australia, hundreds of photographs and I’d made dozens of friends. After so many years hiding from myself, it really was time to go home for good.
Once I’d handed off my Grand Vitara—I’d sold it dirt cheap to Rachel’s “poor university student” brother—I had a full day of flights to look forward to. Sydney, LAX, Phoenix. Hayley didn’t know about my surprise visit, and she’d either be ecstatic to see me or pissed to be caught unprepared. Knowing her, probably a combination of both.
Stretched out in business class from Sydney to Los Angeles, I spent most of the fourteen-hour flight watching movies and making plans for how to best approach Stacey Evans. From what I remembered, she had confidence and talent to burn and would likely need more restraining than bolstering. I smiled to myself. Just like me, ten or fifte
en years ago.
After wandering around LAX for a while I boarded my flight to Phoenix, and the moment I stepped out of the terminal into the Arizona heat, I realized my error. I had nothing but jeans and winter clothes. That’s an A-plus for planning ahead, Aspen. I stripped down to my undershirt, and desperately hailed a cab. The cab ride took an hour, and as we drove I stared out at the dull dry landscape. I still didn’t know how my sister lived there—after a few days of this scenery I always started to feel almost depressed.
From their front step I could hear Hayley trying to stop my three-year-old nephew from tossing his mashed potato on the ground, and assuring my opinionated six-year-old niece that eating chicken wouldn’t make her grow feathers. The fact I could hear her from outside told me she’d been having these conversations with her children for some time and her patience was wearing thin.
I grinned. Best. Timing. Ever. Scratch her being excited, Hayley was going to be pissed as hell at me for interrupting kid dinnertime. Totally worth it. I pressed the doorbell hard and when I didn’t hear footsteps right away, I pressed and held it again just to be obnoxious.
Terse footsteps approached the doorway and I heard anger in the way the chain was yanked aside. Then a pause and the door was flung open so quickly I was almost knocked back by the rush of air-conditioned air escaping. Hayley let out a squeal of delight and flung her arms around me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I held her tight and immediately felt the rightness in my soul that came from being with my family. “Surprising you, obviously. I’ve been traveling for over twenty-four hours, Hayls. God help me if you don’t have a cold beer, I’m going to melt. And do you have some shorts or something I could borrow? All I have is winter gear. How do you stand this inferno?”
My older sister laughed and released me, looking me up and down. “I’m so glad to see you! But damn, you look tired.”