by Audrey Bell
“I want you to finish the course,” Mike instructs, exasperated. “I feel like I may have told you that one or two or twenty-nine times, but if you could actually focus on finishing the course, then we can start working on your time.”
“This is so frustrating,” I say furiously.
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to be nice about it.”
“Well, tough shit.”
When he deposits me at the starting line and I pull back to launch myself, he grabs me by my arms. “Hold up.” He fixes the snaps on my helmet. “Pippa?”
“Yes?”
“What are we doing right now?”
“Skiing.”
“What are you trying to accomplish?”
“Finishing the course,” I grumble.
“As opposed to?”
“Crashing.”
“No, as opposed to?”
“Seeing how fast I can go,” I say. “Which is not very fucking fast…”
“I don’t care. Finish the course. I need you to finish. That’s it. You’re not going to finish at all if you crash out.”
“This is how I ski, Mike!”
“That’s how you ski when you are top of your game. You took a year off. You’re not there yet. Right now, it’s about doing the best that you can do on Saturday—not doing the best that you can do period. We are training and I need you to finish and then we can speed it up.”
“Alright, alright.”
“Christ, I thought people were supposed to get more patient with age.”
He lets go of my arms. “Alright, take your mark.”
I slide my skis back and coil my weight into my legs, ready to spring forward when he gives the word.
“Go.”
One of the toughest parts about downhill is the launch, you have to come out strong, so you can hit the first turn with enough velocity that your turn doesn’t stop you.
I turn early on each flag. I move more carefully than I’ve been before. I focus on my form instead of on how hard I can push. I make clean, precise turns, completing most of the turn before I round the flag. I feel in control, but I can also feel the milliseconds adding up. I want to push it. I go hard into the last set of turns and nearly tumble across the finish line, but at least I finish.
“Attagirl,” Mike shouts, clapping his hands.
Breathlessly, I turn and smile at him.
“Lottie, baby, come on down,” Mike yells to her.
I watch Lottie come down the same course I’d struggled so much with all day. She’s better than me now. Way better. I try to catch my breath as she speeds cleanly, with staggeringly brief, controlled turns, her body tilting parallel to the ground as she zips effortlessly.
All the years we skied together, she beat me once. I’ll be lucky if I ever beat her again. She and Laurel will be one-two on Saturday. And I have a strong feeling that this prodigal seventeen year old will take third.
Seventeen. I can’t believe I’m racing someone four years younger than me. I felt ancient at seventeen. I feel worse at twenty-one, like things are already starting to pass me by.
I realize, with a twist in my stomach, that I probably will have a hard time getting back to number one in the country in downhill. When Mike said he wanted me to finish, he meant that unless someone fucked up, I had no shot at placing in the top three.
I’ll just have to handle it. And hope to improve.
“Awesome,” I say to her.
“Oh, thanks,” she grins. “You looked great.”
“Right.”
“No, you really did,” she smiles. “You can definitely place Saturday if this is your first day back.” Bullshit.
Small, achievable goals first. I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that.
I hate losing. Even in practice.
Chapter Eight
By Friday, my body feels like it’s at war with me—everything hurts. But, I’m getting stronger, falling less, feeling more confident. And it’s easy to be distracted from the physical pain, because the mountain is crawling with skiers from all over the circuit.
And even though I’ve always hated the idea of people talking about me, I’ve never been so sure that they actually were talking about me until now.
The girl from the avalanche that killed Ryan Cameron and Danny Keller. Remember that? That’s her.
The cafeteria the night before the races teems with people I had once called friends and people who I still probably should call enemies. And the rest of the people just pitied me, which made me resent the hell out of them.
“Do not freak out,” Lottie says, taking the tray from my hand and laying flat on the counter.
She starts putting food on my plate. I had been standing, holding a tray in one listless hand like an idiot, for the past five minutes. “Pasta? Competition tomorrow means you eat pasta. Pippa Baker is not fucking afraid of these people. Pippa Baker is getting her pasta and Pippa Baker is going to eat these fuckers for breakfast tomorrow.”
I chuckle.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Pippa Baker is not apologizing for being scared of Laurel Bates and the rest of the Deatheaters.”
“Deatheaters?”
“Yes.”
“Which one is Voldemort?”
“Mm…don’t be ridiculous, there’s no Voldemort. It’s just all deatheaters.”
I laugh at her. “I think that’s enough pasta.”
“There’s no such thing as enough pasta.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Calm yourself and carry that to Joe’s table.” She hands me the tray and meets my eyes. I look at her gratefully.
“Thanks.”
“Joe’s table. Go.”
I glance over. “Hunter’s sitting there.”
“And?”
“Can we just sit with someone else?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he’s not as bad as the other people here and there are no free tables.”
Hunter looks angry and hot. I guess that’s just his look. Angry. Hot. Not giving a fuck. Whatever. It’s a good look on him, but I still don’t want to sit as his table.
He’s wearing a hunter green sweatshirt and focusing on his food so he doesn’t have to talk to us. If I hadn’t creepily accidentally spied on him, I could make a joke about the hunter green sweatshirt. I mean, it would be a terrible joke, but awkward jokes beat awkward silence.
“Hey,” Joe says. “You ready, Pip?”
I nod. “I hope so.”
Hunter looks up for the first time. His eyes wander over me lazily and then he looks directly at Lottie. “Well, good luck,” he says, getting to his feet.
“Thanks,” Lottie says. I don’t say anything. The luck he wished was obviously directed at her and not at me.
I watch him clear his tray. So, he’s even more pissed off at me than I thought. I swallow. I don’t care. I don’t know him. Barely know him. Way too good-looking to trust.
He sorts his silverware from his plate, tosses an empty cup into a gray bin. Even underneath his sweatshirt, you can make out the broadness of his shoulders. His hood does nothing to hide his strong jaw, and…shit. I need to stop staring.
I break my gaze and look at Lottie, who is smirking.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says.
“What?” I repeat.
“You’re kind of drooling.”
“I’m not drooling.”
“It’s fine if you’re drooling, Pippa. He’s really cute.”
“New topic,” Joe announces quickly.
“What’s the new topic?”
“Doug Cannon is here.”
I raise my eyebrow. Doug Cannon has won Olympic gold medals than any other person in history. Not just in skiing—out of all Olympians.
He retired in the early ‘90s and owns his own mountain resort out in Idaho, but is name hasn’t lost any of its power.
“Where?”
Lottie says, swiveling her head. “Why? How? Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
“No, no, no,” Joe explains. “Not like in the cafeteria. He’s on the mountain. Parker saw him watching earlier.”
“Oh my fucking god. That’s amazing,” Lottie says. “Like, amazing.”
“I know,” Joe says.
“Are you sure its him?”
“Yes.”
“How come you didn’t tell us the minute we sat down?”
“Because you were drooling over Hunter?”
“I wasn’t drooling,” Lottie replies, indignantly. “She was.”
“No,” I say. “I was glaring.”
“Why would you be glaring? I really don’t think he’s that big of a jerk,” Lottie says.
“I’d steer clear,” Joe says darkly.
“Yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“I’ve just heard some stories. I mean, the guy has a lot of money and he parties a lot. I’d just—I’d steer clear.”
“I’m not interested in dating him,” I say, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.
Joe nods. “Nobody said you were.”
“You implied it.”
“Well, he’s a big step down from Danny,” Joe says, unable to keep the emotional edge out of his voice. “Maybe not in the money and looks and fame category, but in the human being category…”
“Hey,” Lottie snaps at Joe.
Joe glances at me cautiously. Maybe he’s not aware of how upsetting it is to hear him talk like that, like I’m going to jump into bed with Hunter and what an insult to Danny’s memory it would be.
Maybe not in the money and looks category…
“Sorry,” he says softly. “I just—I didn’t mean it, like…I don’t want you to…” He takes a deep breath. “All I meant was he’s known for being an asshole to girls. And you’ve been through a lot already.”
I look into Joe’s deep brown eyes and believe him. “You don’t think I miss Danny?”
“I-I know that. I mean,” he bites his lip. “Right—I really didn’t mean it like that.”
“I don’t care how much money anyone has.”
Joe looks miserable.
“And there’s no one I’d rather look at right now than Danny,” I manage to say.
“I. I’m sorry, Pippa. That’s not what I meant.”
“Okay,” I say calmly. “Fine.” I take a deep breath and smile at Lottie and at Joe. “Just wanted to clear that up.”
He nods. “Got it. Sorry.”
Lottie rolls her eyes. “Joe, you should really take a vow of silence.”
“I might look into it,” Joe says blushing.
I smile wearily at both of them. At least, I’ve forgotten briefly about the people staring. That counts for something, right?
***
I remember Danny in this same cafeteria two years ago, the night before the races. He’d been nervous, he kept spinning his plate, and twisting his pasta up on his fork but not eating any of it because his stomach was heaving with anxiety.
He and Ryan never ate together before races. They were each other’s number one competition. Danny couldn’t handle it, because Danny was always losing out to Ryan.
“I just want to feel even for once,” he told me that night. He was talking about Ryan, how he resented Ryan’s success and then felt guilty about it.
“You will eventually. Don’t stress,” I promised him.
But, he didn’t win any races at Snowbird two years ago. He finished second in three and crashed out the fourth race he entered.
Ryan won every title.
And Danny had pretended to be happy for him, while he was quietly devastated.
I remember him standing in the room with a cell phone cradled to his ear and talking softly to his demanding father. I remember the exhaustion in his voice when he tried to explain. The way his shoulders shuddered silently when the phone call ended.
I remember the hurt look he wore on his face when it was over. How he held his arms around his ribs, like he was protecting them, and tried not to cry. I remember all the things I would have done to take that all away. I remember wishing I could bear the pain for him.
Chapter Nine
The nerves catch me a few minutes before the race begins. On top of the mountain, shivering in a thin racing suit and a coat that’s not doing its job.
There are 100 elite American skiers here, jockeying for a position on one of the US Ski Teams. Only half will qualify for the final. Only three will receive medals.
I take a breath and close my eyes. It’s a long course, but not a particularly challenging one. The question will be whether you can keep your feet. The answer will require patience and control.
The first competitors all clock in around 1:47 and 1:48. I had done a 1:46.4 in practice. If I did that here, it wouldn’t just good enough to qualify for the final, but it might even put me in top ten.
I swallow thickly. I also had done a lot of crashing in practice. And nobody else seems to be having that problem.
I see the dark-haired young skier from Vermont that Lottie had told me about. Penelope Graham—seventeen years old—a real force to be reckoned with.
She starts like a rocket out of a cannon and then carves down the mountain at a breakneck pace. She’s smooth. Like a lean ship born to careen down a mountain, it doesn’t look as hard for her as it does for the other girls.
She immediately jumps to the top of the leader board. 1:44.55. Jesus Christ, that’s fast.
A full second is an eternity in downhill skiing. And Penelope leads by two whole seconds.
I watch her take off her helmet and shake out her hair and grinning up at her time illuminated on the leader board. She looks so much younger than me.
I see Laurel fold her arms and swear.
Yeah. Join the club, Laurel. Shit.
I close my eyes. I wish I hadn’t been slated to start so late.
Mike ambles over calmly: “Ready?”
I nod. He smiles sympathetically, seeing it all across my face that I was anything but ready.
“Breathe. Just finish—try to keep your speed in check. This is totally doable for you.”
I nod.
“Do not try to break that girl’s time,” he warns, as if he can read my mind.
“I’m not going to,” I protest, even though I was sort of thinking about what it would be like to go that fast.
We watch Lottie fly. She looks tiny when she crouches at the starting line. She’s crazy fast on her turns and she approaches the finish line, her time approaching Penelope’s quickly. But, she crosses just before Penelope did with a time of 1:43.98.
Mike whoops. “Attagirl, Lott!” he calls from on top of the mountain, clapping his hands.
I close my eyes, place my hands on my hips, and wait. I turn my gaze to the sky. The clouds blur before my eyes and the time to prepare dissolves before me, into nothing, until it’s time to go.
“Alright, you’re up,” Mike reminds me softly.
I head over to the tent and tighten my boots, feeling suddenly crunched for time. I stretch my legs out again. I line my skis up on the starting line and I stare down the steep slope, all the way down to the finish line.
My first race back. Make it good.
The chime sounds, I push off, and the earth rushes me, fast, fast, fast. I bend and turn at each gate, dropping my shoulder, keeping the blades of my skis flat. Control, control, control. I have to remind myself of that. I make it through the last turn flying
I finish breathless and relieved, scattering snow in a high wave, and turn to the scoreboard. 1:45.55. Yes!
I smile. Okay. Good. Better than I needed to do. Good enough for the next round.
I’m up first in the final round. Time slows down for me just before the start. I pull my feet together and back, I loosen my neck and shoulders. I wait for the chime and as soon as it reaches my ears, I fling myself out at the hill.
Gate, gate, gate, gate, gat
e.
I breathe sharply as one of my skis wobble, but I regain control. Gate.
My ankles ache with the intensity of the angles that I’m working. I push hard and harder still and as my legs seem ready to give, I push all the way to the finish. I whirl around, right away, nearly losing my balance.
My numbers flash up. 1:44.99. Good. Really good.
As good as I’m going to do today and better than I’ve done all week. I allow myself to smile, to breathe deeply, and then I head back to the center, too nervous to watch the race from so close.
I text Mike: Let me know if I need to come back. That will only happen if I finish in the top three.
He texts me back a smiley face. I will. Great ride!
I head to up The Forklift, a high, elevated food stand on the outdoor second level of the Snowbird Center. I grab a Gatorade and stand by the picnic tables overlooking the course. It’s deserted after lunch, and I lean against the railing to watch the rest of the skiers come in.
No challengers at first—a few come close, but nobody knocks me down. I keep first position until Lottie goes. She hits a 1:44.11. Shit. I watch my name slip down the leaderboard.
And Penelope and Laurel still have yet to go.
I bite my lip. One of them will have to fuck up for me to medal, if their first-round times were any indication.
“Hey,” it’s a deep gravelly voice. I turn to see strong arms rest on the railing, close to mine.
I turn my head. Hunter. I shiver. Great. Hey, Hunter, want to watch me have a nervous breakdown?
“Cold?”
“A little.” He grins and drops his hat on my head. It’s a sweet gesture, even as it flops over my eyes, and falls. I catch it as it tumbles down my shoulder.
“Wow,” he say. “You don’t know how to wear a hat?” He takes my wrist and takes the hat back and grins. “Let me show you.” He slides the hat over my head, messing up my hair. He steps back and gives me a look and laughs.
“What?”
“Nothing. You look like a turtle.”
“Well, thanks,” I reach up to pull his hat off.
“Nah, it’s cute, leave it on,” he insists. He smiles. “I like it.”
“You’re into turtles?”
He shrugs. “Sure. They’ve got it all figured out. They carry their homes around on their backs. They can just curl up and pretend to be rocks when shit starts to go down. Live to a hundred.” He grins. “What’s not to like?”