“Fine.” I toss off the covers and make sure to kick him a few times as I scramble my way out of bed.
The metal from the hanger scrapes against the bar in my tiny little closet that smells like sawdust. They always make these athlete accommodations with cheap materials, pulling the minor details together at the last minute. The good thing about being at a United States sponsored event is the little time and energy I have to put into my outfit. I pull out a white long sleeved T-shirt they provide us, the big USA flag on the front, and a pair of jeans. Instant outfit.
“That is totally not fair,” I say when I turn back from the closet and see Cyrus has wiggled his way under my covers and is currently wrapping himself up with my blankets.
“I couldn’t let the warmth go to waste.” He smirks and cuddles his head into the pillow.
Well on the positive side, at least my pillow will smell like him tonight. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
I share the room and teeny tiny bathroom with Stacy — another snowboarder on the American team. I’m pretty sure she’s hooking up with a skier. It takes me less than ten minutes to get dressed, but when I toss my dirty clothes in the pile I started in the corner, Cyrus lets out a snore.
“This is not cool.” I can’t risk injuring him before he has a race, but that doesn’t stop me from throwing a small brick — otherwise known as a protein bar I signed an endorsement deal with — directly at his head. The things taste horrible anyway, but they pay me a ton to be seen eating one every so often. Once I’m back in the states it’s time to find new representation. Someone who won’t talk me into signing every deal out there.
Cyrus warned me to be picky, but I was stubborn and didn’t want his advice at the time. Now I regret it, but not enough to admit I don’t love the chunky, nut-filled crap bars.
The wrapped weapon makes contact. He startles, his head coming off the pillow with wide eyes searching the room. “What was that for?”
“You were sleeping.”
“Yeah, you took too long.” He yawns and stretches, sitting up in the bed.
“Well, let’s go. Mr. We-have-to-leave-at-the-crack-of-dawn.” I grab my keys from the small dresser in the room and stick them in my pocket.
Cyrus drops his feet to the floor, still wearing shoes. “Charlie, it’s 9:30 in the morning. The crack of dawn happened hours ago.”
“You put your dirty shoes on my sheets. Now is not the time to correct me.” I open the door for him to walk out. “Why are we friends anyway?”
He pats me on the shoulder as he passes by. “Because you love me.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “You keep telling yourself that.” I pull off nonchalant flawlessly. If Cyrus had any idea how much truth was in his statement, our friendship would never be the same.
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry.” His smile causes me to worry. “It’s not far.”
Cyrus telling me not to worry is reason enough to panic.
**
The red light on top of the skee-ball machine flashes as the siren plays over the constant stream of loud music from the other games around us. The whole place is loud. It’s like a mini casino for children. Cyrus jumps up and down like he’s won the lottery. Children…pro athletes… almost the same.
“Did you see me?” he yells over the ruckus.
“Uh-huh.”
He grabs me by the shoulders, his eyes huge with excitement. “Charlie. I almost rolled a perfect game. I might be the first person in the world to make a perfect game in skee-ball.” I thought it impossible, but his eyes actually get bigger. “When I retire from snowboarding I’m going to become a professional bowler.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Do you think skee-ball skills translate to bowling?”
“Of course they do. It’s rolling a ball down an aisle.”
The buzzing stops and an attendant in a bright red polo shirt leans over the counter set high above the rest the arcade. “Sir, what you like for prize?” he asks, his English broken, but fairly good.
Like a drug addict ready for another hit, Cyrus tenses, his eyes frozen. “I get a prize?” he asks. “Could this get any better?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
He walks over and examines the small area of prizes. Stuffed animals hang suspended from nets tacked to the walls. On the main counter, behind glass, are the tiny trinkets a person can win after they spend gobs of money. From the way Cyrus stares at each and every single prize, I have a feeling we’ll be here for a while.
Earlier this morning when he said we weren’t going far, I didn’t believe him. It turned out I should have. We ended up at the back of the hotel most of the American families are saying at. It’s likely not an area they expected to get much use during these two weeks. It works out for us, though, since it means there are no fans asking for autographs or reporters shoving microphones in our faces. If it wasn’t for the loud music playing from every single arcade machine, it would be almost peaceful.
“Charlie, look!”
Oh God no. When I turn it’s not my best friend I see, but a giant stuffed teddy bear Cyrus holds in front of his body. It would be rather cute if it weren’t humongous. Light brown fur with purple patches on his feet, the bear is in a sitting position with its big arms hanging off the side and cute little tuffs of purple fur in the ears.
“Wow, Cyrus. He’s huge.”
“I know, isn’t it great? I won the big prize.” His smile beams, lighting up the entire room.
These exact moments make my heart hurt. Seeing him at his happiest makes me happy. Each time we share one I fall more in love. Hopelessly so.
“What are you going to do with him?” I ask taking a step back from the bear.
Cyrus peeks around his big fluffy bear face. “Give him to you, of course.”
“Me?” Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever found myself speechless before. What am I going to do with a big ass bear in my little room? But how could I ever turn away a gift from Cyrus? Especially one where he’s so damn proud of his win.
Cyrus tips the bear back and forth. “Don’t you love him? I remembered purple is your favorite color.”
I smile, unable to resist how excited he is over his big dumb purple bear. Of course he remembered. He’s amazing like that. “Yes, I love him. Thank you.”
Cyrus shoves the bear at my waiting hands. I’m strong, but the bear is so large, awkwardly shaped, and heavy that I have to step back. It takes a few seconds to get my grips under control.
Okay, this will totally make me seem like the biggest loser ever, but I kind of love this bear. It’s huge and I have no idea how I will get home on the plane. But it’s from Cyrus. And he remembered my favorite color is purple. Who can blame me for falling in love?
“Of course you love it. I know my girl.” Cyrus’ eyes are practically bulging out of his head as he scans the arcade looking for his next target. Thank goodness he’s not allowed to bet on any competitive sports or else he might have a problem. “Look, Charlie, they have a coin drop machine.”
“Oh no. Do you remember what happened last time?”
As expected he does not listen to my warning and I’m left lugging around a huge overstuffed toy bear while trying to catch up with him.
“What are you talking about? Last time was great.”
“What’s your definition of great?” Last time we saw one of these machines where you drop a token and it falls in a pile with little swipers to push the coins toward the edge, Cyrus lost over fifty dollars…in quarters. I still haven’t figured out the exchange rate for this country, but I know if he gets started we’ll be here a while.
Right before he reaches the coin drop machine, Cyrus veers to his right. “Never mind, there’s a racecar simulator.”
I love the bear, who I’ve decided to name Mini, but one of his legs bounces across the carpeted floor with every step. Cyrus climbs into the game, grabbing on to the steering wheel. I plop Mini beside the big plastic device a
nd lean up against the edge.
Cyrus looks at me and shakes his head. “Well, get in.”
“Where?”
He pats the seat beside him. “We’re going to race.”
“Really?” I pat Mini on the head. “Are you going to cry like a little girl when I beat you?”
Cyrus scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You beat me one time and I didn’t cry.”
I circle the machine and sit in the seat next to him. “I’m pretty sure I saw a tear.”
He laughs, dropping a coin in the slot for me. “That was not a tear. I had dirt in my eye.”
“Dirt? Uh-huh. Whatever makes you feel better.” No, this isn’t the first time Cyrus dragged me off to an arcade in another country or our own. He has an account at the local teenage hangout, Pinball Pete’s, in our town. He has a knack for hunting them out. Like a pig to truffles.
I normally lose, except for one time in Denver. It was spectacular. One of my best memories. We stopped at a Dave and Busters, an arcade for grown-ups, and I out raced Cyrus at least four times. Seriously, best day of my life…well after yesterday. A silver medal at the Winter Games beats out my virtual moto cross victories.
The game starts allowing Cyrus and I to pick our cars. I select a sleek motorcycle while he opts for the 1978 Cutlass Supreme because he said the muscle car looked cool. I guess I’ll be taking home another win. The clock counts down and the race starts. I hit the gas heavy and make it out of the starting line in first place. Cyrus runs his pretty little car right into a wall.
“When exactly will you be beating me?” I laugh as he struggles to shift his car back and forth gears.
“Just wait. I’ll catch up. She’s just a little heavy to handle at the start.”
“That’s because you’re practically driving a boat.” My little motorcycle takes a turn effortlessly and I swerve to the left to avoid an oil patch on the road. I would almost feel bad for him if he wasn’t such a poor loser.
I’m on my third turn before my bike hits a tree and skids out in the dirt. As I wait for my player to reload and get started, my mind wanders. I’m not quite sure how Cyrus and I ended up best friends. When we met on a ski hill in Aspen, he was dating this bleached blonde skier who at seventeen was already half plastic. I, on the other hand, was a really pissed off high schooler. I had a mom who defines the term helicopter parent and I’d missed out on a class trip in order to hit the slopes and practice a few days before the end of winter break. To say my attitude needed adjusting would be an understatement. I was pissy. Cyrus bumped into me at the bottom of the ski lift and I turned around yelling. Somehow his carefree smile and believable apology worked. Later that night we were eating dinner together.
But, even though girlfriends have come and gone, we have never gone past the friend zone. Maybe it’s Cyrus’ inability to see me as an adult. We bought side by side condos in a new complex in Vermont and all I did was cement my spot as one of the guys. Meanwhile I continue to love him from afar.
It’s not healthy. I know.
I need to move on and find a boyfriend. And don’t think I haven’t had any because I have dated my fair share. Every time Cyrus picked out a new girl, I’d make sure to get myself a new guy. It’s like this back and forth version of Russian relationship roulette. One of these days one of us will take it too far and marry someone else.
“What are you doing?” he yells, jarring me back to my senses. “Your bike is just sitting on the road.”
Distracted by my concerns over Cyrus finding a wife and having a big lavish wedding where he’d make me be part of his wedding party and wear a black suit while standing there smiling, I lost my focus. I take my foot off the fake brake and jam it down on the gas causing my bike to fishtail. While I kick up dirt going nowhere in the middle of the road, Cyrus zooms past me.
“I let you get ahead so I wouldn’t have to listen to you cry when I beat you again.”
He slams his electric blue old man car into the side of a cliff, stopping his momentum. My bike continues to build up speed, and I’m able to whip on by.
“See?”
“Don’t let me win. That’s as bad as cheating. Now we have to race all over again.” His declaration comes as I skid across the finish line. The fake people sitting in the stands on either side stand cheer my victory.
“As long as you’re paying.”
There are times hanging out with Cyrus like this chisels away at my heart. Having him so close, but knowing he’s not actually mine. Yet, at the same time I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’ll take the endless heartbreak day after day if it means getting to spend time with him.
CHAPTER THREE
“How many doughnuts are you going to eat, Charlie?” my mother asks, closing the lid on the small box my father carried into the lodge waiting area.
I sigh and stuff the last few bites of an éclair in my mouth, chewing quickly. I wouldn’t put it past her to pry my jaw open and pull it out. “Mom, I’ve won a medal. This competition is done for me.”
“Charlie, this competition is done, but not the next one. You have years of competitive snowboarding left. Now is not the time to eat doughnuts and get fat.”
“Janice, go easy on her. The girl deserves a doughnut.”
My mom turns her attention to my father. “You shouldn’t be enabling her. Or yourself. Didn’t the doctor say you had to cut out sweets?”
His grip tightens on the box of doughnuts. “My daughter placed second at a gold medal event. I think I deserve a doughnut.”
My mom’s eyebrows tip up and her head leans back, shocked my father isn’t doing exactly what she says. “Fine, but I’m telling Dr. Hubbard when we get back. Besides you didn’t even get me anything.”
“Of course I did.” He tips the lid of the box open barely an inch and then stops, eyeing her to make sure her intent is honorable.
“Is it raspberry filled?” she asks.
My dad smiles because he knows he’s won her interest. “Of course.”
“Glazed on top?”
“Is there any other way to make a doughnut?” he counters, opening the box a smidge more.
She slides up closer, scanning the doughnuts to the top of the stack. “Oh all right, fine. Everyone can have their sugary breakfast. But after we get home we’re right back to our daily regimen.”
“Yes, Mom.” I say sounding exactly like a fourteen-year-old child but gladly accepting the big bear claw my father passes over.
“What are your plans for today?” my mother asks, inspecting the box looking for another glazed raspberry.
The woman knows my schedule like a Hawk, so there’s no reason for the American team to provide me with an assistant. Having a PR person to manage my schedule is a waste of money. In fact my mother would gladly do it for the entire team.
“Stay here and watch Cyrus practice. Maybe answer some interview questions.”
“You did miss all the press conferences yesterday while you were off playing video games with Cyrus. Do try and attend a few of them today. You remember all your correct answers, right?”
I agree, taking a bite of donut. Memorizing acceptable interview question answers is part of the job.
She nods her head, obviously approving of my plan at least enough not to argue with me about it. “Okay, and make sure and tell Cyrus we said hi.”
Besides my father and me, the only other person my mother hovers over is Cyrus. He only has to deal with it on limited occasions, therefore he finds it endearing rather than terribly intrusive. But he also comes from a super straight-laced family of bankers and accountants. People who don’t understand their son’s need to chase snow. Cyrus’ parents have never seen him compete in anything that happens during tax season — which is pretty much when we compete. He doesn’t talk about it much, but it has to sting. I think he likes my mother’s attention more than he lets on, so I try to not give him too much crap about it.
Of the men I’ve paraded around the last five years — most of them your
stereotypical snowboarders — my mother has complained about every single one. To be fair, I’ve also had complaints. Which is why I always end up single. Cyrus may be the one man on earth, beside my father, who could handle my mother. Everything about him feels perfect.
We fit each other. My mother spent a few months in my twenties not so subtly hinting what a wonderful couple Cyrus and I would be. To her credit, she never said anything to his face, but the constant comments were bad. She couldn’t understand why we weren’t together. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s because Cyrus doesn’t see me as anything more than a sister.
And never will.
I’m the one imagining our 2.5 kids and one big dog — he’s always had a soft spot for Dalmatians — and the family vacations we’ll spend together after we both retire from the sport. While Cyrus sees me as the woman who kicks his ass in video racing. The girl he calls when he wants to order pizza at 1 a.m.
I’m doomed.
“Bad doughnut?” McKenna, Cyrus’ team PR assistant asks, taking a spot in the chair beside me.
“What?” When I stop daydreaming and look up at her, I’m met with the doughnut. The one I’ve been holding in front of my lips for the past however long without actually taking a bite. I lower the sugary treat. “Oh no, I’ve been thinking.”
She smiles. “The hard part is done for you. You’re already a winner.”
“There’s always the next one, right?” I shrug. It’s such a mom answer I immediately want to gag a little bit, but then I would have to explain that as well.
Her gaze settles outside the window. “Have any of our guys started practice yet?”
I shake my head. “Cyrus was running late this morning.”
McKenna’s eyebrows shoot up. “Long night?” she asks with a smile on her face.
“What?”
“She thinks you and Cyrus are dating.” Reagan, Remi’s little sister, sits down on the couch beside me.
His Last Hill Page 2