“Like that won’t be obvious. My shirts are about two sizes too big for you. Take one of my rommate’s. He’s smaller.”
It takes another seven and a half minutes for me to get dressed, comb my hair so it looks like maybe I washed it this morning and pull Cyrus out of bed. Eventually, we end up on our way to the athletes’ cafeteria, stationed on another floor in the complex.
My dad spots me as soon as we turn down the proper hallway. “Charles…” I can’t help but wonder if he wanted a boy every time he calls me by the nickname Charles, “didn’t your mother tell you I’m starving?”
“Sorry, Dad. Cyrus had issues with his gel. Couldn’t get the look just right.”
My dad stares at Cyrus, his eyes narrowing to see closer. “It doesn’t look like he has any gel in it.”
Cyrus smiles. “That’s the point.”
“Let’s go. Standing around here isn’t getting your father fed.” My mother leads us into the cafeteria like a woman on a mission. A mission to get her husband food. There are a lot of things you can say about my mother, but her determination and go-get-‘em spirit aren’t things I like to complain about. As long as she’s in the pursuit of food rather than something bound to embarrass me, that is.
The Gold Medal committee may call this place fine dining but it’s anything but. It reminds me more of a college cafeteria. It’s just one small step up from what most high schools boast. There are long lines where you grab a tray and then a poorly dressed person wearing a hair net scoops out unidentified food products. Except in this case the food isn’t unidentifiable because it’s so bad, but because it’s so healthy. Everything here is laden with protein and other nutrients the coaches have decided the athletes must consume before we compete. This is science food. I dare you to find a healthier place on the entire planet.
It also usually tastes like crap. When I’m done competing, there is normally no way you’d find me here. Cyrus owes me a double cheese pizza when get back to the states. My father, unsatisfied with his options, stops at the small booth at the end of the line to ask for a homemade omelet. The omelet station is the committee’s lackluster answer to athletic complaints about the quality of the food at previous events.
Cyrus has eaten half his meal by the time my dad makes it back to our table.
My dad sits, looking forlorn. “They made me get spinach,” he says, looking down at his green and yellow omelet.
“It’s healthy.” At least it’s supposed to be.
“It’s absolutely barbaric is what it is. Who puts spinach in an omelet?” With a simple quick look back to the line, he uses his fork and picks off the green parts from the top of the omelet.
A security guard in a dark blue shirt walks by our table, his eyes flickering across our faces before he moves on. He’s the third one I’ve seen making rounds since we left Cyrus’ room. Normally they do a better job at hiding. The American team has really stepped it up this year.
“So, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, Charlie has something she’d like to tell you.”
Everyone turns their attention to Cyrus. “I do?”
“Yes, I don’t think we should wait.”
My mother’s mouth drops open and she gasps. Never a good response. “You’re pregnant!”
“What?” I’m stuck chewing the last bit of mush they call a healthy alternative to hash brown casserole. I think it’s made from cauliflower.
Mom keeps going. “Your snowsuit looked tight when you raced, but I didn’t want to say anything. I know how sensitive you get.”
“What?” I ask again. “Mom, I’m not pregnant.”
Why would he say I have an announcement? And why is pregnancy the first conclusion my mother jumps too? And I look fat in my snowsuit?
Cyrus, completely unfazed by anything happening, smiles harder. He squeezes my knee under the table. “Not yet, but we have decided to try dating.”
Not yet, what? The whole damn table has lost their minds.
My mom releases a breath. “Is that all? You didn’t need to make a big fuss about that.”
“She’s right.” My dad shoves another bite of omelet in his mouth. He’s obviously gotten over the whole spinach thing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask hoping eventually somebody will answer my questions.
“We knew it would happen eventually. We’ve been waiting for Cyrus to get off his ass and ask.”
Cyrus chokes on the sip of orange juice. “Me?”
“Just make sure neither of you let this interfere with your schedules.” My mother’s finger bounces back and forth between the two of us. “And no kids until you’re both done competing.”
“Barring any mishaps, I definitely have at least one more Winter Games in me. Maybe two. Many athletes are still competing after thirty. I thought afterward, Charlie and I could settle down in a nice community. Maybe somewhere close to you two.”
“What?” He’s had these thoughts before? He’s planned our future and he’s considered moving closer to my mother? Does he have a fever?
“That would be nice.” My mom smiles.
The two of them continue to carry on about good areas we could move to. Places with high-ranking schools but yet close to training facilities in case we decide to continue on in a different career path once were done snowboarding. Things that are absolutely crazy. Things my boyfriend of twelve hours should not be thinking about. My father, unconcerned by the conversation, continues to eat his omelet, pretending like he doesn’t hear anything at all.
In fact it’s probably how he’s gotten through life. I decide I’ll take a page from his playbook and do the same. Instantly my breakfast mush turns into the best thing I’ve ever tasted as I focus my attention on making sure I enjoy every last drop and tuning out the troubling conversation taking place.
When they drop us off at the practice lodge after breakfast, I turn and watch the rental car drive away. They’re off to see the sights for the day. When Cyrus has his attention elsewhere, I smack him on the shoulder with the back of my hand.
“What the hell was that for?” he asks, not even bothering to pretend like it hurt.
My eyes widen in disbelief. “For the crap with my mother.” Cyrus has always been one for a good joke, but this time he’s gone too far. “You shouldn’t toy with her like that. Now she’ll expect us to move into Churchill Downs.” The neighborhood is not far from where her and my father own a home.
Cyrus laughs. “I wasn’t kidding with her. That’s where we’re going to move.”
“No it is not.” Is he absolutely crazy? Any closer to my mother and I’ll go crazy.
“If you didn’t like the plan, Charlie, you should have paid attention when we were making it.” He turns and walks up the steps to the lodge.
“What do you mean, paid attention while we were making it?” I stop on the step behind him. “This isn’t something to joke about,” I yell as he opens the large doors.
“I wasn’t joking.” Cyrus keeps on walking with me trailing behind.
“What do you mean you weren’t joking. Of course you were joking.”
He finally turns back and stares me dead in the eyes. “I would never joke about my future with you, Charlie. Churchill Downs has great schools. And the kids can grow close to your parents.” With those final parting lines, he leaves me standing in the middle of the lobby with my mouth gaping open as he turns and walks toward the area athletes use as a locker room.
What kids?
Whose kids?
Our kids?
CHAPTER SEVEN
My phone rings for what has to be the fifth time this morning. The ringer is turned off, but the little metal machine vibrates in my back pocket. It’s Cyrus’ race day, so I try to keep the interference to a minimum.
“You know if you don’t answer she’ll keep calling,” Cyrus says.
This is all his fault. I should make him answer the phone.
“My mom has been around long enough she knows you have pre-race rituals. She�
��ll stop eventually.” Maybe.
My mother, normally overbearing in general, has become even worse since Cyrus and I announced our intention to date. She hasn’t admitted it out loud, but I think the woman has serious grandchildren aspirations. She kept saying I was glowing even though I promised her I wasn’t pregnant multiple times. The woman does not listen. My dad patted Cyrus on the back and said congratulations like we were getting married or something.
Cyrus and I have been… well, Cyrus and me. Nothing much has changed in the twenty-four hours since we made our relationship official.
Well besides the relationship sex. There’s been a lot of that, but we both agreed we would wait until after we returned home to make our relationship announcement official to the media. So anything happening between us has gone on behind closed doors. For the most part, we’re still Cyrus and Charlie, two close friends both participating in the Golds.
“I can’t help it if your mother likes me. I’m adorable,” Cyrus says, not taking his eyes off of his bed where he’s laid out his equipment for today’s race.
There’s a slew of various snowboarding crap in nice little rows. His goggles, gloves, a beanie, and a bunch of other gadgets he doesn’t need but has anyway. For example, the gray little rabbit foot that always makes me think of a certain episode of Grimm, a TV show we watched together last year. He promises the extra weight doesn’t hold him down during a race, but I picture the poor little bunny who lost a foot to give Cyrus extra luck since he won it in a claw game in fifth grade.
I like to give him crap about his superstitions, but in reality, we all have them — the little things we do before a race to help our odds. Cyrus just has more than most.
“Where are my gray socks? I have to have those socks.”
“Here.” I toss a pair of socks at him from his top dresser drawer.
He turns in time to catch them. “No, not these. I need gray ones. The pair I wore when I competed at the last trial event.”
“You’re adding something to your superstitions?” Doesn’t he think he has enough?
Cyrus sighs. “They aren’t superstitions, Charlie. There rituals and they’re perfectly normal.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t see a pair of gray socks in here, Cyrus.” I paw around his drawer for a few more seconds, but the top drawer of his dresser is stuffed full of standard white socks. Nothing he would actually use while snowboarding.
“They’re gray and folded up together wrapped around a piece of tissue paper and stuck in a special Ziploc baggie. Martha packed them for me. She promised. Check my gym bag.”
Cyrus rifles through the things on the bed, even though there’s definitely no socks on there. Inside a special pocket on the outside of the bag is indeed a pair of gym socks rolled up in a Ziploc baggie. If he hadn’t already told the story of the socks, I would have very different imagery. I hope to God no one at TSA checked his bags when he boarded his plane. I can’t imagine what reason they’d come up with for a guy having socks in a Ziploc baggie.
“Seriously? Martha?” The housekeeper we both share in Vermont. “She spoils you.” She’s not rolling up any of my socks around tissue paper and putting them in special Ziploc baggies. She may be sixty-five years old, but I think she has a crush on Cyrus. When the two of us bought matching condos at a new complex in town, we decided to hire the same person to clean things up once a week. Over the last year I’ve definitely noticed a different level of service between us.
Cyrus stretches out the elastic of his goggles. “I can’t help it if Martha likes me better.”
“Yeah, it has nothing to do with the fact she caught you walking out of the shower one day.” I’m still not one hundred percent sure he didn’t do it on purpose, even though he’s promised multiple times he didn’t know she was there.
It seems a bit fishy to me.
“Charlie,” he actually sounds a little upset, “I didn’t flash our sixty-five-year-old housekeeper. She’s quiet. Like a ninja mouse.”
“Here’s your socks, Don Juan.” I toss them at Cyrus before he has a chance to turn around. They smack him in the back of his head and bounce to the floor.
“Woman, stop verbally and physically abusing me. I’m trying to picture my winning run.”
At least this ritual makes more sense. It might be mumbo jumbo to people, but the coaches came together and paid for a motivational speaker about a month ago. Something we’ve been taught since day one is to visualize your win before you go down the mountain. I know it sounds cheesy, but I swear it works.
“Do you want me to leave you alone so you can meditate?” I like a few minutes before a race to calm my head.
“No, I like it when you’re here.”
I swear I almost become one of those fan girls swooning on her feet. It’s such a silly little comment, but it’s quite possibly one of the sweetest thing Cyrus or anyone has ever said to me. Pre-race rituals are no joke, and the fact he’s okay with me sharing this one is pretty darn special. It’s also kind of a turn-on, but this probably is not the moment to jump on him.
Or maybe it is. I’ve never really understood how males work that way.
“Stop looking at me weird. Come sit on the bed.”
“Yes, sir.” I fake salute and sit beside him in the little space he’s carved out by moving his equipment to the side.
The room is quiet for five minutes as Cyrus sits peacefully with his eyes closed. To help, I close my eyes too and visualize him crossing the finish line a full two minutes before everybody else. More positive aura can’t hurt.
He sighs, not opening his eyes. “Maybe we should have sex?”
Told you.
Men.
“No,” I push him on the shoulder. “Visualize your win. You have four minutes left.”
“Did you get my energy drink? You know I can’t race without an energy drink.”
“Yes, Cyrus, it’s in the team fridge chilling.” Cyrus won’t take to the hill unless he has an energy drink twenty minutes before he has to race. This is a ritual that totally makes sense. It’s one I follow as well. I’m pretty sure there’s scientific proof to back it up. If not there should be because I won silver thanks to of my perfectly timed energy drink timeline.
The four minutes pass in silence, nad I hope Cyrus is visualizing his win on the hill and not thinking of me naked. Nobody wants to be the thing to distract her boyfriend. At least not from something this important.
“Okay, champ. Let’s go. Pack up your stuff.”
Cyrus carefully loads his equipment into an oversized bag, taking time with every item and stopping to make sure each works one last time before stowing them away. He’ll have a whole day of races today. The bracket knock-out system used in his event is more detailed and extensive than what I’m required to do. Suffice it to say it’ll be one of the most nerve-racking days of his life. For him and me.
The small team kitchen is two floors down. We hold hands while in the elevator, but I let go as soon as the door opens. He needs to focus on his race, not answer a bunch of questions from the media should they get a picture of us closer together than normal.
The little room doesn’t have a door, only an open arch. I’m not sure if that was part of the design or one of those things the contractors forgot to do when they ran out of time building the dorms. You can never really know for sure. A small crowd, mostly of skiers from the American team, gather around the refrigerator. In between the snowboarding events today, the skiers will have their own competitions.
“Cyrus.” Isaac, a real douche bag on the skiing team points at Cyrus and me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing messing with our stuff?” Isaac gets up in Cyrus’ face and pushes on his chest.
Cyrus doesn’t back down, even when I try to push them off to the side to stop Isaac from hitting him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Yeah right,” he snorts out the words. “One of you asshole snowboarders damaged the ski team’s equipment.”
“Someone broke into the ski team’s locker room?” I ask.
A guy standing right beside Isaac, I think his name is John, speaks up, “As if you didn’t know.”
“It’s pretty shady to accuse a fellow team member of sabotage, Isaac.” I do my best to step in between him and Cyrus and this time succeed.
“We’re not on the same team,” Isaac spits the words at me.
“So you joined another country then?” The US wouldn’t be at any kind of loss if he did.
Being stuck between two men with heightened testosterone is not a good place. My muscles flex waiting to duck or try to push them farther apart. Neither of these guys have raced yet, so this is the worst possible situation for them to put themselves in.
There’s a steady clack of high heels on the tile floor. “What’s going on here?” McKenna pushes her way right into the fray of athletes, her small frame not hindering her at all. She’s kind of ballsy. “Are you threatening someone, Isaac?” she asks.
“It’s not a threat if it’s the truth.”
“If you have a problem with Cyrus or Charlie, feel free to lodge a formal complaint. Otherwise this is unacceptable.”
“You can’t protect them forever. You walk around here and think you’re as good as the snowboarders. The skiers made these games. We’ve been here longer and will always be here. We’re not some fad sport.”
“Think whatever you want, Isaac, but these are my snowboarders and you will not intimidate anyone.” She steps up right next to him, her nose barely coming to his collarbone. “This is a matter for a committee. Not something to be hashed out in the kitchen hours before a competition.”
“No, this is a matter for the police.” Isaac pushes his way past McKenna with a hard hand to her shoulder as she tips to the side. Cyrus catches her, keeping her steady.
Isaac and the three skiers he had behind them all file out from the kitchen. He stops under the archway. “You’re going to get yours.”
No one comments for half a minute as we watch the skiers exit the room. Finally, McKenna laughs, but it’s forced. “I don’t know who the fuck those skiers think they are. But they have serious ego problems. And my boss told me it was snowboarders I had to look out for.”
His Last Hill Page 5