I laugh even if it is highly inappropriate timing. “You do have to watch snowboarders. They’re horrible.”
“What the hell is that even about?” Cyrus asks.
McKenna sighs. “Last night someone broke into the ski team’s locker room. As far as we can tell no serious damage was done but they spray-painted the lockers and moved equipment around. We have security reviewing the tapes now. But it could take a few days. We’re not looking at the most advanced technology. They save the high priced cameras for areas with spectators, not locker rooms only teammates can get into.”
“Well I hope you know no one on the snowboarding team would do that. We all want to see America go home with the most medals.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out. You focus on winning a race today.” She pats Cyrus on the arm. “I’ll see you down at the meeting point in about an hour.”
“We’ll be there,” I answer for Cyrus. “Getting his energy drink now.”
McKenna shakes her head and I swear she mutters something about snowboarders as she walks out of the room.
“What do you think his problem is?” Cyrus asks, his attention out in the hallway as I rummage around the refrigerator looking for his stack of energy drinks. He requires a certain brand and flavor so he has to fly or ship them over himself. They’re tightly locked away in his room until the night before when I put four of them in the refrigerator to chill overnight to be nice and cold by morning. He won’t drink all four, but he likes to have his options open.
“One day Isaac will be a prime example of why you don’t take steroids.”
My joke works and Cyrus is laughing when I hand him the tall green can.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Yes, he made the qualifications,” I yell into the phone so Cyrus’ dad can hear me.
“That’s so great. Tell him we’re going to bring home work tonight and watch him compete on the TV. And wish him luck from everyone back home.”
Even though Cyrus’ father can’t see me, I smile and nod my head, agreeing to let Cyrus know. What I really want to do is scream that a good dad would be at his son’s competition to tell him in person. It’s the damn Winter Games! It’s the biggest competition of an athlete’s life.
Cyrus has worked for years to get here and his parents couldn’t skip a simple tax season to support him? It drives me crazy. I want to scream at them every time we talk. Especially his father because he’s the parent who got him into snowboarding in the first place. You would think he’d be the one to push his kid to succeed…like mine. But from what I’ve learned over the years, it feels more like Cyrus’ parents got him into snowboarding to keep him out of their hair. It’s sheer dumb luck he’s good at it and they had money to keep up with the growing demands of a pro athlete as a teenager.
It’s no wonder he likes my mom. She may be overbearing and nosy, but at least she openly cares about him.
At ten o’clock this morning, Cyrus and the other competitors for the men’s parallel giant slalom competed in the qualification rounds. The parallel giant solemn is a side-by-side racetrack with different color flags — officially called gates — set up for athletes to zip around in a race to the finish. Two snowboarders start at the top and race each other to the bottom, each making their way back and forth in a zig-zag fashion between their colored flags. Then they switch sides of the track and race again. The top sixteen fastest combined times advance to the final meets.
It can get confusing, but basically it’s one big long grueling day full of races. And that’s the best outcome. Worst case, you race twice and don’t qualify. The athletes who make it to the end will race over six times today. I have no idea how they have the nerves or stamina to do it. I’d much rather race once and get it over with. Let the cards fall where they may. The nerves of this event are enough to age me ten years.
When the qualifying races were finished, Cyrus came in at number eleven. It’s not a great place. No one wants to start at the lower half of the top sixteen, but he’s in the top sixteen and that’s the important part. He’s not done yet.
While waiting for the final numbers to come in, we ate lunch, had a team pep talk, and generally fretted about the day. Well I fretted. Cyrus, for what it’s worth, looked calm and collected even if underneath all his bravado he’s a wreck.
Now an hour after finishing the qualifying rounds, they’ve moved on to the first of four elimination rounds. Each one more nerve racking than the next. Once Cyrus wins the gold, he’ll have to melt it down and sell it to pay for my therapy bills.
“You got this,” I say staring into his eyes.
He smiles. “Of course I do.” He leans down going to give me a kiss, but I pull back in the last second in case the cameras are watching. “Screw it, Charlie.” The second time he moves too quickly, catching me on the cheek.
“Focus on your race.” I pat him on the shoulder once like an awkward best friend. I have no idea what else to do with someone who was my best friend less than forty-eight hours ago and is now my boyfriend but is seconds away from competing for a gold medal. It’s a damn crazy time to be me.
Cyrus steps away, but turns back before getting far. “Don’t go sit with the spectators. Stay here, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree.
Satisfied with my answer, Cyrus finishes his short walk to where the rest the competitors have lined up for the races in this round. The sixteen competitors will face one another in the two-by-two match. The first-place finalist from the qualifying round races the sixteenth-place finalist, which means Cyrus has to compete against the sixth place person. I warned you it’s a confusing mess. They literally have a bracket system set up so we can follow along.
Cyrus is racing a Russian who is highly favored to place in the top three for this event. The two of them line up side by side at the top of the slope. A series of short dings sound and their starting gates open. My vantage point from here is absolutely horrible. I can’t see anything past the first flag, and as Cyrus speeds around it, I’m forced to crank my neck and search out a TV to see the remainder of the course.
Cyrus passes the blue flags one after another zooming down the hill. He makes it look easy as his body leans to the side and he uses his snowboard to pick up speed. It all happens so quickly, and both snowboarders are side by side for most of the race. At one point I swear their boards almost connect as there is no divider between the two courses. At the end of the slope, the Russian snowboarder crosses the finish line by a quarter of a second faster than Cyrus. He knows he lost before he even stops his board at the bottom.
His shoulders slump, and without any fanfare he makes his way over to the lift to bring himself back up the hill. Unlike my event, the snowboard cross, the giant slalom gives competitors two chances for each meet. Cyrus will race again, this time on the opposite side of the course where he’ll dodge the red flags rather than blue. But because he lost the first race he’ll start the next a quarter of a second later. I swear this event has so many rules only a man could have invented it. Another reason I could never compete in this event.
Cyrus walks by me quickly taking his spot at the start of the red course and reattaching his snowboard.
“You got this, Cyrus!” I scream, my hands cupped around my mouth for maximal noise.
He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me and I’m worried. If he doesn’t believe in himself, there’s no way he can win, but there’s also nothing else I can do at this point. Waiting for his rival to finish buckling his snowboard, Cyrus lifts his head and smiles at me across the distance. He winks and then while getting himself into final position shoots me a thumbs up.
To be frank I have absolutely no idea what it means. I hope to God he’s found motivation and belief in himself because he’s going to need it, but I have no idea what’s going on his head.
The bells ding and the lights flash while I hold my breath this time. Cyrus is a flag and a half behind the Russian before he gets to leave his gate for his delaye
d start. He works hard to catch up and by the third flag the two are almost neck and neck. On the fourth, Cyrus leans, transferring his weight on the board to skim past the red flag. His hand skirts the snow, his body sideways, almost parallel with the ground. It’s a smooth transition and he sets himself up to do the exact same thing on the opposite way to the next flag, but the Russian doesn’t. He falters, leaning the wrong way for just a second and costing himself valuable time.
For some unbelievable fucking reason, the cameraman pans out away from the action limiting what we can see on the television screen. I close my eyes, lower my head, and cross my fingers…and my toes. You can never be too safe. This race determines the winner by whoever crosses the finish line first during the second run.
A huge roar of cheers goes up from the crowd, and I slowly open my eyes to see who they highlighted in the video footage as the winner.
It’s the dirty blond hair and blue-eyed face of Cyrus flashing across the screen. He smiles way too big for someone who didn’t just win this race.
American flags wave for a few seconds before the next two competitors line up to start their meets.
He won!
I wait for him at the top of the ski lift and jump into his arms as soon as he gets off. His board falls to the soft snowy ground, and he kisses me full on the lips, with tongue. There’s no way the cameras missed that.
“You won!”
His breath is ragged with leftover adrenaline. “I know. Now I need to do it three more times.”
My shoulders hunch. Three more times. My nerves can’t take it. I’ll have an anxiety attack.
The four final rounds are held in a bracket style. Each person competes against the next to knock one another out until the final three medals will be confirmed in the last meets. It’s like an entire basketball March madness semifinals in the course of six hours.
But it doesn’t matter how messed up his sport is because Cyrus made it! He’s on to the quarterfinals, which will start at exactly two o’clock. Until then we have to sit around, load up on protein, and hope I don’t die from my inability to handle stress.
“How much time do we have until the quarterfinals?” he asks, taking off his goggles and switching coats. Cyrus only wears the equipment he races in when he’s racing so the special mojo isn’t lost.
Yes, it makes absolutely no sense, but you can’t tell him that.
“Let’s go wait inside.” Cyrus normally likes to watch the other competitors, but he’s already made it into the next finals. Watching the rest of them won’t do any good. As the only American competing in this event, there’s no one for him to cheer on. With races happening, everyone’s attention is on the action on the slopes and we’re allowed to make our way into the building not being called out by a reporter.
It’s a miracle.
There are two chairs set off to the side of the large room used for athletes to do interviews or prep before meets. I lead Cyrus away from the major action and sit down waiting for him to do the same. He hesitates but finally sits.
“So when we get back to Vermont, when do you plan to move in with me?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” We live side by side. Why the heck would I move into his house?
“Well we’re dating now. It only makes logical sense.”
“Cyrus, we’ve been dating for like twenty-four hours. You don’t move in with somebody after a day.”
“You do when they’re your best friend.”
“We live next door to one another. It doesn’t even make sense.”
“Exactly.” He leans back in his chair smiling what might be his first real smile all day. “It won’t take you long to move your boxes at all.”
“Wait, now you aren’t even helping me move?”
His smile turns into a devilish smirk, and I know I’ve fallen into whatever trap he set. If he wasn’t so good on a board, Cyrus could have been a lawyer. “No, I’m not going to help you move. I wouldn’t want to take away your feminist rights.”
“It makes absolutely no sense, Cyrus. Plus, your condo is always dirty. That’s why you’re at my house all the time.” And the fact he never buys groceries and is always eating my food.
“But I have a videogame system.”
“Yeah, because you couldn’t move your videogame system to my house.”
“Fine, we’ll move to your place.”
“Wait a minute. I didn’t agree to us moving in together in the first place.” How did he end up living with me now?
“You’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you?” he asks.
He’s kidding me, right?
Cyrus sighs when I don’t reply. “Fine, if you want to be a pain about it, we’ll tear down the wall that separates our living rooms and kitchens.”
My eyes are squinted together trying to process how this lines up between our two places. I’ve never been great with 3-D imagery. “Then we have two kitchens?”
“Yes, it will be great. We’ll turn them into one of those big chef kitchens.”
I’m about to agree with his absolutely ridiculous idea when a shadow passes over Cyrus’ face. Not a figurative one, but a real one.
A tall African-American security guard stops to the right of Cyrus’ chair. “Are you Cyrus Hanson?” he asks.
Cyrus tilts his head up at him. “Yeah.”
“Would you stand please, Sir?”
Cyrus stands, hesitating. I wait for the security guard to ask for an autograph, but he wears an American emblem on his left breast pocket, meaning he flew over here with the American team. He could’ve asked for autograph at any point.
“At this time, Mr. Hanson, I am placing you in custody for the United States Gold Medal event security team.”
“You’re arresting him?” I jump up.
The guard doesn’t even spare me a glance. “We do not have the authority to conduct arrests, but we can detain a person during the Gold Medal Events and at this time I am taking Cyrus into custody.”
“Are you handcuffing me?” Cyrus asks turning his back to the security guard who thinks he’s now a police officer.
“We don’t think handcuffs will be necessary, but please follow me. We have some questions regarding the destruction of the ski team’s locker room.”
What the fuck? Isaac had Cyrus arrested?
During the middle of his fucking competition.
CHAPTER NINE
“McKenna!” I yell her name when I spot the brunette public relations rep for the snowboarding team walk past.
She stops, not baffled, confused, or stressed out in any way. She obviously doesn’t know Cyrus was practically arrested less than two minutes ago. There’s no way she’d be as calm and collected as she is if she knew what happened here. Which makes the matter even worse.
We may be in another country, but each team is required to provide their own security. More often than not situations are handled without issue. Celebrate your win a little too hard and need help getting back to your room, our security team does that for you. Have a fan get a little crazy and way too close during the autograph session, an American team security person will take care of it for you. I’ve always considered it a good idea to handle our own, but now it seems like somebody has overstepped their bounds.
“Cyrus was arrested.” Even though she’s less than a foot away, I yell out the declaration.
She steps back visibly confused. “What do you mean arrested?”
“I mean, somebody in a security uniform came in and took him away.”
“That’s ridiculous, Charlie. He competes in like forty-five minutes. No one would do that.” Her eyes scan over a cheap brown clipboard. She fans a few pages back and forth like somewhere on one of her sheets of paper it’ll say 1:15 — arrest Cyrus.
“Someone took him somewhere and we have to get him back. He has to check in to his position in twenty-five minutes.” Screw the time till he competes, check-in happens sooner and if he’s not there he’ll forfeit.
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nbsp; “Okay,” she says way too calm for me. “We need to find Asbell.”
Jim Asbell? “The director of public relations?”
McKenna’s boss?
“Yes, nothing goes on around here without his approval. If someone took Cyrus somewhere, he’ll know where and why.”
It’s not exactly the answer I wanted. I need her to be more like saddle up and save the day. Maybe knock together a few heads, but she has a point about her boss being in charge. Nothing happens around here without his knowledge or approval.
“We need to find him.” She pulls a cell phone from her back pocket and holds down the button before placing it to her ear.
My foot taps.
“We’ll find him fast.” The phone can’t ring more than twice before McKenna smiles. “Jim, I’m hearing reports Cyrus Hanson was arrested?”
Her head bobs up and down nodded in agreement to whatever is said on the other line, but since she’s not close enough, I can’t hear anything. It’s absolutely frustrating. He doesn’t talk as loud as my mother.
“Yes, we’ll do that right now. Thank you.” She slides her finger across the phone, disconnecting the call without even a goodbye. “Come on let’s go.”
I follow her before asking, “Where?”
McKenna doesn’t even slow. “Jim is in his office. He wants to see us there.”
We do not have time to be tracking down this old kook in his office. Cyrus is down to like twenty-two and a half minutes before he has to report for his event. If he’s not lined up when he should be, he’ll disqualified from the run. That absolutely cannot be allowed to happen.
“Can we meet him halfway,” I ask, following McKenna through a series of metal doors.
This time she does slow and turns her head to answer. “He likes to hang out at the nerve center.”
His Last Hill Page 6