His Last Hill

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  Images from Tony Stark’s lab are immediately what I think of, but we cross through one last door and McKenna stops, knocking on a simple, plain, steel gray door. There’s nothing ominous about it. She knocks four times before a voice on the other side says come in. Opening the door much slower than I appreciate, I barrel past her to get inside quicker.

  The room looks a little more matrix-ish on the inside. An entire wall is encased with televisions screens. Each one plays a different news broadcast of the Winter Games. A medium sized sleek black desk sits in the middle, a regular black office chair behind it. The man sitting in the chair faces the TV screens. He turns.

  “Ah, Miss Wilson. It’s good to see you. In case I haven’t told you yet, congratulations on the silver medal.”

  “Thank you, sir. You did congratulate me.” He congratulates everyone at the celebratory dinner held after completing each event. But there are a lot of athletes here. He’s probably forgotten.

  “What can I help you with?”

  McKenna steps up. “Miss Wilson says a few minutes ago she witnessed a security guard take Cyrus Hanson away for questioning. I don’t see anything of that nature having been approved from our office.”

  “Oh yes, Cyrus. He has a great chance to medal at today’s event. And how is the relationship with the two of you going?”

  My relationship? With Cyrus? “We haven’t told anyone, sir.”

  He smiles. “Yes, I know. But it is rather my job to know everything that goes on around here.”

  My momentary confusion over being asked about a relationship is swept away when I remember why I’m here in the first place. “It was going well until someone arrested him.”

  Asbell’s smile falls and McKenna seems to choke on a gasp. Probably not smart to get snappy with the man who controls my future, but we’re running out of time.

  “I can assure you both. Cyrus was never arrested for anything. Our security team doesn’t even have the right to make arrests. And no such thing would be done.” He pauses to check his watch and does a quick calculation. “Nineteen minutes before he’s due at the starting block. That would be in horribly poor taste.”

  “Well somebody did.” I step closer to his desk, my eyes flitting between the television screens. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I don’t find it. Maybe security camera footage of two security guards roughing up Cyrus right in front of my eyes.

  “It was probably some prank between teammates, but to make you feel better I will call Dexler, the head of security, and confirm nobody has detained Mr. Hanson.”

  “Thank you, sir.” McKenna acts as if she’s speaking to royalty.

  He picks up the phone, ridiculously slow for me, considering Cyrus has less than twenty minutes to get where he needs to be.

  “Yes, Dexler, I have a young athlete up here, Miss Wilson who says your team has detained an athlete competing today. A Mr. Hanson. I’m trying to reassure her that is completely against protocol and would never happen. Especially on your watch.”

  Asbell smiles, never taking his eyes off me, his face smug, but then something happens. A few seconds in, the smirk falters and then falls away completely. “What do you mean?” His voice rises in irritation but he doesn’t need to tell me what that means. I already know somebody has Cyrus. “I don’t care what your paperwork shows. I would never sign such an order. Doing so puts the snowboarding team chances at winning another medal at risk. I don’t give a flying fuck about the ski team’s missing practice gear up against a gold medal.” His cheeks puff out with each word.

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying, “Told you so.”

  “Bring this paperwork and Isaac to my office immediately. Release Cyrus and make sure he gets to the starting podium on time and ready to compete. You’ll be held personally responsible for any delay in his performance.”

  With a deep breath, he replaces the phone on the receiver, but it takes visible effort. His elbows are on the desktop with his fingers tented together. Asbell closes his eyes, taking two more deep breaths before he raises his head and opens them.

  “It seems you were right, Charlie. There was a mix-up where fraudulent paperwork was ordered. You have my reassurance the matter will be dealt with quickly and swiftly. Against all parties who partook.”

  “Thank you, sir. Is there a spot where I can meet Cyrus?” Knowing him the way I do, he’s going to be an absolute basket case. I might not believe in Cyrus’ crazy ideas, superstitions, and pregame rituals, but every athlete knows you need a few minutes before competing to get your mind on straight. That definitely can’t be done when you’re being questioned by a bunch of security personnel.

  “Of course. McKenna, please assist Charlie in finding her way to the security doorway where Cyrus will come out.”

  “Of course, sir,” McKenna agrees and turns, wasting no time in leaving the room.

  “I will do what I can to delay the start and gives Cyrus more time, but you know how the officials are. Everything runs on schedule,” he yells, the door closing behind us and his voice cutting off.

  “This is not good,” McKenna repeats to herself a few times before we get back down the same series of hallways we entered through.

  No shit it’s not good.

  I check my watch as we run down the hallway, watching the seconds tick by. We’re down to three minutes and roughly twenty-eight seconds before Cyrus needs to report and sign in for the quarterfinals. Otherwise he will forfeit his spot and his chance at a medal.

  Three minutes and twenty-five seconds.

  McKenna and I bust through the final door back into the large room. A white golf cart with a tall beefy guy behind the driver’s wheel and Cyrus in the passenger seat skid to a stop next to us.

  “Get in the cart.” The man driving says in gruff voice.

  McKenna and I don’t waste any time, each of us taking a seat in the second row. He hits the gas before McKenna’s foot is off the carpeted floor.

  “He refused to go to the start until you were there.” The dark-haired cranky guy says. I can only assume this person is Dexler.

  Cyrus turns his head back and smiles at me. “I couldn’t do it without my best girl.”

  “Don’t be dumb. Of course you could.” I check my watch again. A minute and a half remains. “Drive faster.”

  Contrary to my directive, the golf cart does not actually increase in speed, leaving me to believe we already have the pedal to the metal. We twist and turn around corners with one hand holding on to the back seat of the driver’s section. In what could be with the worst cab ride of my life — and I’ve been in a lot of them — I keep my eyes averted to the floor, watching the seconds tick away on my watch rather than look up and watch us crash. The cart bobs back and forth, weaving between people. My body leans to the side practically falling out of the open space when we take a corner.

  With thirty-five seconds left on the clock, the golf cart skids to a stop. McKenna jumps out, her hand in the air and papers flying off her clipboard.

  “He’s here!” she screams turning the heads of the athletes, coaches, and family members in the direct area.

  She takes off running toward a series of three tables set up in the middle of the room. A man in a black suit holding a stopwatch raises an eyebrow as our group hurtles toward him. Thankfully people jump out of our way as we cut a path across the floor. Otherwise I’m sure McKenna in her two-inch heels would be clearing the way with her small body.

  She stops in front of the official, breathing hard. “Cyrus Hanson checking in.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cyrus may walk away looking like a picture-perfect version of calm, but I know better. He won’t do well without his ten minutes of prep time where he visualizes his win. Races will now be completed with athletes knocking each other out to continue to the next round. They’ll each race twice with the loser of the first having to start that many seconds later on the second run. Then it’s the first person across the finish line on race two to w
in it all.

  Seriously, it’s the most screwed up system ever. If I wasn’t Cyrus’ friend, I would be one of those people to stand on the sidelines and cheer totally unaware of what is actually going on.

  The competitors are down to eight people with Cyrus racing against the third finisher of the qualification rounds, someone from China.

  McKenna flips through the top paper on her clipboard. “Cyrus races third. Would you like me to stay with you and watch or get more info on what the hell Dexler was thinking detaining him right before a race?”

  “Actually, I’d really prefer it if you found out what’s going on.” I’m focused on Cyrus’ race right now, but once he finishes I’ll be out for blood.

  She nods. “Okay, I’ll be back and let you know.”

  “Thanks,” I say not taking my eyes from the large window.

  McKenna leaves and I button up my coat to head outside. I’ll have a better view of the race from the TV in here, but I’d rather be outside closer to Cyrus. More in the action. He would do the same for me

  The first two races take forever. A Canadian knocks out a Scandinavian from the first race and in the second, a competitor from England takes out a Swedish athlete.

  The announcers call for the competitors of the third race. Cyrus stands at the top of the hill and gets into position. I immediately close my eyes.

  I can’t do it again.

  I’m not over the adrenaline spike from the whole fiasco with security. I can’t ask my body or my nerves to go through another set of races.

  The buzzer sounds, and I open one eye to watch Cyrus’ run on the television screen. It’s a few feet away from where I stand, inside the booth where athletes wait before they race, but I am able to make out enough to follow along.

  Cyrus twists and bends around each of the flags, kicking up snow on the bases. He’s neck and neck with the other racer, and the two of them cross the finish line milliseconds from each other. But Cyrus is behind. He doesn’t stop and do any of the small congratulatory fist bombs or talk to his coach at the base of the hill like you would expect. Again without any fanfare, he rides the lift back to the top.

  That’s never a good sign. Cyrus is always one to stop and crack a joke with the judge or some reporter on the sidelines. Except for today. He hasn’t been his normal happy self once today. It’s not good to have an off day on a race day.

  He makes it to the top of the hill and even though I’m too far away for him to see me I scream, “Come on, Cyrus.”

  There isn’t much of a break between their heats. The Chinese competitor lines up quickly as well. My nose freezes and my teeth chatter, but I stick my fingers in my pockets to warm them up. I didn’t have time to grab mittens or my hat, and the longer I stand outside, the more the elements bite against my skin. It’s cold.

  The sound blares and the two racers are off. Cyrus’ gate opens a perceived fraction of a second later. They battle against one another, but at the fourth flag Cyrus’ body tips, his back not so much parallel to the ground but in a worrisome amount of perpendicular.

  “Oh my God,” I say pulling in my hands from my pocket to cover my mouth.

  I stop breathing as he regains control of his snowboard in time to make it around the next flag. The mistake costs some valuable time and the snowboarder from China is a flag ahead. Cyrus battles to catch up but is running out of ground to do so. The giant slalom makes this race faster than events like the regular parallel slalom. There’s no time to waste.

  Cyrus does his best to speed up and make up the gap between him and his competitor, but as he rounds the second to last gate, he doesn’t have enough time to do it. The Chinese boarder tucks himself in to wrap around the final flag and hit the finish, but he gets too close. The edge of his board catches on his flag and rather than twist around it he falls overtop. He rolls twice and stands up on his board still crossing the finish line before Cyrus.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  Cyrus won!

  I sit in the snow covered grass, unconcerned with getting my pants wet. The crowd from the stands cheers uncontrollably, but I refuse to celebrate until I hear an official announcement. Eyes locked on the TV screen, I silently pray and wait for the call to be made. It takes less than a minute, and the board lights up with the announcement we knew would come. The Chinese racer is disqualified, based on his failure to hit each of his gates. It’s okay for an athlete to touch the flag or even knock it with their snowboard, but they have to make it around. Falling over the top doesn’t count.

  Cyrus won’t like knowing he won because of a disqualification, but I do not give two shits.

  A win is a win.

  He’s made it to the semifinals, which means regardless of how it ends, he’s in the top four.

  There won’t be time to see him in between the next races as the semifinals and finals happen quickly. Race officials will keep the athletes closer to the starting area rather than allowing them to come inside. Unlike Cyrus, who is wearing a specially created jacket made to be warm yet breathable and allow him a large range of movement, I’m outside in a regular winter jacket. And no extra coverings.

  Standing, I brush the snow off my butt and walk back inside. The next two finals will have to be watched from the large TV in the waiting room.

  There’s a possibility Cyrus will not win a medal, but he’s come this far. I refuse to believe he won’t walk away with gold. As the last race in the quarterfinals starts, I pace in front of the television screen. The winner of the fourth race will compete against Cyrus in the semifinals. And at the end of two runs, it’s an Italian man with the last name May who comes out the winner. Or in other words Cyrus’ next opponent.

  There’s a small break in activity as the athletes get back in position and the officials get everything ready for the semifinals. The news reporters use the time to play commercials and give updates on other sports happening today. Sports I have no interest in.

  Happening at the same time but in a different arena are hockey, speed skating, curling, cross country skiing, and of course figure skating. My road to becoming a gold medal athlete is different than most. Sure, my mom is crazy, but she’d be this way if I was a figure skater, too. Trust me, I know.

  In fact, that’s what she and my family would’ve preferred. I grew up with my grandmother making me watch hours and hours of figure skating each and every winter. Because, you see, even when there isn’t a Gold Medal event happening somewhere, somebody is figure skating.

  There are the world championships and national championships, and…a bunch of other reasons people put on sparkly tights and skate around an ice rink. I’d always been a tomboy, but at my grandmother’s insistence I took classes like ballet and learned to figure skate so one day I could be a professional athlete. She drove me insane. I see where my mother gets it from.

  At seven years old, I didn’t want to take ballet or learn to use the three different pairs of ice skates she bought me. No, I wanted to snowboard with the cool kids. I’ll never admit this to her or my mother, but my grandfather flipped the channel when she was out of the room so we could watch a different sport that spiked my interest.

  Watching the athletes perform their cool tricks as they raced down the hill was one of the first times I remember being excited about sporting events. Sunday afternoon football had never elicited such an emotion from me. Then, a few years ago the snowboarding cross — my event — was added to the lineup. From that day forth I knew what I was working toward. Snowboard cross is the best event in the entire world. It’s kind of like snowboarding had a baby with the roller derby and then put that baby on top of the hill and rolled him down it.

  Okay, so maybe that’s not the best visual, but it’s everything I’d ever dreamed about wrapped up in one incredible sport.

  The cell phone I put my pocket and completely forgot about vibrates. I know it’s not Cyrus but check it anyway.

  MOM: are you watching Cyrus? Did you see his win?

  Even when sh
e is far away sitting in a regular spectator seat, my mother can find a way to annoy me. Of course I watched Cyrus compete. Of course I saw him win. I don’t even know why she would waste the finger motions to send me a text message.

  But I’ve also learned over the years you can’t point it out to her. It never ends well for anyone.

  I get a few letters started in my text message before my phone rings.

  My mother.

  Calling because apparently the text message wasn’t enough. I seriously don’t want to answer, but she’ll just keep calling if I don’t.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Did you see Cyrus, honey?” she yells into the phone forgetting even though we’re in another country our signal is good. They have cell service here.

  I rub two fingers on my temple. Hopefully Cyrus will get quiet time. I’ll be talking to her until she’s gotten the whole conversation out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I wear a spot away on the carpet in front of the large television screen, my boots scuffing every few steps.

  “Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous.” McKenna stands directly in front of the TV, forcing me to walk around her to continue pacing.

  I narrow my eyes at her in my return direction. “You should start pacing.”

  Another bout of nerves rolls through my stomach, forcing me to swallow.

  “Sit down and we’ll watch the race together.” McKenna retreats to one of the cheap couches they have placed around the room.

  My first thought is to argue with her. This is not a time to sit down. Cyrus isn’t sitting down. No, Cyrus is lining up to start the first race in the finals. If he wins, it means he walks away with either a gold or silver metal determined in one last race in the finals. If he loses it means the best he can do is the bronze and the worst he can do is fourth place and no medal. Most athletes consider anything less than a gold losing, but in reality anything less than a medal is losing. Nobody wants to come this far to go home empty-handed.

  “The view is better from here anyway.” McKenna pats the seat beside her.