“So, bottom line, you all have to perform well here if you want to move up in the rankings and have a real shot at the Olympics.”
Layla sighed. “We are years from an Olympic bid. I just want to point that out because I don’t think it’s helpful, but you’re not wrong. You don’t get a chance to be the best in the world if you can’t prove yourself to be the best team in America.”
“And this event is your shot to start making your case for world domination,” Max supplied. “Well, that explains some things.”
“Like the giant crease between my skipper’s eyebrows?” Layla asked, then gave Callie a little nudge with her elbow. “Come on, Callio, we played well today. We’ve already beaten half our pool. Even if we drop one tomorrow, we still make the championship bracket.”
“I know.” Callie nodded, but a little twitch in her jaw suggested that knowing something and liking it were two different things.
“We won’t even face the other American team above us until the final round,” Layla explained to Max. “We’re in different pools because they want us to meet in the finals.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Everybody,” Layla said, then nodded toward Callie. “Well, maybe everybody but her.”
“No,” Callie said quickly. “That’s definitely the best-case scenario. I want to face them on the biggest stage possible. I also want to win. And I can, but only if I’m perfect.”
The flint in her voice and the flicker of fire in her eyes reminded Max of the day she’d stared straight into the camera and said, “This is who I am.”
Max had watched that video at least thirty times since then, but even the memory of it still gave her goosebumps. The sense of destiny seemed to circle invisibly around Callie, the weight of it pressing on her shoulders and crackling in the air. Either out of respect for that gravity or out of a desire to help her protect herself, Max decided again not to push in this moment.
Turning back to Layla, she asked, “What about you? Do you feel the push toward perfection?”
Layla laughed. “Sure, I feel pushed to perfection, but not from some internal or cosmic force. I feel it radiating off her.”
Callie rolled her eyes, but Layla continued. “That shit’s contagious, and I got infected from repeated exposure over the last twenty-five years.”
“Twenty-five years?” Max pulled out her phone and started recording video.
“Callie and I met in preschool,” Layla explained, unfazed by the camera. “She just decided I was her best friend and announced it to me. Whatcha gonna do at that point but go along? So, that’s what I did. I went along with her all through elementary school, and then when she got the curling bug in middle school, I went along with that, too.”
“So, you didn’t come to the sport on your own, like through your own family or a community group?”
Layla snorted. “Seriously, how many other black curlers have you seen?”
Max didn’t have to search her memory hard to find the answer. “Zero, but I haven’t been around the sport very long.”
“I have been, and let me tell you, it’s just me here. I swear at the National Championships last year, I was waiting out front of the hotel, and people kept handing me their keys thinking I was there to park their cars.”
Max glanced at Callie, who nodded. “Sadly true.”
“Does that annoy you?”
“Depends on the day. Sometimes I want to scream. Some days I enjoy the look on their faces when they realize who I am. Once or twice I thought about just accepting the keys and driving off in their cute little cars.”
Max didn’t know whether she should laugh. Layla’s tone was light, but the subject wasn’t. Most other sports she’d covered had been extremely diverse. It was one of the things she loved about professional athletics. In those arenas, at least while the game lasted, barriers of race and class could be blurred by ability more frequently than in other areas of society. “Have you ever thought about walking away?”
“Sure,” Layla said casually. “All the time, and not just because I’m black or gay. I still have these moments where I look around and wonder how this became my life. I mean, professional curling, how is that even a thing?”
Max laughed, inordinately relieved to have someone in Layla’s position verbalize that. “So, what makes you stay?”
Layla grinned and glanced at Callie. “It never occurred to her that I didn’t belong here. It never occurs to Callie that any of this is unreasonable. Like, she just takes it for granted that I can be a superstar in this sport. She’s done it with all of us. She’s willed this team into existence.”
“Come on.” Callie’s face turned pink, and Max angled the camera to include her in the shot.
“It’s true,” Layla continued, “and it’s powerful. When someone like her looks at you like you’re special, like you’re a winner, like you can do whatever it is she expects you to do, the funny thing is, you start to believe it. She’s believed us right into the top tier.”
Callie shook her head. “She’s being funny now. She’s one of the top leads in the league. In any league. She can throw a guard to any spot with her eyes closed.”
“She’s not lying,” Layla agreed.
“See?” Callie looked down at her empty water glass. “Anyone else need a refill?”
They both shook their heads, and she pushed away from the table. “Be right back.”
Max watched her walk to the bar before turning back to Layla. “You were saying?”
“I said what I said. She is this team. And it’s true we can all make our shots, but she’s a big part of the reason we do. We all want to be the people and the players she’s never doubted we are.” Layla sighed and sat back. “Brooke and Ella would tell you the same thing if push came to shove. We’re all playing above our abilities, and we’re doing it to keep up with her.”
“Do you think you can be Olympians?”
“Me?” Layla shrugged. “It’d be a trip, but still feels a little far-fetched in my world. Callie, on the other hand, if she moved to Minnesota and asked the national team to assign her to a group from their high potential program, she’d be an Olympic shoo-in. Hell, she could probably have a spot on the number one team tomorrow if she asked for one.”
The thought made Max’s stomach clench. “Why doesn’t she?”
Layla shrugged again. “You’d have to ask Callie.”
She should. It was a perfect lead-in, and a question that deserved to be answered, yet when Callie returned to the table, her brow furrowed and her eyes seemingly focused on something no one else could see, Max couldn’t bring herself to form the words. She didn’t know exactly what had come over her, but as she flipped off her phone, she suspected she might not be any more immune to Callie’s powers than anyone on her team seemed to be.
Seven games in three days. The pace had been intense even by bonspiel standards, and Callie could practically feel the muscles in her neck and shoulders beginning to fray from the strain. Her sides ached from the abuse she’d put her stabilizer muscles through as she slid up and down the ice for days on end. No amount of practice or planks could negate the toll of playing under pressure in this many back-to-back, high-stakes matches.
The physical fatigue had set in by the fifth match, but the emotional and mental exhaustion worried her more going into the final game. That’s what had cost them their only loss in the last game of pool play. They’d dropped the final end to an inferior team, and it’d cost them a better slot going into the championship round. Her stone had been less than an inch farther out than her opponent’s, and while that fact still burned, she chose to use the fire to keep her awake and vigilant against mental errors that could prove deadly in a game of millimeters. Still, knowing something could hurt you and preventing it from doing so were two very different things. For some reason, the thought reminded her of Max.
Glancing over her shoulder, she felt a little thrill to see her standing sentinel at the other end of the i
ce. She wore her long gray coat again today, this time over an emerald oxford shirt. Next to her stood some poor teenager Max had either paid or cajoled into serving as a cameraperson. The setup seemed to fit their surroundings. There were no flashy sponsor logos, no TV breaks, no high risers full of fans, but whatever the crowd lacked in number, they made up for in proximity. As Callie crouched down into the hack, she could practically feel the spectators breathing on the back of her neck.
Four ends in, the score was tied up at one, and something had to break soon. If she didn’t crack a hole open in the game, she worried something might crack inside her. Again, her eyes flicked to Max. Callie could feel the steel of her gaze even from a distance. With a slow, deep breath, she let the emotions wash over her, then she pushed them away as she pushed off with her back foot. Everything faded as she slid, weightless, across the ice. The only thing she felt now was the breeze of her own momentum, and all she could see was Brooke’s broom acting as target at the other end of the ice.
As she released the stone, she knew she’d hit her mark. No need to crouch, no need to hold her breath, no need to call commands to her team. She simply stood and strolled along behind her rock. By the time she reached the other end, there was nothing left to do but accept a few compliments and wait for her opponents to throw their last shot of the end.
“Team Mulligan is in a position to take the lead here, as they’re currently closest rock to center,” Max’s voice said from somewhere close behind them. “Any point is, of course, a victory, but like most things in curling, this play isn’t always as simple as it seems on the scoreboard. When a team has the hammer, they’re expected to score at least one point. However, since the team who doesn’t score in this end will get the hammer for the next end, it’s easy to just trade one point for another and never pull ahead. To make a real impact, you want to score two or more when you have the final shot.”
Max’s point was spot-on and the reason Callie hadn’t felt any great exuberance over her textbook throw. She had an important decision to make now. She did, however, feel a little shot of pleasure that Max understood her dilemma. Max seemed to understand more and more every day, and not only about the mechanics or strategy of curling.
As if to prove that point, she continued speaking to the camera. “In fact, sometimes a skipper will purposely burn the last rock, forcing the other team to take a point. It’s a risky proposition, because you’ve, in effect, given the other team a lead, but with it, the hope of throwing up a bigger number on the scoreboard next end. I suspect that’s what Mulligan will do here if the other Americans knock her out cleanly.”
Callie smiled in spite of the decision quickly careening toward her. She enjoyed Max’s confident commentary and, even more, she enjoyed the confidence Max had in her. Even admitting the risk, she expected Callie not only to accept it, but to make something of it. Somehow it was easier to believe those things about herself when Max stated them with such authority.
As expected, Danielle, the other skipper, used her last shot of the end to play a clean takeout. Callie’s team huddled around her.
“They’re sitting two.” Brooke stated the obvious. “You want to play the same shot you nailed last time?”
“Nope,” she said emphatically. “Let’s force their hand.”
“We’ve still got four ends left to play,” Brooke said unnecessarily. “We might get a better shot later.”
“We might.” Callie agreed. Anything was possible, but she was tired of waiting and tired of playing safe. She didn’t just believe she could create her own opportunity; she knew it. “Let’s give them one here, and then take three in the next end.”
Ella snorted. “Sure, yeah, three stones against the best team in the country. Seems reasonable.”
“No,” Callie said quickly, “not against the best team.”
She glanced around at three sets of raised eyebrows. “We are the best American team, and I’m going to prove it, starting right now.”
She didn’t wait for any more argument or affirmation, but as she reached the other end of the ice, she did steal another quick peek at Max, and this time she didn’t try to hide her smile.
“Callie Mulligan is having fun,” Max said, part in statement of fact and part in amusement. For someone who’d had the weight of the world on her shoulders all week long, or maybe for years, she suddenly seemed not only cool and calm, but actually happy. Max didn’t know why or how Callie was finding joy in this moment, but the twinkle in her eye and the slight curl of her lips made it clear she wasn’t bothered by the group of rowdy teens who filled the low bleachers right in the periphery of her vision, or by the number one team in the country standing just off the other side ready to pounce on even the slightest mistake. She didn’t seem concerned about the untold number of national team officials, scouts, and coaches watching from the glass-enclosed balcony above them. And yet the grin that had graced Callie’s expression since she’d burned the shot in the fourth end never faltered.
Some athletes thrived on the pressure, but Max had watched Callie closely for nearly two months now, and she’d always gotten the sense that while she managed the tension like a pro, she didn’t relish it. On the contrary, Callie seemed to be thriving not because of the pressure, but in spite of it, which made her apparent joy all the more impressive. Pleasure, pressure, pain, purpose—they weren’t mutually exclusive, and she juggled them all with aplomb. For her reward, she’d come within a literal stone’s throw of beating the only team standing between her and the number one spot in America.
Ever since she’d given up the point in the fourth end, she’d been fully committed to going for it, whatever “it” seemed to be in any given situation. From bone-crushing takeouts to tick shots where centimeters made all the difference, she’d called them all, and her team had made them all. Max felt proud of her, and also of herself for starting to see the finer points in the game. She could tell the difference between hitting a rock and freezing to one. She could anticipate the physics of a curl or the bounce a rock might take off another. And she could see the adjustments, literally hundreds of them, that Callie made throughout the course of a game.
Now she held her breath as Callie assumed the delivery position one last time. Her heartbeat accelerated as the tension amplified. Max shook her head. This was curling, for crying out loud. Competitive sweeping mixed with shuffleboard on ice. Nothing happened in any sort of grand athletic sense like shattering hits or powerful, arcing shots to deep left center, and nothing offered the explosive surprise of a goal being scored from midfield. And yet, when a stone slipped past, so close to another stone that you couldn’t get a strand of floss between them, her whole body went slack in relief. There was a beauty and drama to it all that she still found unexpected.
And then there was Callie.
Max’s racing heart kicked out of its rhythm as the woman pushed forward once more. How many times had she seen her do that over the last few weeks? Why hadn’t she grown immune to her grace in motion or the fierce focus of those hypnotic eyes? Max had spent more than a decade of her life around impressive people with powerful personas and magnificent bodies. Why should this one call to her on any higher level? She was merely another subject to cover, to inspect, to break apart. Why was she here in the middle of nowhere Minnesota holding her breath in the fervent hope that Callie would hold it all together?
She didn’t have the answers. She didn’t even have the will to search for them as Callie’s stone ground around a close guard, tapped another out of the way, and stopped exactly in the middle of the house.
Max nearly collapsed and had to chastise herself as she turned to the kid holding her camera.
“There you have it, folks, a perfect shot to cap off a perfect run through the championship bracket.”
“Easy peasy,” Brooke said behind her, in a tone that made it clear the shot was anything but simple.
“Yeah,” Callie said, a sigh in her voice. “Good curling.”
; “You getting this, Pencil Pusher?” Layla asked close behind her.
She turned to see her broad smile. Max nodded for the camera kid to adjust the shot. “I’m right here with Layla Abrams, lead curler on our championship team. How’s it feel to finish number one?”
“Better than it would’ve felt to come in second.”
Max grinned. “You were the underdogs coming into this match—”
“Nah.” Layla waved her off. “No one’s an underdog with Callie Mulligan at the helm. She never lets us feel second-best. She calls a game like she expects us to be champions.”
“And now you are,” Max concluded.
“And now we are, baby!” Layla jumped off the ground for emphasis, and Max fought the urge to do a little jig alongside her. In an attempt to hold onto her last shred of professional cool, she scanned the crowd of people streaming onto the ice. Then her eyes met Callie’s. They were lighter than she’d ever seen them before and filled with so many emotions, Max couldn’t begin to separate them. Instead, she let herself get swept away, the same way she’d let herself get swept up in the moment before.
She had no idea how long they stood there, staring at each other, or how many unspoken agreements passed between them, but when their silent conversation was interrupted by a tournament official steering Callie in the direction of the winners’ presentation, Max knew one thing for sure: Everything had changed.
The rest of the team must have felt it, too, or maybe they were all so high on the endorphins of their win that they simply didn’t mind Max’s presence as the celebration kicked into high gear. She hadn’t meant to horn in on their party, but as Layla gave her a little shove toward the Patch, she had no inclination to refuse. Now, after two rounds of drinks and countless country rock covers from the band on stage, she hadn’t moved from Team Mulligan’s table.
“Good curling,” another group of Canadians called as they danced their way over.
“Thank you,” Callie shouted back.
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