“What are you? A parrot?”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Taking a hold of my phone, I stand and suppress the grunt rising in my throat when the pull in my leg becomes uncomfortable. I walk around the living room, running my fingers through my hair. I breathe in calmness. Breathe out anxiety. “You want me to work at Rock Snow?”
“That’s literally what I said,” Coach deadpans. I can tell he’s done with me.
I’m very familiar with Rock Snow – a popular gear store in town owned by Joe Bradford. Joe is not only Coach’s longtimefriend, but also one of my closest friend’s dad. Jordan Bradford often travels out of Blue Ridge Springs, and he enjoys visiting me when he can, but since the recent launch of his brand-new winter athleisure line, he’s been busy, and I haven’t heard much from him. Not that I blame him – I don’t check in much either.
I bought my very first snowboard at the age of just five at Rock Snow. All my gear comes from that store, really. Even if I haven’t visited in a while, Joe has always answered my calls and shipped anything I needed.
Joe Bradford is a great man. Gives great advice. Checks in on everyone. He was one of the first people to call me after I was released from the hospital last week. His wife, Donna, even had a bouquet of flowers delivered to my place.
“Okay, so I’m going back to Blue Ridge Springs. Gonna stay there for three whole months and go to physiotherapy. Gonna work at Joe’s store and help Jordan’s sister with her skiing lessons at the resort?”
This is all planned. This whole scheme is utterly insane. They’re going to watch over me like hawks – especially Joe, so he can report back to Coach. But I think part of me is relieved to know that I’m going to work with Joe. He’s a man I deeply respect and whom I’ve known my whole life. A sense of familiarity, comfort, and relief crashes through me – albeit for a flickering beat.
“See? You know how to listen.”
I could knock the sarcasm out of him right now.
I loosen a breath, leaning against the kitchen island. My gaze drifts towards the window, observing the gray sky on the cusp of turning granite while thunder rumbles in the distance. “Why are you doing this? Why are you punishing me?”
“Diego,” Coach says, in a soft tone, “do you hear yourself? You don’t take shit seriously. You’re reckless. This is not me punishing you, this is just me wanting you to get better. There’sno choice but to take time to recover if you want to get back on your board. Besides, it’s not like I’m sending you to a village in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand. It’s your hometown, dude.”
I guess he has a point, but still – I’m pissed.
“What happens after the three months?” I ask, through clenched teeth. “Say my leg and shoulder are fine. There’s the USASA National Championships in March—”
“Diego.” Fuck me, the way he cuts me off and says my name is not a good sign. “You can’t possibly think that you’ll be able to compete without going to physiotherapy first? My role is not only to make you the best snowboarder, but also to ensure your health stays intact. I have no doubt that you’ll recover just fine, but March is too soon to compete. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you participate in the championship.”
I want to claw at my throat. The air feels too tight. The room feels like it’s closing in around me, caging me in and suffocating me.
The pounding in my chest grows louder, becoming deafening as I process the information.
Shit. Shit. Shiiit!
What am I going to do? I’ve been looking forward to the championship for almost a year. I have to take part in it – there’s no other way. Saying goodbye to the X Games being held in January is fine, but the USASA? I’m going to do everything I can to recover just in time, even if that means pushing myself to my limits.
Dropping my phone onto the counter, I grip the edge with my trembling hands, letting my head fall forward, trying to understand that my dream is on the cusp of escaping from my own grasp.
Fuck that. I’m so angry at myself for ruining the only thing I’ve ever loved.
I only wanted to impress the sponsors. Wanted to make Coach proud. And now I’m paying the price for my foolishness.
“That means I won’t be able to acquire enough points to qualify for the Winter Olympics,” I say through the thick lump that has built up in my throat, as though Coach doesn’t already know this. The quiver, the sheer desperation in my voice can’t be concealed.
Coach Wilson is silent, probably letting me soak it all in. My morning had started just fine, until he called me to tell me the bad news. That reminds me that my coffee is sitting there, untouched. But all I want is to blow some steam off, to release all that pent-up frustration. My only solace is snowboarding, and now I can’t even ride a slope. If I do, if I so much as break another rule, I could lose everything.
The first drop of rain crashes against my floor-to-ceiling window – in exactly the same way my heart shatters when the realization dawns. The only hope I have of winning another medal is by listening to Coach.
The tightness in my chest hurts as much as my leg, and when I glance around my luxurious apartment I realize that there’s not much for me here anymore. Moving to Utah after I landed a huge deal with my team was the best decision I had ever made. The view from my living room will always take my breath away, but what’s the point in staying here if I can’t even ride a slope? If I can’t even put my gear on and grab my snowboard and head out to the resort? I won’t even be able to step foot in the training center without feeling my heart bottom out at the sight of my teammates practicing some drills. This is pointless, and I know the way my brain works – continuously blaming myself is going to destroy me, so maybe a change of scenery and a breath of fresh air is what I need.
I love this place, but it’s not lively – the walls are blank, the spacious apartment way too big for just me, the bed too cold andunwelcoming. I love this city, but it hasn’t stolen my heart in the way I wanted it to when I moved here. Though I’m reluctant about Coach’s plan and going back to my hometown, I think finding my way back to my roots maybe isn’tthatterrible.
Nothing’s worse than being forbidden from touching my board, anyway. Me? Dramatic? Please.
I love snowboarding more than I’ve ever loved anything. If I could just feel the exhilaration of doing rotations in a halfpipe, if I could just let the cold breeze caress my face when I cruise down a piste one more time . . . I’d give everything up for that. So, if going home is the solution, then so be it.
“Listen, just pack your bags, go hug your mom, take a breath, and focus on yourself. We’ll see how things go with your recovery, but don’t be too hopeful. You fucked up bad, and now you need to clean up your image. That’s what the sponsors and I want. We want the careful, put-together, electric Diego Ramirez to come back to us, but that can only happen if you take the time to recover without rushing the process.”
