That’s why I didn’t have any real hopes of being accepted tostudy psychology. The application was a joke. A “give it a go, it won’t work out anyway.” Had I known I’d be accepted for the upcoming semester, maybe I would’ve left it alone.
But now I’m sitting here with a secure spot at school in my pocket and no idea what to do.
If it were up to me, I’d change everything. No full-time snowboarding, no annoying groupies, and, most of all, no pointless Instagram. No people with cameras out in front of my house at the crack of dawn just to get a few snaps of me in my boxers and with half-open eyes when I unknowingly open the door.
I’d live a totally normal life. I’d study and give my psychology major all my attention. I’d keep on snowboarding, but without any pressure. Just for fun.
I’d be Knox. Not Knox the snowboard star. Just Knox.
But that would also mean disappointing my father. And not only disappointing. I’d break his heart. Take away his dream, the one that’s not mine.
The younger me probably wouldn’t have cared one way or the other. But things have changed. In the meanwhile, life happened. And it has been goddamn shitty.
I can’t let my dad down. Not after all that’s happened. It would destroy him, in full awareness of my actions. And that’s something I just cannot do.
“Fuck!” More strongly than intended, I slam my MacBook’s screen down. I bury my fingers into my hair, my nails scratching my scalp. My chair falls backward when I suddenly stand up, open the bottom drawer of my dresser, and dig through my sweaters until I find what I’m looking for.
I pull out two syringes. One is labeledandrostenedione, the othertestosterone.
Doping products.
They help me to improve my hoped-for performance. The one my father wants, I mean. They give me the endurance, strength,and, above all, the motivation I’m lacking in my heart.
I’ve been injecting the testosterone every third day for weeks. The androstenedione just on the days I’ve got a competition. For the quick effect. Short-term, but potent.
I know it’s dumb. Snowboarders have to be in the best of health. We’ve got to have our bodiescompletelyunder control. Especially when you’re a half-pipe snowboarder. But somehow or other, I convinced myself that I needed this stuff. And I can’t get thesedumbassthoughts out of my head anymore.
With a jerk, I pull my shirt over my head, press the remaining air out of the first syringe, and watch a few drops of the transparent liquid drizzle out of the needle. Then I put it on my shoulder, where I know there is nothing but pure muscle below, and shoot. The same thing with the second one.
Only then do I pick my sports bag up off the floor, toss it onto my bed, and begin to pack my things.
Fuck Jason Hawk and his followers. He’s not going to win this ride.
6
Ice Is My Heaven
Paisley
I hear the sound of blades on ice echoing through my heart again. Other than that, it’s quiet here in the iSkate training center. The smell of disinfectant and the rink enchants me. I’ve been in a lot of rinks, and they all have the same smell. That smell, it always sets me off on a form of time travel, with all the feelings and experiences I’ve had out on the ice.
The double-leaf door shuts behind me. Suddenly, I am lost in a vast hall, and to my right and left doors leading who knows where. The sound of my boots echoes off the high walls lined with photos of skaters performing jumps or beaming from the winner’s podium. The display cases are full of ribbons and trophies. Running my finger across the plexiglass, my eyes are trained on the largest one, the one that’s in the shape of a golden ice skate. I imagine it’s mine.
Is it all that unrealistic? Is my gut feeling that I can do more than people say I can true?
My fingers slide off the glass when the sound of panting, followed by that of skates, drifts over to me. I look down the hall. My legs start to move and follow the shallow sound of the skates moving across the ice.
The lights above the stands haven’t been turned on yet, just the bright cones of the spotlights. They refract off the fox-red hair of the ice-skater gliding forward with supple movements as she prepares to complete a double axel.
I bite my lower lip watching her rotating body.She can’t get the right height, I think.It’s not going to work. And indeed, she finishes the turn on the ice instead of the air. She hits the railing in frustration before skating in backward on both feet to try a loop jump.
“What phase are we in?”
I blink. A girl my age appears next to me, leans her shoulder against the wall of the stands, and twists the stem of a white lollipop around in her mouth. Her eyes are following the skater out on the ice, as if the latter were giving a one-woman show.
“Umm. What do you mean?”
She nods her chin toward the ice. “Harper is my morning entertainment. She always trains by the same standards.”
