CHAPTER TEN
“Reagan, over here,” Marley yells across the room waving me over.
The room used for press conferences is large, but still stuffed with reporters. Microphones, cameras, and enough hairspray to supply an eighties hair band. Marley sits in the back of one of the long rows of chairs they’ve assembled. The only people who ever sit down at these interviews are family members. Thefirst few minutes everyone pretends to be composed human beings, but once the athletes come in, chaos always ensues.
The chairs are little, but Marley sits directly in the middle of two of them. Her elbows sticking out and her eyes narrowed, making sure everyone knows this is her space. She knows what to do. These rooms get savage.
“Hurry and sit down,” she says rushing me with a waving hand.
She slides over to one seat and I drop down in the other now empty one. The two sides clicking together, my chair becomes unbalanced like we’re playing an adult version of musical chairs. “Thanks for saving me a seat. Where are my parents?”
“Eating breakfast. Your dad said they’d catch it on TV.” She shrugs.
My parents have followed Remi along longer than I have. I guess they figure if theymiss one last press conference, it won’t be the end of the world. Besides, their view from the TV will probably be better than ours. Right now most of the reporters are sitting in their seats in a dignified manner, the cameramen lining the outside walls. But it won’t last. We’ll maybe catch a view of someone’s hand, or a foot in between the crush of bodies, but it’s never likely.
The lights dimin the room, reminding me of kindergarten when the teacher used the same method as a way to quiet the class. Except here it has the exact opposite effect. The murmurs and quiet conversations pick up as the lights dim further and then finally everyone quickly hushes. The American snowboarding team walks into the room single file from one of the doors behind the podium. The reporters immediatelyjump up from their seats, like a president walked in. There’s clapping, a few tears, and someone whistles in the back.
“Here we go again,” I comment and stand with Marley when she does.
She claps loudly to match everyone else. “This is Remi’s last time. We need to support him.”
“Okay,” I say clapping as fast as possible, but mostly for her benefit, not mine or Remi’s.
Her boyfriend is thefirst to walk out the door and stands on the far right of the podium. Knox brings up the rear of the group, and even though I swear it’s impossible, he looks right at me and spots me in the crowd. His smile grows and he winks in my direction. Camera’s flash, the shutter sounds overwhelming. But there’s no way he could see me standing in the back, hidden by what feels like five hundred reporters. Isthere?
Knox and I have only started on our journey together and we’re definitely in the puppy love phase, but my stomach does a little twisty role at the thought he found me in this crowd. It doesn’t make sense, considering I’ve been around Knox since we were teenagers. But it happens just the same.
The hotel finally did get clearance for everyone to reenter the rooms, but it was late last night.We had time to stop at the little restaurant my mom talked about and order dinner. When my parents, Remi, and Marley headed back to the hotel, I stayed with Knox in the team rooms. Every athlete is jittery the night before a big event and Knox is no different. He spent over forty-five minutes visualizing his win on the snowboarding cross. It’s a new competition at this year’s event, and Knoxwants to be the first American to win a gold in it.
Every one competing wants to be the first to win a gold in it. It’s an easy and quick way to get your name in the record books forever.
In a lot of ways, it’s like a downhill skiing event, but don’t tell Knox I said that. Snowboarders race down the hill facing a bunch of jumps, berms, and narrow curves. So maybe it’s more like a motocross event,but on snowboards. And a little bit dangerous. You’re supposed to make it down the hill with your supreme ability to stay on your snowboard, but more often than not at least two snowboarders will collide while racing. Basically, it’s a perfect sport for an adrenaline junkie like Knox.
The public relations person, the same guy we’ve seen throughout the last week and a half, steps in front of thegroup and takes a microphone. He must have kissed Asbell’s ass thoroughly the last four years to get this gig. The brown-noser prattles on about the significance of this event and the importance of all countries putting aside their differences and coming together to blah blah blah. It’s the same thing they say every year.
At every event.
“Is Knox nervous?” Marley whispers in my ear.
I shakemy head no, but widen my eyes so she knows I mean fuck yes. But I absolutely cannot be overheard by any reporter admitting Knox is nervous. Something like that could damage his career. Even if it’s a perfectly logical emotion to feel at this time. In this day and age, athletes aren’t actual people. They’re not allowed to be fearful or nervous or fucked up in any way. So much senseless pressure. Thankgoodness I have no athletic ability.
“I’ll allow the athletes to answer a few questions.” The spokesperson steps back as the reporters basically rush the stage. He points to a young woman in a dark business suit. Women always get to ask the first question.
She waves her cameraman forward and steps to the side to grab a microphone. I clench my teeth and rise higher in my seat to get a betterview. This is my favorite part of any press conference. It’s a mini competitive event in itself. It’s the time when a reporter can ask absolutely anything. Nobody has vetted these questions. This is how Bill Clinton ended up getting asked what kind of underwear he wears. I’m always waiting for the day a reporter asks a truly off-the-wall question that will make us all gasp in our seats. It’ll be mediadrama. They’ll make memes of it on the Internet.
Of course, that never actually happens. It’s always questions like, “How do you feel about today’s race?” or “Do you hope you take home a gold medal today?” What athlete doesn’t want to win the gold medal? So many wasted opportunities.
When reporters want to spice it up and be daring, they’ll ask about breakfast routines. Or how many hours a manspends in the gym. Topics I’m sure they find super exciting, but anyone with a hint of common sense knows are stupid. They eat a lot of healthy crap for breakfast and spend a lot of hours in the gym. Even though it’s unlikely to happen, I hold out hope one day somebody will give us a real doozy of a question.
The reporter asks about how top athletes deal with event jitters. And of course allthe guys give her their standard public relations approved answers. Drink a glass of water, talk with their mom or their wife, and sometimes they meditate.
It’s all a load of bullshit. For the last winter games, one of the athletes from Russia smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he went down the hill. He’d be out there hiding behind a building. Puffing away.
Hey don’t look at me. I’m notthe smoker. I didn’t say I understand athletes, just that I know a lot about them. The one attribute they all have in common… they’re crazy.
This time the conference leader picks a man. He elbows his way to the front of the group waiting for a microphone. “Mr. Jonsson how do you feel about being the new record holder for winning the most medals in the halfpipe event at the Gold-Medal Winter Games?”
Really? What does this guy expect? For Remi to walk up to the mic and say he hates it. Athletes live for this shit. He didn’t train since childhoodnotto have more medals than anyone else.
