CHAPTER ONE
The crowd of people in front of the podium is huge. All three winning countries pack the area to support their athletes. I smile, my face frozen in a stretched-out grin. Nobody wants to be caught in a less than stellar moment at this point in life. My worst nightmare involves weird facial expressions and Internet memes. The chunky silver medal dangles from my neck in a crushingmanor. The pressure on my chest heavier than what the actual medal weighs.
My first gold medal race is over, and I’m walking away with a second-place finish. Butsomething deep inside warns this is only the beginning.
The three winners are forced to stand together smiling while photographers take three thousand pictures. It gives my mind and eyes time to wander. Even with the crowd packed togetheras tightly as possible around the winners’ podium, I’m able to find Cyrus in the group.
Normally it’s because he’s taller than everyone else, but today most of the crowd is above average in the height department. It doesn’t matter, though. I find him easily. Almost as if my eyes are drawn in his direction. It’s been this way for as long as I remember. Back when we both started our snowboardingcareers Cyrus and I shared a coach. The joint coach eventually retired and we moved on to different facilities, forming new teams as we grew in the sport, but we stayed friends through it all. Cyrus attended his first Gold Medal Winter Games four years ago with me there to cheer him on.
Now I’m here with him cheering me on. It’s what best friends do.
The three medal winners are dismissed whilerace officials prepare to award the men’s medals in a few minutes. Another American will be headed to this same podium soon. Several officials from the American team clear a path through the crowd to meet me when I jump off the second-place block.
Not giving me any time to relish my glory of a win, they quickly retrieve my medal and stick a bright orange sticker with my name and informationon the back. For the safety of the athletes and the merchandise, all medals are held in the team offices. They’re only taken out for special press conferences and individual interviews while a member of the security team is on guard to keep them safe. Otherwise I won’t see it again until I’m back on American soil.
“The men’s medals will be awarded in about ten minutes. We expect you to stay andshow support,” McKenna, one of the team’s public relations people, wearing tall high heels at almost midnight, says stepping away for me.
“Of course.” Does she really think I wouldn’t stay and watch the guys?
She looks to someone behind me. “Cyrus, it’s good you came out to support your teammates. I’m sure they appreciate it.”
I turn, his eyes wide as he stares at McKenna. “Yes, that’s whyI’m here, McKenna.” He nods his head.
I wait until she walks out of earshot. “Do you even know which American is getting a medal in a few minutes?”
Cyrus winks. “Oh, Charlie, you have such little faith in me. Of course I know. It’s Keaton.”
“Well then. I suppose you’re on the ball…this time.”
He smiles, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug and squeezing until I have to hit his back soI can breathe. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Yeah.” Emotions have never been something Cyrus and I share a lot of. I don’t do them with most people. “Are you taking me for a celebratory drink after this?”
His face pinches together. “Are you kidding? You may be done with your event, but I have a few days until mine. No one gets to drink until weallget to drink.” His pointer finger circles his earlike I’m crazy. “Plus, your parents are battling their way through the crowd. They’ll be here any minute and then you know you’ll be up all night with your mother.”
I sigh. If ever someone needed therapy to deal with Mommy issues, it’s me. My disdain for emotion comes from my mother’s overabundance of the stuff. She’ll cry in excitement. Call the entire family. Tell random people she meets atthe grocery store while looking at the bananas…for the next fifteen years. Probably longer.
The woman live tweeted my race. Cyrus said she had more than twenty-five updates. Considering a snowboard cross event lasts less than two minutes, the woman has to have the fastest fingers of any human. Someone should make her a Guinness world record holder.
I should be used to it. It’s not a new thing.This behavior has been going on for years, so it’s not something I get upset about anymore. If I lashed out every time the guy who bags my groceries knows more about my private life than my best friend, my mother and I would spend every second fighting. For years I tried to fight it, to steer her in a better direction, but eventually I decided if I didn’t want to die of a heart attack at thirty,I had to let it go. She might still end up putting me in an early grave.
Right on cue the crowd parts and my mom steps through, my dad following wordlessly behind her. “Charlie?” she screams, getting my attention even though I saw her walk up. “I’m so proud of you. I’ve called your grandparents and they want a live chat with you after the event. And we must get pictures with the medal. Whereis it? Show me!” Tears stream down her face but they don’t interfere with her demands.
“Mom, I don’t get to keep the medal.”
She arches back in shock. “You don’t need to keep your own medal? What kind of crap is that? You won that medal. It’s gorgeous. Who can I talk to about this? You show me who and I’ll get it fixed.”
It’s been such a long day. I rub a spot in my temple before responding.It never works, the headache always comes regardless, but it makes me feel better to pretend like I’m doing something about the searing pain behind my eye. “Mom, calm down. It’s the rule.”
“That’s a stupid rule. Who follows this rule?”
“Mom!”
“Charlie,” she says finally noticing the “please stop” look my father flashes. “Fine, if you’re sure about this. But if you change your mind, let me knowand we’ll get this taken care of.”
“Janice, I’m sure they’re not going to keep her medal forever.”
I give my dad my best “keep her under control look” and silently plead with him to not let her do anything embarrassing. It’s the textbook stressed out look — pursed lips and raised eyebrows. I perfected the look around fourth grade when she came into my classroom complaining because the paperI wrote about penguins received a B+. She argued for over an hour about how she’d read the paper and knew darn well it was quality material. I couldn’t look my teacher in the eye for the rest of the year.
