CHAPTER SEVEN
My phone rings for what has to be the fifth time this morning. The ringer is turned off, but the little metal machine vibrates in my back pocket. It’s Cyrus’ race day, so I try to keep the interference to a minimum.
“You know if you don’t answer she’ll keep calling,” Cyrus says.
This is all his fault. I should make him answer the phone.
“My mom has been around long enoughshe knows you have pre-race rituals. She’ll stop eventually.” Maybe.
My mother, normally overbearing in general, has become even worse since Cyrus and I announced our intention to date. She hasn’t admitted it out loud, but I think the woman has serious grandchildren aspirations. She kept saying I was glowing even though I promised her I wasn’t pregnant multiple times. The woman does not listen.My dad patted Cyrus on the back and said congratulations like we were getting married or something.
Cyrus and I have been… well, Cyrus and me. Nothing much has changed in the twenty-four hours since we made our relationship official.
Well besides the relationship sex. There’s been a lot of that, but we both agreed we would wait until after we returned home to make our relationship announcementofficial to the media. So anything happening between us has gone on behind closed doors. For the most part, we’re still Cyrus and Charlie, two close friends both participating in the Golds.
“I can’t help it if your mother likes me. I’m adorable,” Cyrus says, not taking his eyes off of his bed where he’s laid out his equipment for today’s race.
There’s a slew of various snowboarding crap in nicelittle rows. His goggles, gloves, a beanie, and a bunch of other gadgets he doesn’t need but has anyway. For example, the gray little rabbit foot that always makes me think of a certain episode ofGrimm, a TV show we watched together last year. He promises the extra weight doesn’t hold him down during a race, but I picture the poor little bunny who lost a foot to give Cyrus extra luck since hewon it in a claw game in fifth grade.
I like to give him crap about his superstitions, but in reality, we all have them — the little things we do before a race to help our odds. Cyrus just has more than most.
“Where are my gray socks? I have to have those socks.”
“Here.” I toss a pair of socks at him from his top dresser drawer.
He turns in time to catch them. “No, not these. I need gray ones.The pair I wore when I competed at the last trial event.”
“You’re adding something to your superstitions?” Doesn’t he think he has enough?
Cyrus sighs. “They aren’t superstitions, Charlie. There rituals and they’re perfectly normal.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t see a pair of gray socks in here, Cyrus.” I paw around his drawer for a few more seconds, but the top drawer of his dresser is stuffed full ofstandard white socks. Nothing he would actually use while snowboarding.
“They’re gray and folded up together wrapped around a piece of tissue paper and stuck in a special Ziploc baggie. Martha packed them for me. She promised. Check my gym bag.”
Cyrus rifles through the things on the bed, even though there’s definitely no socks on there. Inside a special pocket on the outside of the bag isindeed a pair of gym socks rolled up in a Ziploc baggie. If he hadn’t already told the story of the socks, I would have very different imagery. I hope to God no one at TSA checked his bags when he boarded his plane. I can’t imagine what reason they’d come up with for a guy having socks in a Ziploc baggie.
“Seriously? Martha?” The housekeeper we both share in Vermont. “She spoils you.” She’s notrolling up any of my socks around tissue paper and putting them in special Ziploc baggies. She may be sixty-five years old, but I think she has a crush on Cyrus. When the two of us bought matching condos at a new complex in town, we decided to hire the same person to clean things up once a week. Over the last year I’ve definitely noticed a different level of service between us.
Cyrus stretchesout the elastic of his goggles. “I can’t help it if Martha likes me better.”
“Yeah, it has nothing to do with the fact she caught you walking out of the shower one day.” I’m still not one hundred percent sure he didn’t do it on purpose, even though he’s promised multiple times he didn’t know she was there.
It seems a bit fishy to me.
“Charlie,” he actually sounds a little upset, “I didn’t flashour sixty-five-year-old housekeeper. She’s quiet. Like a ninja mouse.”
“Here’s your socks, Don Juan.” I toss them at Cyrus before he has a chance to turn around. They smack him in the back of his head and bounce to the floor.
“Woman, stop verbally and physically abusing me. I’m trying to picture my winning run.”
At least this ritual makes more sense. It might be mumbo jumbo to people, but thecoaches came together and paid for a motivational speaker about a month ago. Something we’ve been taught since day one is to visualize your win before you go down the mountain. I know it sounds cheesy, but I swear it works.
“Do you want me to leave you alone so you can meditate?” I like a few minutes before a race to calm my head.
“No, I like it when you’re here.”
I swear I almost become oneof those fan girls swooning on her feet. It’s such a silly little comment, but it’s quite possibly one of the sweetest thing Cyrus or anyone has ever said to me. Pre-race rituals are no joke, and the fact he’s okay with me sharing this one is pretty darn special. It’s also kind of a turn-on, but this probably is not the moment to jump on him.
