CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wear a spot away on the carpet in front of the large television screen, my boots scuffing every few steps.
“Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous.” McKenna stands directly in front of the TV, forcing me to walk around her to continue pacing.
I narrow my eyes at her in my return direction. “You should start pacing.”
Another bout of nerves rolls through my stomach, forcingme to swallow.
“Sit down and we’ll watch the race together.” McKenna retreats to one of the cheap couches they have placed around the room.
My first thought is to argue with her. This is not a time to sit down. Cyrus isn’t sitting down. No, Cyrus is lining up to start the first race in the finals. If he wins, it means he walks away with either a gold or silver metal determined in one last racein the finals. If he loses it means the best he can do is the bronze and the worst he can do is fourth place and no medal. Most athletes consider anything less than a gold losing, but in reality anything less than a medal is losing. Nobody wants to come this far to go home empty-handed.
“The view is better from here anyway.” McKenna pats the seat beside her.
“Fine.” I walk backward to the couch,never taking my eyes off the TV screen, and sit down. Except I misjudge the distance and accidentally end up half sitting on McKenna. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been warned we get super close after being here together.” She laughs as I move, still not taking my eyes from the TV.
The racers line up and I immediately close my eyes. I just can’t do it again.
And I mean it this time.
I’m a horriblefriend, er…girlfriend, but I can’t do it. There’s no way I’ll make it. My heart skips a beat. For real. I practice breathing through my nose. I’m more nervous for Cyrus than I was in my own race. The starting buzzer dings, but I only hear it from the television, still refusing to open my eyes.
“Oh God,” McKenna says and her body tenses beside me.
That’s never good. I crack open one eye, my handsfolded in prayer.
Cyrus slides across the finish line milliseconds behind the Italian he’s racing.
“It’s okay.” McKenna grabs my hand. “It’s barely a late start.”
She’s right and yet she’s wrong. Any kind of loss is a huge deal to an athlete. It gets into your head and you start questioning yourself. Nothing good comes from being the second one across the finish line.
The course resets andeach racer lines up again at the top. I resume the position. Butt on the couch, fingers and toes crossed, and eyes closed.
“He’s got this.” McKenna grabs my hand and I can tell her fingers are crossed as well.
She tenses, not saying a word, and I refuse to open my eyes. My body folds in on itself taking her with me in the fetal position while still sitting on the couch.
Come on, Cyrus.
Comeon, Cyrus.
Come on, Cyrus.
A squint my eyes closed as tightly as possible, my head to my knees.
McKenna screams. She jumps up from the couch taking me with her by pulling on my hands. My eyes shoot open and I check the TV screen. Cyrus is at the bottom of the hill, team officials and his coach surrounding him with congratulations.
Cyrus won.
“We’ve at least got a silver, baby,” McKenna shoutsdirectly in my face.
I’m as excited as she is and don’t even notice. “No, we’re going for the gold!”
The two of us, with our hands on each other’s shoulders, jump up and down in the middle of the room.
