CHAPTER THREE
“How many doughnuts are you going to eat, Charlie?” my mother asks, closing the lid on the small box my father carried into the lodge waiting area.
I sigh and stuff the last few bites of an éclair in my mouth, chewing quickly. I wouldn’t put it past her to pry my jaw open and pull it out. “Mom, I’ve won a medal. This competition is done for me.”
“Charlie, this competition isdone, but not the next one. You have years of competitive snowboarding left. Now is not the time to eat doughnuts and get fat.”
“Janice, go easy on her. The girl deserves a doughnut.”
My mom turns her attention to my father. “You shouldn’t be enabling her. Or yourself. Didn’t the doctor say you had to cut out sweets?”
His grip tightens on the box of doughnuts. “My daughter placed second ata gold medal event. I think I deserve a doughnut.”
My mom’s eyebrows tip up and her head leans back, shocked my father isn’t doing exactly what she says. “Fine, but I’m telling Dr. Hubbard when we get back. Besides you didn’t even get me anything.”
“Of course I did.” He tips the lid of the box open barely an inch and then stops, eyeing her to make sure her intent is honorable.
“Is it raspberryfilled?” she asks.
My dad smiles because he knows he’s won her interest. “Of course.”
“Glazed on top?”
“Is there any other way to make a doughnut?” he counters, opening the box a smidge more.
She slides up closer, scanning the doughnuts to the top of the stack. “Oh all right, fine. Everyone can have their sugary breakfast. But after we get home we’re right back to our daily regimen.”
“Yes,Mom.” I say sounding exactly like a fourteen-year-old child but gladly accepting the big bear claw my father passes over.
“What are your plans for today?” my mother asks, inspecting the box looking for another glazed raspberry.
The woman knows my schedule like a Hawk, so there’s no reason for the American team to provide me with an assistant. Having a PR person to manage my schedule is a wasteof money. In fact my mother would gladly do it for the entire team.
“Stay here and watch Cyrus practice. Maybe answer some interview questions.”
“You did miss all the press conferences yesterday while you were off playing video games with Cyrus. Do try and attend a few of them today. You remember all your correct answers, right?”
I agree, taking a bite of donut. Memorizing acceptable interviewquestion answers is part of the job.
She nods her head, obviously approving of my plan at least enough not to argue with me about it. “Okay, and make sure and tell Cyrus we said hi.”
Besides my father and me, the only other person my mother hovers over is Cyrus. He only has to deal with it on limited occasions, therefore he finds it endearing rather than terribly intrusive. But he also comesfrom a super straight-laced family of bankers and accountants. People who don’t understand their son’s need to chase snow. Cyrus’ parents have never seen him compete in anything that happens during tax season — which is pretty much when we compete. He doesn’t talk about it much, but it has to sting. I think he likes my mother’s attention more than he lets on, so I try to not give him too much crapabout it.
Of the men I’ve paraded around the last five years — most of them your stereotypical snowboarders — my mother has complained about every single one. To be fair, I’ve also had complaints. Which is why I always end up single. Cyrus may be the one man on earth, beside my father, who could handle my mother. Everything about him feels perfect.
We fit each other. My mother spent a few monthsin my twenties not so subtly hinting what a wonderful couple Cyrus and I would be. To her credit, she never said anything to his face, but the constant comments were bad. She couldn’t understand why we weren’t together. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s because Cyrus doesn’t see me as anything more than a sister.
And never will.
I’m the one imagining our 2.5 kids and one big dog — he’salways had a soft spot for Dalmatians — and the family vacations we’ll spend together after we both retire from the sport. While Cyrus sees me as the woman who kicks his ass in video racing. The girl he calls when he wants to order pizza at 1 a.m.
I’m doomed.
“Bad doughnut?” McKenna, Cyrus’ team PR assistant asks, taking a spot in the chair beside me.
“What?” When I stop daydreaming and lookup at her, I’m met with the doughnut. The one I’ve been holding in front of my lips for the past however long without actually taking a bite. I lower the sugary treat. “Oh no, I’ve been thinking.”
She smiles. “The hard part is done for you. You’re already a winner.”
