CHAPTER
ONE
World Cup2025
Falling is part of skiing. From the first time I ever stood on a hill, I was taught that. I was maybe all of three years old, with a helmet that looked like a hollowed-out bowling ball, and a second-hand snowsuit that had been my brother’s the winter before. I don’t remember much from that far back, but I remember the howl of frustration that escaped my lips as I crashed to the snow for the fifth time that run. My legs were like wet noodles, bent at weird angles, and the heavy snow made it hard for me to swing the unwieldy skis around.
“Come on, buddy,” the ski instructor said. “You gotta learn to get up on your own. You’re always going to fall. It’s part of skiing.”
Looking back, that instructor was probably a bored nineteen-year-old who couldn’t believe he’d been assigned babysitting duty on the beginner slope. So what did he know?
But he’s right in that falling is inevitable. It just sucks when it happens in the Big Final of the last World Cup event of the year. Sucks extra hard when all I had to do was finish in the top threeto qualify for the Olympics, and now I’ll have to wait the whole off-season to earn my place.
I pick the snow out of my collar. The fall was a good one. The kind of yard sale that would make that old ski instructor pause the whole winding snow snake of kids to hike back up the mountainside and help child me collect myself and my gear, while calling me things like “kiddo” and “little dude” in the hopes of distracting me enough so I don’t cry.
Crying’s not an option now. Not with the world watching and the national team maple leaf on my chest. I get to my feet, waving my arms so the coaches and officials at the bottom of the slope know I’m okay. The other three racers are in the finishing area, cheering and high fiving each other. Austin’s already got his helmet off, which makes him easy to spot with his long blond hair shining in the late afternoon sun. Did he win? He was ahead of me, but close enough I could have taken him in the last downhill section. Until Jean-Marie from the French team cut me off. Bastard. The last turn was tight, with the three of us trying to find the advantage that would put us ahead. The Norwegian was out of the running entirely. That is, until the final jump, where a gust of wind hit me while I was airborne. It was like an invisible hand grabbed my bib from the back and yanked on me so I landed off balance. I should have been able to catch myself. I’ve done it a million times before, in training and during races. But today just wasn’t my day. I ate snow hard, and the other three left me in their tracks.
I love ski cross so much, but you never know how your day is going to end.
Once I’ve got my skis back on, I make my way to the bottom, so that at least my time will be officially recorded, even if I’m so far behind even the slowest skiers in qualifying I barely deserve to be there. Still doesn’t stop Austin from throwing his arms around me like I won the whole thing.
“Zed! Did you see it?” he asks. He’s smiling so hard his eyes crinkle at the corners like an old man’s, which is saying something given that we both turned twenty-two last fall.
“Unless you mean did I see the snow caked inside my goggles, then no, man. I did not see anything.” I’m not even wearing my goggles. They’re pushed up on my helmet. But when I take them off and give them a shake, the lens is cracked. Jesus. That really was a good fall. Go big or go home. And it seems the best I’ve got is a chance to go home.
“I did it. Zed. Are you listening?” Austin’s hopping up and down on his toes. The buckles of his rigid reinforced plastic ski boots rattle where he’s loosened them after he was done his race.
“Yes, I’m listening,” I say, even though I’m still examining my busted goggles. Good thing the season’s over. Even the sponsors start to get antsy when you ask for your third replacement pair of something in a year. It’s been a tough one. Every race has been the most important race of my life because each one is another chance to get closer to qualifying for?—
Realization hits and I look back up at the big illuminated leaderboard.
1. GRIMM, A (CAN)
First place, Austin Grimm representing Canada.
Holy shit. Holy?—
“Grimm!” I shout. “Holy shit, Grimm. You did it. You’re going to the Olympics!”
Then we’re hugging and jumping up and down and screaming. Someone slaps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder and it’s Matthieu Girard. He came first in the Small Final earlier this afternoon, but it didn’t matter. He already qualified at the meet two weeks ago in Switzerland.
“We’re going to Cortina!” he says, and my heart swells. I grew up watching Matthieu race. This is his third games. He’s been the Canadian ski cross champion six times in the last ten years,and always in the top ten nationally. Even being on the same team as him is the sort of thing that makes me wonder how this is my life. To be on the same Olympic team as him? Wild.
Only I’m not on the same Olympic team. Not yet.
He seems to have the same realization I do. Probably sees it on my face. I’ve never been good at hiding things. Never really needed to. I’ve known what I wanted since I was big enough to put on a pair of skis, and I knew the only way to make it happen was to work my ass off. To ski harder and train harder than everyone else. So many of the kids in my ski club were there to go fast and have fun. For some, that was even enough to get pretty far in the regional race circuits. Good for them. But I knew it was going to take more than goofing off to make it to this level. And when I met Austin? The race was on.
“Don’t worry, Cedric,” Matthieu says with another pat on the back. He says my name in the French Canadian way: Say-dreek. “There’s still next season. That was a tough break today. You’ll get it next time.”
My ears turn flaming hot inside my helmet. Sometimes when Matthieu talks to me, I want to roll over and ask him to rub my belly, the way Luna, our old German shepherd, would do when you called her a good girl. But I’m not a dog. Or a kid. I’m a man with a serious ski career. My hero worship for Matthieu Girard will stay a secret until the day I die.
Even though he probably knows.
Austin’s talking to a reporter, all smiles. Ski cross isn’t exactly a high-profile international sport. We’ve got our own World Cup circuit, but when it comes to media coverage and sponsorships, we’re a lot farther down the food chain than the alpine events like slalom, or even a lot of the other freestyle ski and snowboard competitions like big air and the half pipe. Still, we have a following, and I hope everyone at home sees Austin’s excitement. He’s had an awesome season, including a couplelucky podium finishes that no one expected early on. That’s why he’s qualified already. Matthieu is right. I’ll get there. In our little duo, Austin’s always had the raw talent and style. I’ve been the technician. But there’s room for both on the Olympic team. Canada can send up to four athletes to the Olympics, and only two spots have been filled. There’s lots of time to catch up next season.
“You should have given him more room on that last turn,” Ivan says as he comes up to me. He’s the Team Canada ski cross head coach. He won the Olympics in Lake Placid in the downhill. That was like twenty-five years before I was born. He’s a grumpy bastard who never says anything nicer than “Do it faster next time” and “I told you to stay low in the turn,” but most of the time he’s right.
I hang my head. “I know. But we were side by side. No one had right of way.”
