Jesus Christ. How did this happen? It was a friendly race after what was a long morning and a longer night.
No one will quite meet my eyes when we reach the edge of the trees. The ski patrol is already double checking Austin is secure before one of them steps between the extended handles of the sled and heads down the mountain. The entire entourage of Apex snowmobiles and staff have appeared, along with Tara and other teammates. The snowmobiles bring the rest of us down, following the sled like a gruesome funeral procession. But he’s not going to die. I say it to myself over and over. People don’t die from skiing accidents. Except of course they do. Head injuries. Internal bleeding. Austin could very well have all of those.
The helicopter is already coming in for a landing in the resort parking lot. Onlookers have gathered to see what’s going on and I say a silent thank you that at least, dressed in our Apex gear and not our national team jackets, we look like anyone else. Ski cross may not get a lot of media coverage, but this isn’t the story we want to make.
“Can I go with him?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Not a lot of room in a helicopter. Austin’s going to a hospital a few towns away. The local resort town only has a small clinic meant to deal with minor injuries and illnesses. I feel numb as Tara herds us all into the vans. A few people ask if I’m okay. A few others ask what happened. Matthieu sits himself betweenme and everyone else, and distantly I can hear him saying to give me some space. All I can think is that I should be with Austin.
And that this is all my fault.
I kept asking myself what was different that our race went so far off course, and the answer iswewere. Distracted. Exhausted. We were up all night after racing all weekend. No one should have been doing more than a gentle snow plow under those circumstances.
“He’s going to be okay,” Matthieu says to me. I nod, trying to believe him.
It was a meaningless race. A pointless sprint like the thousands of ones we’ve challenged each other to over the years. Sometimes I win. Sometimes he does. We give each other a hard time. Maybe buy a round of drinks. No one ever goes to the hospital. All I had to do was give him enough room around that turn. Instead, I pushed too hard and?—
“I’ll call his family,” Tara says as we get off the van. “They should know.”
I hadn’t even thought about his family. His parents, Donna and Patrick. They still live in Ottawa. They didn’t come this weekend, even though it was one of the closest races this season because Patrick tweaked his back last week moving a couch. Austin’s their youngest kid. His two older sisters, Mathilda and Nicki, both live in Toronto. They’re all going to be so scared for him.
“Thanks,” I say, though I don’t know why. Because I was there? Because I’m his best friend? Would everyone still be so nice to me if they knew I’d basically pushed him off the side of the trail?
Once we enter the lobby, I’m left alone. I shuffle to the elevator, riding up in silence. But walking into the room is like slamming into a brick wall. The scattered sheets. The crumpledtissues on the night stand. The scent of sex and Austin that permeates the air.
Holy fuck, I’m going to fall over.
My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps as I stagger to the bed. I shake uncontrollably as I fall onto the mattress. My teeth chatter and my hands ball up into fists. What the fuck? I’m okay. I’m fine. What the hell is going on with me? It’s Austin who’s somewhere between here and the hospital. Maybe he’s already there. Maybe he’s already having surgery. He can’t die, right? Skiing is all about falling. He’ll get back up, right?
My stomach rolls and I barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up. Shock, some distant part of my brain says. Can I go into shock if I’m not the one who was hurt? My whole body aches as I stagger to my feet and rinse my mouth out at the sink.
I don’t remember falling asleep. Don’t even remember deciding to get into the bed or wrapping myself up in the blankets that smell like the two of us. Distantly, I think hear someone knocking on my hotel room door, but I can’t find it in myself to get up and see who it is. When I wake up, Austin’s old watch is wrapped in my fist, the plain face shining in light that filters out from the bathroom. Did I turn it on when I came in? Is it still on from my hasty shower this morning? From last night when we were so excited to undress each other and touch and fuck that we never even worried about the lights?
Doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here. Can’t sit here waiting.
I shrug into clothes and hurry downstairs to find a cab.
Austin needs me.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The driveto the hospital takes more than a half hour and the cab driver grumbles the whole time about how far away from home I’m taking him. He’s still getting paid; I don’t know what the problem is. He practically squeals out of the parking lot once he drops me off in front of the hospital’s main entrance.
I have a plan. It’s not a great one. I’m not someone who likes to work on the fly. My success in racing has come from careful training and preparation. But if I’ve learned anything in the last day, it’s that even on the most carefully traced course, you still have to be able to make adjustments as you go, and that’s what I’m doing now.
I go in through the large sliding doors. The town is small enough that even the ER is fairly quiet. Tired-looking people sit in chairs in the waiting area. A scowling nurse sits behind a glassed-in desk. I keep up my heavy breathing as I walk in, and even manage to squeeze out a few tears as I approach.
“Can I help you?” she asks, fingers already poised over the keyboard, ready to take a record of whatever sniffle or injury has brought me to her ER.
I gasp, like I’m trying to stuff down a sob. It’s not hard. All I can think is that somewhere in this building, Austin is hurt andalone. Sure, there are doctors and nurses, and they’re invested in helping him, but there’s no one here who knows him.
“I’m looking for my boyfriend,” I say, leaning hard into my French-Canadian side so I sound like my grandfather and—most importantly—like someone unfamiliar.
She looks at me over her bright blue glasses. “Your boyfriend.”
I nod, stifling another gasp-sob. She stares at me like there’s no way she believes I’m anyone so important as a boyfriend. And am I? This time last night I was a trusted best friend being dragged out for karaoke. But the way my heart will not stop pounding in my ears and my chest feels very boyfriend-like indeed.
“Austin Grimm. They said he had an accident. Please. I drove all the way down from Quebec City. It took hours. They said he almost died. Please.” I pull the watch from my pocket, holding it up to the glass. “It’s a family heirloom. He never takes it off, but somehow he forgot it before he came down for the weekend. That’s why he got hurt. He needs it back. Please, I need to know he’s okay.” With every word I let my voice drift a little higher and make the words wobble more. Her fingers tense up on the keyboard. Hopefully we’re at the end of her shift and I’m one too many hysterical patients or family members she’s had to deal with today.
