Ivan purses his lips. His sunglasses are on the top of his head, and the tan lines around his eyes and at his temples talk about decades spent wearing them while sunlight reflects off the snow. Most people don’t know you can tan in winter. Probably because if you live in the parts of Canada (i.e., most of them) where winter is spent with a scarf around your face, a toque squished down over your eyebrows, and a sun that never actually breaks through the endless days of grey cloud cover, you’re almost definitely also vitamin D deficient. But if you live your life on the mountains, above the cloud line and where the air is thinner, you can look like you just walked off the beach all year long.
“You’d have made up the time,” Ivan says, ignoring my excuse. “Instead you fell. So which was the right call?”
Before I can answer, Austin finishes his interview and swaggers back towards me, arms swinging by his sides to keep his balance in his hard boots on the soft snow. I drop to my knees, holding out an imaginary pen.
“Mr. Grimm. Please, Mr. Grimm. Can I have your autograph? Is it true you’re going to the Olympics?”
At my display, Ivan shakes his head and walks away. I’m a lost cause for now. He can have all of the off-season and next year to remind me why he’s the coach and I’m the lowly athlete.
Austin laughs, rolling his eyes. “Shut up, Zed.”
“No, really,” I say, rocking back up to my feet. “You’re my hero, Mr. Grimm.”
He punches my arm, shaking his head, but his smile never fades. The late afternoon sun shines off his skin, turning the five o’clock shadow on his jaw golden. He’s beautiful. A golden boy with a gold medal. Not an Olympic one, but a World Cup medal is pretty special too.
Austin and I met when we were nine. Until he joined the ski club, I was the fastest kid on the team. But the very first day, he smoked me on the run, leaving me to eat his snow. That pissed me off. I didn’t like being second. For a few weekends, I swore Austin Grimm and I would be mortal enemies for the rest of our lives. But then one afternoon we were doing cat-and-mouse drills, practicing passing each other. In a minute where we were watching other kids doing the same, Austin whispered, “I wanted you to be my partner because you’re the best skier here,” and my conviction that I would hate him until I died turned almost immediately to respect for his superb observation skills. We were best friends by Christmas, and we’ve had each other’s backs the whole time we worked up the junior alpine circuit, before moving over to ski cross right around the time we finished high school.
As I watch Austin step up onto the top level of the podium and hold his hands up in triumph, all I can think is that we planned for this. More than dreamed. We worked our asses off. Other people would have decided to be rivals. And don’t get me wrong. I love nothing more than beating his ass in a race. Butwhat I want more than anything is for the two of us to stand on top of the podium together while they play “O Canada.” I mean, obviously one of us will have to come in second, but most days I don’t even care who it is. If I’m going to lose to anyone, losing to Austin at the Olympics is pretty much the dream. Aside from winning gold, of course.
When the ceremonies are done, and the last of our gear is handed off to the equipment team, Austin and I board the bus back to the resort. This weekend’s competition was in Maine. The conditions were touch and go, with the milder temperatures of the late season making the snow soft and prone to grabbing your edges at the worst possible moment.
“That was so incredible,” Austin says, practically shaking with excitement as we ride the elevator back up to our shared hotel room. Accommodations were cozy this weekend, but at least the room has two beds, and they were paid for by Canada Ski. Back when we were coming up, doing junior racing and even on the NorAm Cup circuit, accommodations were often self-funded, which led to a lot of nights spent squeezed with too many bodies in a king-size bed if you were lucky or—if you were less fortunate—on the floor or, once, with a nest of pillows and blankets in the bathtub.
“The Olympics!” Kage says, gaze going dreamy. He’s the newest member on the team and just turned nineteen. He’s got a lot of raw talent, but hasn’t quite figured out how to put all the pieces together at the senior national level. “That’s so cool.”
Austin’s smile gets bigger. “We should celebrate! Go out tonight. Nothing to do tomorrow but the photoshoot with Apex.”
We all groan simultaneously. Me, Austin, Kage, Matthieu, and Andrew Spinner, who makes up the fifth person on the men’s team. Like Matthieu, he’s a veteran and the two of them tend to keep to themselves. Probably say things like “young whippersnappers” and “back in my day” when we’re not around.
So I’m surprised when Matthieu says, “A celebration would be good.”
“But the photoshoot,” I say. Not that I’m looking forward to it. It’s a necessary evil. Someone’s got to pay for the hotel rooms after all, and sponsors expect a certain quid pro quo for their generosity. But we’re athletes, not models. I’d rather do an extra weight session in the gym than smile for the camera.
Spinner huffs a laugh. “You can ski hungover. Trust me.”
Austin smacks my shoulder, making me jump. “Come on, Zed! Let’s do it.” His eyes sparkle with an electric energy that I’m surprised isn’t making his long hair stand up on end.
“There’s karaoke,” Kage says. “I heard some of the race volunteers talking about it. Supposed to be a fun time.”
The only thing I want to do less than a photoshoot is sing karaoke. Trust Kage to find out about the local nightlife. He didn’t make it out of the qualifying runs this weekend. The first day of ski cross is timed runs, with only the top thirty-two advancing to actual competition the following day. Kage finished in the low forties, which means he’s had lots of time to sit around the hill and find out where all the local dive bars and cheesy karaoke nights are held.
Still, I groan. “Guys, I don’t know.” Usually I’m up for at least a couple drinks, but there’s a knot in my hip that needs a hot shower and some vigorous massage. “I’ll probably chill tonight.” I can stretch it out. Ivan will send out footage from the races. I can watch them and figure out where things went sideways today. Besides the close turn with the Norwegian and the hand of god pulling on my bib, I mean. There are always places for improvement in every single race.
“Zeddy,” Austin says, pushing out his lower lip as he wraps an arm around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. “The season’s over. Let’s relax. We’ve got all summer to train.”
I go to point out that’s easy for him to say, since he’s already qualified for the Games. Same with Matthieu. Some of us have to work even harder over the next few months. There are five of us and only four spots to go to the Olympics. With two of them spoken for, my chances are getting slimmer.
But they’re all watching me expectantly. We’re off the elevator and standing in the hall. I get the feeling if I don’t commit, they’ll all follow me to my room. Maybe even into the shower.
I sigh. When I say, “Fine. Let’s do it,” the others cheer ecstatically. My legs ache as I stagger to my room to change. I really would prefer to stay in tonight. With Austin in the games, all pressure is on me to qualify too and reach our goals.
But one night of fun won’t hurt.
Will it?
CHAPTER
TWO
