“Plans change. The commission denied Andrew’s appeal. Said his test result was valid.”
“What?” The idea is unthinkable.
“It’s bullshit, but the media got hold of it while you were in the air. The whole team is in damage-control mode. No talking to reporters unless I tell you specifically.”
My head spins, partially with disbelief, mostly with jet lag. Because I was flying on short notice to what is currently one of the most popular destinations in the world, the route I wound up taking went from Montreal to London to Paris to Rome to Milan. I have been awake for close to thirty-six hours because even though I knew I should sleep on the plane, my brain would not shut down. I was going to the Olympics. The season was a disaster and I had basically made my peace with this not being my year. Even when I finally managed a podium finish, Andrew was there to finish ahead of me and take the last spot. So for Ivan to call me less than two days before the opening ceremonies and tell me to get my ass on a plane to Italy was the beginning of the wildest whirlwind I’ve experienced since...
“No reporters. Got it.” Suits me. At this point, I’m so tired I’m not even sure I’d answer questions in English.
The freestyle ski events are being held in Livigno. The maps app on my phone said it’s about a three-hour drive, but that didn’t consider the absolute traffic nightmare that is thousands of athletes and team staff descending on northern Italy all at once, not to mention the spectators, media, dignitaries, and more. The clock on my phone says it takes closer to six, though I don’t remember much of it. Tara’s picked me up in a sleek blackvan, the kind meant to transport six to eight people from one place to another. I stretch out in the very back row of seats and try not to puke as we wind our way up twisting roads to the Alps.
“The team has training this afternoon,” Tara says as we pull into the town of Livigno. I’ve skied in races in the region before, but never here. It looks like most European ski towns, and we stop in front of a massive hotel with wood exterior and cute little balconies that backs onto a frozen lake. “Ivan will want you there, but he said if you’re not up to ski, you can at least walk the run to get a feel for the terrain.”
I swallow hard. I can barely keep my eyes open. But arriving late like I am means I’m already at a disadvantage from the other competitors who have had time to acclimate to the altitude and familiarize themselves with the course. The races start in three days, so every minute counts. I may not have qualified for the Olympics in the usual manner, but I’m here now and anyone who thinks I’m going to be easy pickings in the qualifying heat is kidding themselves.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
Volunteers appear from the hotel to help unload my gear, promising in broken English to get it to the equipment team. Another tries to take my suitcase and it leaves me feeling naked, so I hold it tight and promise him I can manage. As I head for the main doors, they open and three men emerge. They’re all dressed in a variety of practice race suits, but each is wearing the signature red and white toque that was provided to all the Team Canada athletes. They laugh and jostle each other in easy camaraderie, while my suitcase falls to the snow and my feet root themselves in place.
It’s Matthieu, Kage...and Austin. They all take another second before they spot me and for a sec it’s like a standoff in an old cowboy movie, before Kage hoots and slides over the snow.
“Zed! You made it! That’s so awesome!” He practically tackles me in his enthusiasm to greet me, but I manage to hold onto him. He’s had a good year. Skied hard and made people take notice. Even if I was pissed at my own performance at that first race this year, I was happy for his qualification.
“Cedric,” Matthieu says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Bienvenue.”
I give him a tight smile as I gently shrug Kage off.
“Hey, Zed.”
Austin’s soft voice makes my heart twist uncomfortably.
“Hey, Grimm. I told you we’d make the Olympics.”
The silence that falls between the four of us feels dense. Kage and Matthieu are suddenly very interested in the clouds that float high overhead in a blue sky. Austin scratches at his hair through the side of his toque. Sometime over the summer he cut it off, losing the long strands I tugged at while we...
“Where’s Spinner?” I ask, because why not make everything more uncomfortable?
Matthieu clears his throat. “They made him leave the village. He’s staying with family somewhere else.”
I bite my lip. The others throw a few accusing glances at Tara, who’s chatting with someone in an official-looking STAFF winter coat. This whole thing is fucked up. When the dust settles, they’re going to clear him and while none of this is my fault, I’m the one who took his place.
“Ivan’s waiting,” Kage says, nudging Matthieu. They nod at me and head for the van I’ve just vacated. Austin lingers, hands in his pockets.
“You okay?” he asks. “How was the trip?”
“Yeah, fine,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets too. Silence drops between us like an avalanche. Austin clears his throat and scratches at his jaw. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then the quiet is shattered as a group ofAustralian athletes in their green and yellow team gear emerge from the hotel, laughing and chatting as they pass us. Austin’s gaze follows them and when he swings back to me, whatever thought he was about to voice is gone. He gives me a quick smile and a nod, and follows after Kage and Matthieu who are waiting by the van.
When he’s gone and the van pulls away, I let out a long slow breath, then right my suitcase. He looked good. Ready. The media is calling his comeback a miracle, and for the average person it would be. But we’re not average people. It was Austin’s literal job, his only responsibility, to get back into competition form. The team threw every professional they could at helping his recovery. All day every day. That’s all he had to do, and it shows. Physically, he’s in as good shape as ever.
Our friendship, though...and anything else we were going to be. That’s another story.
The hotel is nice. It’s got a vintage feel. Just like I pictured myself among smiling teammates at the opening ceremonies and instead got a solo flight across what felt like half of Europe, somehow I imagined the athlete’s village would be a complex of gleaming brand-new buildings, but in the modern era of sustainable games, it’s more about repurposing existing properties. The Canadian team is staying on the top two floors. I’m relieved to discover I’m rooming with Matthieu, not Austin. So relieved, in fact, that once the door shuts behind me, my knees buckle and I slump onto the empty bed closest to the bathroom.
This has not been my season in every way that matters. Poor performance. Qualifying for the Olympics based on someone else’s misfortune. None of this is the way I imagined all those years Austin and I were coming up.
And the worst part about it is, I can’t even tell Austin about any of it.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and text my parents, letting my mom know I landed safely. It’s only mid-morning back in Ottawa, so she replies immediately, sending messages in fast succession.
