Okay. Yeah. That makes sense. I exhale slowly and slide my hands down my shins until they hit the floor. I feel better. It’s not like we were going to spend these pre-competition days walking hand in hand through cute mountain villages and having sexy snowball fights that turned into hurried blow jobs in wintery woods. We’re here to compete. Everything else is for later. That was always Austin’s plan.
A knock on the door makes me jump. My hands shake as I reach for the knob. What if it’s Austin? What will I say?
It’s Ivan. His grizzled and permanently suntanned skin is unmistakeable, as is the faint sheen of silver along his jaw. Ski cross wasn’t an official Olympic sport when he was competing. Instead, he won in the downhill, bringing home a gold medal in 1980. His racing and coaching career has lasted twice as long as I’ve been alive.
“Hi,” I say.
“Good morning.” His voice carries the gentle roll of early years spent in Ukraine before his family came to Canada while Ivan was still a kid. Technically, he could have competed for the Soviet Union, but in every news clipping from back then, he’s always said Canada is his home. Still, he had to have made some hard decisions to get his career moving in a winning direction, and here I am acting like a doofus because I can’t get my head out of my ass about a guy and a one-night stand we had months ago.
But Ivan has never been one for house calls, so if he’s here at my door this early in the morning, something’s up.
“Am I late for training?” I ask, though aside from a few more practice runs this afternoon, I’m pretty sure the official schedule is free for things like massage or physiotherapy. Can’t overdo it on these last few days of training before the race.
He squints at me, like he’s trying to read my mind. Sometimes I think he can. Ivan’s coaching style has always been firm and serious. He’s never mean and will tell you when you skied a shit race, but that’s more out of a desire to see you do better than an instinct to shame.
“You have an appointment with Adiola,” he says flatly.
My heart flutters in my chest. “Today?”
Adiola is the team psychologist. I don’t see her very often. Or I didn’t up until this year. She’ll come in and give talks to all of us from time to time. Things like how to manage burnout. Using visualization techniques and how to cope with things likelosing and injury. The things we all need to know. She also does periodic one-on-ones with team members, but in the past they were always pretty brief and informal. How have I been? Am I feeling stressed? What else am I doing in my life to keep skiing from being my only priority? The last question is always tricky, because skiingismy only priority. It’s everyone’s. We wouldn’t be here otherwise. But somehow that always feels like the wrong answer when Adi asks it.
We’ve spent more time together this year, since my races were all such clusterfucks. The physical trainers gave me the all-clear, so obviously the issue was a mental one.
“This morning,” Ivan says, tone still firm and making it clear he’s not here to debate this. “After you finish breakfast.”
So, like a bull stumbling through the proverbial china shop, I say, “I don’t think I saw that on my schedule.”
Ivan’s gaze flashes, the only warning he ever gives before he puts his foot down. “It’s on there now. Since yesterday, actually, when you decided to attack a teammate.”
My mouth drops open. “What? I didn’t attack anyone. Who would—” Then I remember smacking Austin with my pole. It wasn’t exactly a full-on assault. Just some misdirected frustration. But Austin is the golden child, isn’t he? The comeback king. And I’m the consolation prized shuttled in at the last minute due to someone else’s screw-up. Of course I’m the one who gets to spend time with the psychologist. I clear my throat and square my shoulders before I face up to Ivan, but he cuts me off.
“I have tried to help you all season. If you can’t conduct yourself like a professional on this hill, you don’t get to race.”
My anger shrinks back. He’s not mad at me. He’s never mad. Only disappointed. And he’s right. Ivan’s sat me down for so many one-on-one sessions this year. He knows there’s a problem and tried his best to help, along with the rest of the coachingstaff, but I would only ever talk about skiing with them. He even suggested I take some time off over the summer. Like real time. Lie on a beach. Maybe go out to BC and see Austin. But I insisted I was fine and ready to work, and he let the suggestion go. Not that I didn’t see the look he gave me. The one that said he knew I was lying my ass off but he would treat me like an adult as long as I behaved like one.
That time is over. My behaviour yesterday wasn’t very adulty and he can scratch me from the race if he decides to. He’s not here making polite suggestions or empty threats. This is not a negotiation.
“After breakfast,” I say. He nods once, and then he’s gone. My newly formed confidence and resolution go with him.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“So how haveyou been feeling since the last time we talked?” Adi asks, crossing one leg over the other. I’m used to talking to her online, and even the knowledge that she has legs is enough to throw me.
“Fine,” I say, leaning back in my chair. We’re in another hotel room, smaller than my shared one. “I mean, it’s been a lot,” I say, forcing a smile. “Four days ago I was home getting ready to watch the Olympics on TV and now I’m here.”
She pushes away one of the braids that has fallen over her face. Adiola’s originally from Guyana. She explained her background to me very clearly the first time we met. Two degrees from UofT in kinesiology and psychology, then graduate studies at McGill. I didn’t really need her whole resume to be convinced she knows what she’s doing, but I guess a lot of athletes do. We’re so used to having every metric tracked and ranked to prove we’ve earned our spot, we want to know that everyone else has done the same too.
But since that first meeting, our relationship has become less formal. She’s not big on things like jokes or smiling, but she listens, makes good suggestions, and isn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit.
Like now, for example, where the silence hangs between us, and all she does is arch a single eyebrow to tell me she knows my little summary has left a lot of details out.
I sigh. “I’m tired. And wired. I thought I had missed my shot and now it’s here and I don’t want to blow it.”
Adi nods, making notes. Like her legs, it’s weird to be able to see her notebook. On a computer screen, every so often I will see her glancing down, and her shoulder moving like her hand is scribbling across a page. But getting the full 3D view now is as disorienting as everything else has been since I arrived in Italy.
“And your teammates?” she asks. “Have they made you feel welcome?”
