“You guys grew up together. You’ve been friends for a long time. What’s it like to be here at the Olympics trying to beateach other for the gold medal?” Ray’s eyes gleam as he asks his question. No doubt this is as close to “gotcha” journalism as a digital content team gets.
Austin looks towards me, gaze tentative, which makes my stomach sour. He shouldn’t look at me like that, but also I’m the one who made him feel that way. Yesterday. Every day that I didn’t text or call while he was working on getting better.
When our silence stretches a little too long and Tara, standing behind the cameras and looking tense, starts to strain up on her tiptoes, Austin says, “Going to the Olympics together has always been the plan. No one pushes me harder than Cedric does. All we can do while we’re here is race our best and see what happens, but I’m glad I get to experience it with my best friend.” As he finishes, his gaze settles on mine, and I grip the edges of my seat. My cheeks get so hot I don’t even need the propane anymore.
“There was a time not that long ago that it wasn’t even clear if Austin was going to make the Olympics after his injuries last season,” Chantale continues. “Cedric, how do you feel about that?”
I have to swallow hard around the lump in my throat. Austin won’t look away from me, so I’m the one who has to blink and lean forward so I can see past him at the two smiling reporters. I say, “He’s one of the toughest people I know. If anyone could come back from that, it’s Austin.”
Their smiles get wider, pleased with the soundbites. Who cares if it’s not true? Or is it? I chew on the inside of my bottom lip and fidget on my seat. Austin sounded sincere. This is the problem with hardly having talked for all these months. I don’t know where his head is at. I’m so up inside my own head I hardly even know how to be around him, and the pressure cooker that is the last few days before the start of Olympic competition is theworst possible time to figure things out. I should have reached out more. Should have been braver.
But before I can say any of that out loud, we’re moved on to the first segment of the show. Production assistants bring out trays covered with silver domes like we’re at a fancy restaurant. Then they hand us each plain black blindfolds. I can’t help myself when I glance at Austin. He’s eyeing the whole thing with an expression that must make Ray and Chantale proud, like he’s excited for whatever is about to happen.
“So the first challenge is about how well you know the countries competing at these games. On the plates are pieces of famous dishes from each of the participating countries. You’re going to put the blindfolds on and feed each other parts of the food, and the other person will have to guess what country it’s from.” Chantale beams while Ray drums on the table. “Are you ready? Who wants to go first?”
I feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Maybe back talking to Adi, or somewhere on the hill doing another walk through on the course. But instead, Austin and I give each other one more nervous glance. He shrugs. I say, “Sure. I’ll go first,” and slide the blindfold on because if my eyes are covered, I can’t be looking at him and wondering how to get out of this hole I’ve dug for us, and possibly off this set without Tara hunting me down. In fact, the last thing I see before the world goes black is Tara glaring at me. Her expression dares me to do anything other than what I’m explicitly instructed to, and I give her what I hope is a reassuring little nod. I’ll behave. This may not be quite the national television broadcast I might have expected, but it’s still the CSBC. I’ll be a good boy.
A soft clinking sound signals Austin lifting the dome off one of the plates. Somehow the space around us gets really quiet, apart from murmured commentary from our two hosts, who say things like “Oh, that looks really good” and “I think I had one ofthose last night.” The absence of any visual cues means, without intending to, I lean forward, searching for more information on what’s happening. I’m practically sniffing the air like a dog, then jolt back when something firm and smelling deep fried bumps against my lips.
“Hold still,” Austin says, laughing softly.
Oh. That was his fingers. Are we really about to do this?
Slowly, I open my lips. Cold air rushes in, but then there’s another whiff of the same fried thing again, before the morsel of food tumbles into my mouth. It’s also cold...or at least not hot. Lukewarm at best, like it’s been sitting outside for too long. Meat and maybe some fried dough. I chew, trying to sort out flavours.
“Come on,” Austin says. “These are basically your favourite when we?—”
“Shh,” Chantale says, though her tone is joking. “No hints.”
I chew some more. It’s kind of bland, and the lack of warmth doesn’t help. It would be better if it had like a sauce or something salty that?—
“Oh. Gyoza,” I say, finally swallowing. “From Japan.” Chantale and Ray cheer like I’ve already won a gold medal. I sit up a little straighter, fighting down unearned pride. It’s a silly video for social media. Austin sticking his fingers in my mouth will be a meme before we even?—
The thought sends my pulse spiking at old memories of his fingers and more in my mouth. His skin under my tongue. Goddammit, why can’t I have a single moment’s peace around him?
“Okay, here comes the next one,” Ray says, and before I can even prepare myself, Austin basically punches me in the mouth...even if it’s gently.
“Hey,” I say, jerking my heads back while the hosts laugh some more. Austin is laughing louder now.
“Sorry,” he says. “Ready?”
This next offering is even blander than the first. Gyoza really are best with sauce, but at least the pan-fried bottoms give them some texture. This next food is basically like glue in my mouth. Just cold wrapping on the outside and something soft like mashed potato.
“Wait. Are these all dumplings?” I ask around my mouthful. The only reply I get is a conspiratorial “oooooh” from Ray and Chantale.
“Do you know what it is?” Austin asks.
“Is there any more?” It really didn’t taste like anything.
“A little,” Austin says, and this time I hold my mouth open, waiting. But instead of another soft mouthful, what I get is something cool against my bottom lip, followed by the tip of Austin’s finger against my tongue. It’s his turn to jerk away, leaving me with my mouth hanging wide in the cold air. “Sorry. There was a little bit of the?—”
“No hints!” Chantale calls again, but she doesn’t need to remind him, because I’ve already licked the sour cream off my bottom lip and that plus the potatoey flavour from before is all I need to know.
“Pierogi,” I say. “From...” Shit. Where does pierogi come from? The freezer aisle at pretty much any grocery store at home, but I’m pretty sure the answer isn’t Canada in this case. “Russia?” I ask, which leads to some cheerful but reproachful commentary, because apparently the answer is Poland, and while those two countries might be in the same part of the world, I’m sure Poland at least doesn’t want to get confused for Russia and probably vice versa too.
“Okay, last one for Cedric!” Ray says, as I start to wonder exactly how long this segment is supposed to be. I don’t have much time to spend on social media, especially not during the winter, but even I know attention spans aren’t what they usedto be and most people will have scrolled away before I was even done with the gyoza.
“No pressure, Zed,” Austin says, and the sound of the old nickname from his lips has my face and body heating again. It doesn’t quite reach my toes, but more than another undercooked piece of international cuisine, I want to hear him say it again. I missed him. Missed the closeness of him. “Three for three. You ready?”
