Somehow,by the time the sun sets and we’re all showered and changed, the plan has grown into an unofficial team-wide event. The women’s team comes too, along with a significant chunk of the support staff. This is turning into a full-fledged party.
We pile into a bunch of cabs to head out from the resort. Like most ski towns in the northeastern US, there’s not much here. Post office, a few banks, new trendy craft breweries that close at ten because that’s when the families who actually make up their whole clientele have gone home for the night. But at the end of one street where the sports shops and souvenir places give way to things like a dentist’s office and a bakery with a faded sign is a shabby looking bar with neon beer logos in the windows and the mixed smell of booze, sweat, and oil from a deep fryer that probably hasn’t been cleaned this year that greets us as we walk through the door.
I love places like this.
My earlier fatigue and serious mood fade as we’re greeted by shouts from more friends, while a woman on the small platform that functions as a stage at the far side of the bar sings a pretty decent version of “Firework” by Katy Perry. People flip throughtattered binders, looking for their next hit at the karaoke machine.
“What are we going to sing?” Austin asks as he slings an arm over my shoulders. He’s still got the same feverish energy from earlier. He can’t seem to stand still and flits among our teammates and even chats up athletes from other teams who are here tonight. I’m happy for him, obviously. He’s had the best day of his career and he’s allowed to be excited about that. But when the adrenaline wears off, he’s going to crash so hard.
For now though, the whole bar is full of skiers and snowboarders from this weekend’s races, all looking to blow off some steam and enjoy a night on the town. There’s maybe a couple locals too, but they’re outnumbered by people I’ve seen all weekend and pretty much at every other event for the last few years. The mood is loud. It’s a party, after all. Win or lose, the season is over and it’s time to let loose, even though we all know training will start again as soon as we get home.
The beer flows freely. Matthieu buys the first round. Kage gets carded at the bar and sulks when the bartender makes him put on a bright yellow wristband so all the staff know he’s underage.
“I’m nineteen,” he pouts. “That’s legal at home.”
It’s legal pretty much anywhere on the World Cup circuit, but American laws around drinking are almost as weird as their laws around pretty much anything else. Matthieu orders him a ginger ale.
“Better luck next year,” he says.
Austin signs us up to sing “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” The whole team gets up. Skiers, riders, even some of the techs, trainers and coaches who have come out. We’re close to twenty-five people. Most spectators don’t realize a ski team has so many members who never compete. Coaches, strength trainers and physiotherapists. A whole separate entourage who are onlyresponsible for maintaining our equipment. We even have two team sports psychologists, though they don’t travel with us unless it’s for a really big event like the Olympics.
The Olympics . . . I have to make it. Now that Austin’s in, if I don’t go too . . .
Austin throws an arm around me again, holding the mic under my mouth as he winks and prompts me to sing. I didn’t mean to get distracted. The whole point of being here is to have fun, not mope and make plans. Our song is terrible. Too loud, and someone on the other side of the group doesn’t seem to understand the concept of carrying a tune. It sounds more like they’re tripping down a long and bumpy flight of stairs. But whatever, we all have a good time.
The crowd cheers when we finish. Two women from the American team get up next, pouring their souls into a song I don’t know and making me very glad I’m not the man they’re singing about. He sounds like an absolute dick who deserves everything they say they’re going to do as their voices fill the bar. Austin and I get a few more beers.
“To the Olympics!” Austin says, holding his drink up in salutation. I make myself smile as I toast his achievement. He’s worked hard for it. I know. I’ve been there every step of the way. The wins, the losses. When he broke his arm in a fall two years ago and spent six weeks in a cast, then a few more weeks on limited training before the doctors cleared him. He was a miserable bastard for that whole two-month period. We’ve spent our entire lives learning to do one thing better than ninety-nine percent of all the other people in the world, and when we can’t do it, everything sucks.
I start to relax. Nothing sucks right now. The beer is surprisingly good for yellow American lager. The karaoke is terrible, but that’s kind of the whole point of karaoke. There are a few ringers who clearly have their songs picked out andperfected ahead of time. And there’s also a lady who must be local and has had an awful lot to drink tonight because she keeps going up to sing old Billy Joel songs my dad likes. Every time, she pauses in the middle to say things like “You’re all so wonderful” and “Thanks for coming out tonight” like we’re an audience to her solo lounge act and not mildly drunk international athletes patiently waiting for her to get off the stage so someone fun can step up.
As a couple of Australians have the gall to get up and attempt “House of the Rising Sun,”I realize Austin’s not sitting next to me anymore. Bathroom, probably, but as I let my gaze move over the crowd, I spot his blond hair on the far side of the room. He’s chatting with a couple of the skiers from the French team. They’re all holding drinks and raising them in a toast. We may all be rivals on the snow, but here, a little camaraderie isn’t unexpected. One of the Frenchmen wanders away, leaving Austin to talk with the remaining one, whose name is Daniel. I don’t know him very well, and what I do know I don’t like, but he and Austin seem to be on better terms. He says something and Austin laughs, head tipped back. Daniel smiles and pushes his chair a little closer. Austin’s smile doesn’t falter as he leans in to hear something Daniel says, mouth very close to Austin’s ear.
A tight feeling squeezes my chest. It wouldn’t be the first night one of us found some company to take back to the hotel. All that intensity and concentration from the weekend needs an outlet, after all. But they damn well better not go back to my room, even if it’s Austin’s too. That’s bad form. More than once, I’ve returned to my accommodations after a late-night training session or chat with one of the coaches to find a pair of goggles slung over the doorknob. The generally understood symbol for “come back later.” Normally I’m fine with it, but something about Austin’s jittery vibe tonight says it won’t be a quick in and out with dear old Daniel. They could go for a while.
Or maybe not. They’re busy having their literal tête-à-tête, and at one point Daniel even puts a hand on Austin’s knee, which he either doesn’t notice or mind. But then the hand moves, sliding up the inside of Austin’s thigh, and he jerks, standing up straight. His expression turns from happy and maybe a little drunk to confused. He speaks again, but his smile fades. Daniel says something in return, and Austin shakes his head, turning to go. Except that doesn’t seem to be part of Daniel’s plan, because he grabs Austin’s sleeve and pulls him back.
I’m moving across the bar before I even make the decision. Austin and Daniel’s conversation turns heated. Daniel’s a couple inches taller than Austin, and he never lets go of Austin’s flannel. His mouth turns into a hard line as he spits tight words in Austin’s face. When his free hand starts to wander below Austin’s belt for a second time, Austin struggles to get free, but all he succeeds in doing is knocking over a stool at the table behind him. The crash makes people turn, which at least forces Daniel to let Austin go. It also gives me enough time to reach them.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, fixing a smile on my face. No need to escalate things if I can get us both out of here with a little friendly chit-chat. “Everything okay here?”
“Of course,” Austin says, righting the stool. The people around us have already lost interest and turned away.
But Daniel sneers. “What’s your boyfriend doing here?” he asks in his prissy French accent. I grew up near Ottawa and have always preferred the French-Canadian one. It’s solid. Familiar. People from France sound like they only know how to use the very tip of their tongue and lips, not their whole mouth and throat.
Austin has always had terrible taste in men.
“Just coming to offer you both another round. Beer for everyone?”
More sneering. “I do not drink American beer.”
I roll my eyes and wave my hands, making it clear I do not give a fuck.
“I can see if zey have some white wine,” I say in an exaggerated version of Daniel’s stick-up-his-ass intonation.
“Go away, Cedric. I don’t do threesomes either.” He pushes me aside, reaching for Austin. Regardless of whether he drinks beer or wine, he’s drunk. Drunker than either of us. Doesn’t matter what he consumed to get there.
“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” Austin says, batting his hand away.
