The earnestness in his voice has me nodding hard. I want to please him. Make him proud. I want to undo whatever it is I’ve done between us. It doesn’t matter if he remembers that night. Doesn’t even matter that he’s probably not in love with me anymore. Not after the way I’ve been with him the last few months. But I’ve missed my friend so much.
“Open wide,” Austin says and I do. Or I try to at least. But even with my best efforts, suddenly firm fingers grip my chin and pull it down, opening my mouth even wider, and I really hope the microphone pinned to my coat doesn’t pick up the soft groan that escapes unchecked from my throat at his touch. But before I can panic about it, he slips something new into my mouth. It’s bigger than the last two. Maybe the size of a marshmallow or a golf ball. Big enough that I have to quickly collect myself to keep from choking on it as it tries to slide down my throat unchewed. I clamp my teeth down on it to keep it in place and something explodes. Literally. One second, there’s a dumpling of unknown origin in my mouth and the next it’s gushing savoury goo in all directions. I don’t even have time to close my mouth before it oozes out over my chin. I put my hand out to catch it, but the hilarious laughter from Ray and Chantale say I’ve failed. Without asking permission, I swipe the blindfold off. The two hosts are doubled over, giggling. Even Austin is watching me with a big, silly grin on his face. I glare at him as I work to contain and swallow his last offering, and don’t moveaway when he picks up a paper napkin and wipes at my chin with it.
“What was that?” I ask, taking the napkin from him to clean up what looks like running brown gravy off the front of my Team Canada coat. Great. If this stains, I’ll definitely win a medal and the world will get to witness my slobbery as I stand on the podium.
“You tell us,” Chantale calls.
The plate in front of Austin is empty except for little crinkled papers like muffin wrappers and even smaller tent cards with tiny flags printed on them. The red circle for Japan. Red and white stripes for Poland. Red with yellow stars for China, so...
I chew again. Most of the dumpling is gone, but the goo clings to the inside of my cheeks.
“Soup dumpling,” I say. “A really juicy one.”
Everyone laughs, even Austin. His face crinkles up in joy, and it’s such a relief after the last clear memory of him I have being the same face creasing with pain that something inside me loosens for the first time in months. He’s okay, right? Has to be, if he can laugh hard enough most people would bust a rib, let alone someone who cracked several less than a year ago.
We do another round of food tasting, this time with Austin wearing the blindfold. Instead of more dumplings, I get a selection of noodles, which is even more impossible for Austin to eat cleanly than the soup dumpling was. No one offers me a fork or some gloves, so I wind up trying to tip the wrappers into his mouth.
“No, don’t eat the paper, doofus,” I say, as he excitedly chomps down on the first one. The warning has everyone laughing again, including Austin, which only helps to get what was supposed to be Swiss mountain macaroni and cheese dumped onto his lap. “Great,” I sigh, muttering softly. “Nowwe’re both going to have to dry clean our stuff before the medal ceremony.”
“Ohh,” Ray says, picking up on my words. “Does that mean you think you’re both going to medal in ski cross? Who will come first?”
I bite down on my tongue. Traitor.
“Where’s the food?” Austin asked, head bobbing like a baby bird.
“In your lap, dumbass,” I say, then wonder if “dumbass” can be said on a national sports show, even one only destined for online spaces. Austin pats around his thighs, looking for his snack. I stare up at the sky, but if I can’t say dumbass, there’s no way I can be seen fondling his crotch to rescue some macaroni. My mom might see this. His too.
Finally, he gives up and we move on to jjajangmyeon from Korea, which I can barely pronounce and Austin certainly can’t identify, then a third option with the Italian flag that might be spaghetti bolognese or something else entirely. I’m not really good at identifying my pastas. Austin isn’t either. He guesses fettuccine, and Ray and Chantale take great pride in informing us its tagliatelle. We’ve probably just insulted the entire nation of Italy, so when Austin pulls off his blindfold, I mutter, “Sorry,” and he smiles.
“Don’t be sorry, Zed,” he murmurs, but the way he holds my gaze says maybe my apology was for something else, and maybe he knows that too. I go back to staring at the sky while Ray and Chantale tally up the points and say we’re moving on to something more physical. Good. My ass is falling asleep on the hard stool they gave me, and I can barely feel anything from my knees downward as the cold seeps farther up my limbs.
The other challenge turns out to be a sort of relay competition involving the cut-out mascots I noticed as we arrived.
“Dress them for a day on the slopes, bringing over one piece of equipment at a time. You can get more gear by answering questions so we can find out how well we know these two best friends. Sound good?” Ray asks, watching us expectantly, though what are we going to say?
“You ready?” Austin asks me.
I could tell him he’s the one with cheese sauce on his crotch, which is so much worse than dumpling soup on my chest, but instead I shake my limbs like a fighter getting ready for the bell.
“You’re going down, Grimm.”
The concept is pretty much as simple as Ray described. Two tables are filled with a bunch of winter clothing. Toques, gloves, goggles, scarf. Two production assistants stand ready to pass one piece each, which we will then run up the slope to where the mascots stand, already wearing their illustrated Olympic wear, but I guess we’re going to stretch the real thing over their heads and little paws.
The first question for each of us is the same. “What month is Cedric and Austin’s birthdays?”
“October,” I say, for which I am rewarded with a blue knit toque. I take off at a run and over my shoulder, I hear Austin say, “October. No. September?”
“You don’t even know when my birthday is?” I call.
“I wanted to give you a head start.” His feet crunch on the snow, but I’m already halfway to my mascot. I’m not sure the little furry creature can see properly once I slap the hat over his head, but no one said he needed to be able to do anything once he was dressed.
The return trip is tricky. It’s not exactly a steep pitch, but it drops enough to make it treacherous in the snow. I have to shuffle to keep from crashing into the PA as Ray reads my next question.
“In what country did Austin win his first World Cup event?”
“France,” I say without a second thought, holding my hands out for the goggles.
“Wrong!” Austin says, skidding to a stop beside me.
