I shrug, feeling uncomfortable. “I wasn’t sure if...with everything. I wasn’t sure if you could?—”
“Take a hard landing?” he asks, and I nod. Even after all this time, even after today and his easy laughter as we ran back and forth, I can’t believe he’s okay. He was so broken that night in the hospital. How can anyone ever be okay after that? But Austin shrugs and says, “Yeah, I’m fine. They wouldn’t have let me come if I wasn’t a hundred percent.”
Up at the front of the van, Tara says, “Ivan wants you ready to be on the mountain in thirty minutes, okay?” And the question breaks the quiet bubble that Austin and I have been building. We both acknowledge the question that isn’t really a question, then sit in silence all the way back to the resort.
The million and one things I want to say stay trapped inside my chest. But maybe they won’t stay there much longer.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Afternoon practice goes better.Which isn’t to say it goes well, but at least I don’t fall on my face. With so little time left before competition, we aren’t here to push ourselves. Everyone wants to be in peak shape for the first seeding heat and the eliminations that follow. No need to risk serious injury by doing runs at top speed now. Instead, we go through individual sections of the course, taking the turns slowly, then riding snowmobiles back to the top of the curve to do it all over again. By the end of the day, I’ll be able to visualize the whole run while standing still with my eyes closed. Or I should be able to. I’ve done it many times before. Somehow today, each approach to the turn feels like an entirely new trail. I find new dips and previously unexpected places where the ground drops away. No matter how many times we do it, I still feel like I’m learning it all over again.
“Berard, get your head out of your ass,” Ivan growls, proving my point.
At least I’m not alone. If I’m struggling to find a consistent line, Austin is failing. This time it’s him who wipes out as we work through the initial hurdles of the start sequence. I try not to look back to see if he’s okay. He said he could take an impact,and it’s not like I can look for him or anyone else if they fall in an actual race. Someone’s fall is my gain, after all. But when I hear Austin’s muffledoof, it’s everything I can do not to spread my skis out to slow and check on him.
“Grimm, you okay?” Ivan calls, because of course Austin gets the kid glove treatment. Nice to know I’m not the only one worried about him, at least.
But the challenges he has today hold me back too. Every time he falls behind, or I hear him slip a little too far off the ideal line, grinding his edges into the hard surface of the snow, I tense, waiting for the sound of his body hitting the ground.
Just like it did during that ridiculous relay race. Tackling me like that was a huge risk for Austin. How does he know he’s okay? Even the doctors are guessing at best. They’re assuming, but they don’t know for sure.
Distracted by nightmare scenarios of Austin lying bleeding in the snow, I catch an edge and, even though I’m not going very fast, tumble into the bank of the turn, jamming my shoulder.
“Ow. Shit.”
“Third place is first loser!” Kage calls as he slides past me.
“Okay?” Austin asks, stopping just below me.
I scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You fell.”
His attention makes me uncomfortable. I pick at the snow with one of my pole baskets. “That was hardly a fall. I’m not made of glass.”
“Neither am I,” he says, making my pole skitter on the ground. “Don’t treat me like I am.”
I look up at him. He’s standing with his back to the sun, and the light in the dry winter air makes a halo effect, punctuated by sparkling flecks of snow that float lazily around him. He looks like an angel, and I have to shake my head, because now is not the time to get all sappy about my best friend. Not when thingsare finally starting to feel normal. All I need to do is focus on getting through the next few days skiing the best I can. Yesterday won’t win me a medal. Not that mindset and not that lack of focus. If Austin wants to be okay, I have to take him at his word and concentrate on skiing my race.
“No problem,” I say, pushing up to my feet.
The others are farther along the run. Austin stops with his methodical exploration of the course and instead points his skis downhill. I do the same. He doesn’t even have to look at me. Just his posture tells me what’s coming. He pushes off, arms, thighs and feet working to get him moving as fast as possible, and I follow. He’s slightly ahead of me, aiming for the midline of the turn. If I duck under him, I can take the shorter path and?—
We rocket off the turn side by side. My body is crouched, trying to make myself as small as possible on the flats. When we hit the next jump, I hear a soft grunt from him as we’re launched into the silence of open air while the mountain drops away for one...two...
Wh-whap.
Shit. Austin hits the snow a split second before I do, and that’s all he needs to press his advantage. He tucks in, skis parallel and aiming directly for the next turn, where Ivan, Matthieu, and Kage are waiting on the side of the trail. We shoot past them, moving too fast to even hear what they say. I’m a half ski-length behind Austin, but I won’t let him get away. The next section is a fast chicane with gates marking the path we have to take. Each turn pushes us to the brink of control, and with every second, Austin inches further ahead. The force needed to hold onto the snow here is extreme, like some invisible monster is trying to push me off course the whole time. My thighs scream as they bounce up and down in a rapid staccato like shock absorbers. Austin’s fully in front now and he shouts. It’s aloud, joyous sound. Relief. Delight. Slick tears stream from the corners of my eyes, and I tell myself it’s the cold and the wind.
As we come over the last ridge, the world drops away one more time. I’ve closed the gap so my boots are in line with the backs of his skis. If I can hit the snow before he does, I might have a chance to?—
Whap.
We come down at nearly the same time, but he’s still faster. The bottom of the race is in view. Nothing now but to head straight for the ending. His form is perfect, and I find myself forgetting about passing him because the view from here is spectacular. Strong back and legs. Shoulders tucked in and his arms framing his torso. He’s a bullet. As good as I ever remember. How could I have thought he’d be anything less, even after everything that happened?
Austin slides over the finish line two lengths ahead of me and holds his arms up in conquest like he’s actually won something. When he glances back at me, his victory now secured, his smile is playful. There’s no pain. No fear. He’s the same person he’s always been. The one from before the accident, who cracked jokes and dreamed big with me. It’s only the mass of team and race officials, trainers, and athletes that keeps me from flinging myself into his arms when I finish our improvised race. Who cares our skis would get in the way? That we’d inevitably wind up in a tangle of limbs on the cold, hard ground? That one of us would probably tear something less than forty-eight hours before go time? He’s here. Austin is here. I only had to look for him behind all my own hang-ups and trauma.
