At one point, I’m standing in the finish area, listening for Austin to come over the final ridge. My eyes are closed, my hands out in front of me as I visualize every turn and jump, playing over and over the line I need for maximum speed in the corners and where the best opportunities to pass a leader will be.
The scrape of sharp edges on hard snow has me opening my eyes as Austin rockets down the last pitch. We may not be allowed to go hard today, but Austin’s only ever had one speed—bat-out-of-hell. If I’m going to win tomorrow, I need to ski perfectly to gain the advantage over him.
As he finishes his run, my attention drifts back up the final downhill, picturing us together. Just like we always said. Neck and neck, right to the line. Who wins? No one knows. They look at pictures and check timers and even after everything, it’s so close that?—
“Oof.” Strong arms wrap around me as Austin comes up behind me, skis sliding to a stop outside mine. He kisses my cheek. “How was my time?”
“Stop,” I say, squirming free.
He laughs. There’s no hurt there. It’s not that I care if people find out we’re together. Just not today. There can be no distractions for the next twenty-four hours.
After the last runs, we spend time in the equipment tent, doing final inspections of everything. Skis, bindings, boot bails, pole grips. There are backups for everything, but you never want it to get to that. By the time you realize the tension on your bindings is off, the race will be over and you’ll be at the back of the pack.
We don’t ski anymore, but there are rounds of mobility and strength work to do. Competition day is brutal. Skiers who make it all the way to the Big Final will have competed in four races where placement can be decided by fractions of a second. The afternoon is for fine tuning. Activating the muscles that need to be ready for tomorrow. Stretching the muscles we’ll push to their limits. At one point, Austin’s doing gentle lunges with a resistance band. He’s got his hands on his hips, but suddenly they shoot out to the air as he struggles to keep his balance.
“You okay?” one of the trainers asks.
“Yeah. No problem.” Austin waves him off and the trainer moves on to watch someone else. When he’s gone, Austin reaches behind himself to cup his ass, then glances over his shoulder to glare at me as he mouths, “Your fault.” I blow him a kiss and he flips me off before he resumes his reps.
Another round of physio and massage. Felix takes one look at the two of us as we walk into the therapy room, shakes his head, and points through an open door.
“Cold tub,” he says.
“No,” I groan. I hate the cold tub. Sure, it helps with inflammation and such, but that shit fucking hurts.
“I’m not dealing with both of you in the same room again.”
Kage, who is coming in behind us, snorts.
“Try sleeping down the hall from them,” he says, then trips over his own feet when Austin gives him a playful shove.
So next thing I know, I’m in the ice bath, gritting my teeth both to ward off the stabbing pain as my whole body contracts, and also the terrible and tempting sounds of Austin once again groaning in the next room as the therapists work out the kinks. When he walks in a few minutes later, his face is flushed and he’s shaking out his arms and legs before doing a few test squats, then smiles in my direction.
“I feel so much better,” he says.
“I hate you so much right now.” I pull myself out of the tub, being sure to shake like a dog when I’m back on solid ground. Austin laughs as he tries to dodge the spray, then yells when the ice-cold droplets hit his skin anyway. I reach for a towel, snapping it in his direction and he crashes into the tub in his effort to get away, making water slosh against the side.
“Knock it off, you two!” Felix shouts from the other room. We laugh louder to piss him off, but I exit quickly and let Austin have his soak.
Dinner is a quieter affair than last night. Team dinners are never held the night before competition—not the official ones, anyway. There are no fried veal cutlets tonight. No wine. Everything has been considered and prepared to give us the nutrition we need for tomorrow. The mood around our table is tense. I’m pretty sure Kage excuses himself to go throw up at one point. When he gets back, he’s the colour of old milk, takes one look at his plate, then pushes it away.
“You have to eat,” Matthieu says, sliding the meal right back at him.
Kage shakes his head, burping quietly. “I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about—” We all jump when the table shakes, but Kage jumps the highest. Then he scowls at Matthieu and practically whines. “What did you kick me for?”
“Because now you’re not thinking about tomorrow. Eat your dinner.”
Kage sulks for a few more seconds, but slowly he picks up his fork and pokes at his food. It’s chicken tonight. Not much seasoning. Salt causes dehydration. The vegetables are steamed. The pasta is whole grain, which would probably make the Italians around us go into shock, but the dieticians and cooks are doing what’s best for the team, not for the host country.
The air in the hotel is tense after dinner. Conversations are hushed. More than one athlete from Canada as well as from other countries can be found doing the strange silent dance I did while I waited for Austin at the bottom of the run. They stand or sit with their eyes closed, arms in front of them as they picture every inch of the course and the path that will take them to victory.
Too bad that gold medal is mine.
Curfew comes at nine, lights out at ten. Yes, we’re all adults, but there’s no wiggle room on this one. Matthieu graciously sleeps in Kage’s room again. Austin and I lie together, awake but quiet.
This is it. The big game. The goal posts. This time tomorrow, one of us will be an Olympic champion.
“I’m totally going to kick your ass tomorrow,” I say.
