Austin snorts. “As if. You could never beat me when the chips were down.”
“What?” I squawk and push up on an elbow. “Since when? Where were you when I was the top-ranked Canadian for three straight races two years ago? You know what top Canadian means, right? Oh yeah. I was the fastest. You’ve never beenhigher than number two on the leaderboard, regardless of who’s on top.”
“Shh,” Austin laughs and pulls me down, quieting my protest with a kiss. “And who took your top seed and sent you to third?”
I laugh against his mouth. “Not you.” Not only him, anyway. My ranking lasted for over a month before Matthieu came storming through in France and reclaimed his crown. Austin caught me eventually, pushing me back to third place on the team. It’s always been like that. Back and forth, up and down, but never far apart. He’s got the talent. I’ve got the strategy. Tomorrow really could be anyone’s race.
“Bear,” Austin says softly, rolling into me so I can slide an arm under his head and hold him close for a minute. There’s no sex tonight. We don’t even have to talk about it. There are old wives’ tales about how orgasms are bad luck the night before a race or a competition. About how it steals your masculine energy or some other bullshit. Our restraint has nothing to do with that. It’s that we both know that when we get started, we won’t stop. Not for hours. Not until we’re exhausted and sweating and everything has been used up. And that is not how we want to go into the morning of the biggest race of our lives.
“Yeah?” I answer.
He snuggles in closer. I press my nose against the top of his head, breathing him in. I can’t fuck him, but I can hold him, and that’s pretty amazing too.
“I hope you win tomorrow,” he says.
I lift my head. “What?”
“It’s like we always said. You and me. Together to the finish line. But I’m lucky to even be here. I want to win, but if it comes to it, and you see your chance, don’t hold back for my sake. I’m not here to finish some story about my epic comeback.”
“But you’re here to compete,” I insist. He has to be. The plan doesn’t work if he’s only here to enjoy the experience.
“Of course,” he says, voice serious. “I’m going to do everything I can to win. But I need to know you’re going to too. Don’t treat me like I deserve it more or that somehow the accident means I’ve earned it. If I’m going to win, I want it to be because I left you in my rearview.”
I lie back down, waiting for my racing heart to calm. We’re saying the same thing. Neck and neck. Ski to ski. That’s how he wants it to be. No more guilt. No more second guessing.
We fall asleep. I don’t know what time it is. I wake up in the middle of the night and we’re spooned together with my arm wrapped around him protectively.
Don’t treat me like I deserve it more.
He doesn’t. He’s incredible, and he’s worked so hard to get here. Harder than anyone. But I’ve worked hard too. I survived a shit season and nearly losing my best friend, and somehow I’m sleeping wrapped around him and waiting for the race that has defined my life to date.
I’m not going to treat him like he’s fragile or that somehow he’s more worthy because of everything that’s happened.
I’m going to leave him in my wake, and slide over that finish line as number one in the world. There was only ever going to be one winner between us, and it’s going to be me.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
The morningof my first Olympic Games, I wake up lying back-to-back with my best friend. My boyfriend. Our spines rest against each other, and I leave my eyes closed as I focus until our breathing is synced up. I imagine a loop, air moving from his lungs to mine and back again, sustaining us, connecting us.
“Are you awake?” Austin’s voice is quiet, but it doesn’t have that sleepy quality from yesterday. He’s been up for a bit.
“Yeah,” I say, rolling over so I can kiss his shoulder. Or that’s the plan, but when I roll, so does he, onto his back, with his phone held over his face.
“We have a problem,” he says, then flips the phone in my direction. My eyes are still bleary from sleep and I have to rub them a few times to get them to focus, but when I do, I see me and Austin, standing side by side, looking kinda derpy in our matching team jackets.
“Oh hey,” I say, taking the phone and sitting up. “Did the interview go live?”
“No. I mean yes. But it’s...it’s not...” He doesn’t need to explain. I scroll farther down and there’s another picture from the interview. We’re lying in the snow, face to face. Holy shit, that’s hot. Like even someone who didn’t know our story mightlook at it and go “those two boys aren’t totally straight and possibly also want to do dirty things to each other behind closed doors.” Or else you’d think we’re just really good friends, but you’d have to be willfully ignorant to stick to that story.
I snort. “Funny they included that part. I thought they’d cut it after...” The thought dies on my tongue. There’s another block of text, but below that is a picture not from the interview. It’s the two of us, in our regular training wear, face to face and mouth to mouth. No matter how an observer might have interpreted the previous picture, there’s no chance anyone could deny that in this one we’re kissing.
The bottom corner of the picture is cut off at a weird angle, until I realize I’m looking at the white edge of that flap I thought was so conveniently protecting us from prying eyes outside the gear tent yesterday.
“Oh shit.” I sit up quickly, zooming in the picture. The resolution isn’t great. Definitely taken by someone with a cellphone and not a professional. But there’s no question about what we’re doing. No one would believe we were having a really intense conversation.
“Yeah,” Austin says.
