I scroll back up to the top of the article, to the title I didn’t see above the first utterly harmless picture.
Canada’s Ski-Crossed Lovers: Who Will Win?
I bet someone in the news room is real proud of coming up with that one.
My heart hammers in my throat as I read through the article. It’s all there. Well, the publicly available details anyway. Austin’s accident. My terrible season and last-minute fluke qualification. Then it talks about how we were spotted making out during practice, and how media members noticed palpable chemistry during an interview.
“Fucking Ray and Chantale,” I growl, throwing the blanket off as I get out of bed and rummage through my stuff for clothes.
“Where are you going?” Austin asks, rising too.
“I’m going to find those two shithead influencer wannabes and tell them exactly what they can do with their ‘content.’ Are you coming or not?”
“Zed. Wait.”
I’m not waiting. Why the fuck would I wait? This is our private lives. They don’t get to splash it around for other people to gawk at.
I hop up and down, trying to get my shoes on. Austin’s standing by the bed, wearing only his underwear and one of my T-shirts.
“Let’s go,” I say, stomping into my shoes. I mash the heel cup down, but I don’t care.
“Cedric,” Austin says, not following. “Bear. Stop.”
I do. I’m shaking with rage, but at his use of the private name, my hand stops on the doorknob. I look over my shoulder at him. He’s still rumpled. Austin rubs the scar from the surgery to repair his shattered wrist.
Finally, he says, “It’s the Olympics. Our Olympics.”
The air rushes out of me. I sag. “Fuck.”
He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my body, holding me close until my breathing slows. He kisses the back of my neck.
“Let me get some fresh clothes. We’ll go find Ivan. Maybe Tara. We’ll figure this out. But we’ve also got to get ready for race time.”
This was not how any of it was supposed to go. But I step back, letting Austin pull the door open. Then we both jump, because Matthieu is there, hand raised like he was about to knock.
“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised. “You’re awake. Did you . . . did you see the . . .”
“Yeah,” I say, as Austin pushes past him, heading down the hall to his room. I take more steps back and slump onto the edge of my mattress.
Matthieu enters the room and lets the door close behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, standing a few feet away. “People don’t think. They forget we’re really people. They were only thinking about themselves. About the views those pictures would get.”
I shake my head. Now that my anger is subsiding, something like cold fear settles in my guts.
“I don’t have time for this today. We had a plan. We’ve always had a plan, and this—” I gesture at my phone, which is still lying on its charger by my bedside. “How am I supposed to win today when that’s...out there?”
Matthieu snorts. “You’re not going to win.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
His smile is crooked and his eyes are bright. “I’m going to win. That part was never in question.”
I laugh in spite of myself, then flop down on the bed, rubbing my eyes.
“Fuck. It’s been a mess since last year, but that...That was private.”
“You and Austin have never been subtle.” Matthieu sits on his bed, the one he hasn’t slept in for the last two nights, and probably won’t sleep in again before we finally leave Italy. He’s a good teammate.
