He’s hesitating too, staring down the chute of shouted questions. Then Tara steps in front of us, looking like a warrior going into battle.
“Follow me and do not stop,” she says.
“Not at all?” I ask. Technically, we’re required to at least stop for the CSBC. National duty and all that.
She whirls, glaring daggers at me. She’s bundled up and looking far more polished than she did before six o’clock this morning. Hair in place. Eyeliner etched on. The purse of her lips is a hundred percent “do not argue or fuck with me” so I nod once and we follow as she hurries us through the line of reporters, shouting “No comment!” and waving her arms to make space as people volley questions in our direction. The Olympics really are a team effort.
Only, the last question catches my attention.
“What?” I ask, skidding to a halt. I turn so fast that the skis perched on my shoulder nearly take out a volunteer who has gotten a little too close in an effort to guide us back toward the lift area.
“Who’s going to win in the next heat? You or Austin?” I don’t recognize the journalist speaking, and her heavy accent says English isn’t her first language, but her question is clear enough.
And that’s when the realization hits me. Between my anxious wait for Austin to finish, then the sudden appearance of our parents, I didn’t have a chance to think it through until now. We both survived our heats, but that means we’ll be in the starting gate together in the next one. Four men, including the two of us. Two skiers will advance to the semifinal. Two will not. From here, it’s a fifty-fifty shot that we’ll both move on.
I glance at Austin. His face is blank, but the twitch in his cheek says he’s doing the same math.
I say, “We’re going to stick to our game plan. Ski our best race and see what happens.”
We walk on. I expect Tara to scold me for saying anything, but once we’re clear, she gives me an approving look.
“I’ve taught you well,” she says. “Now don’t do anything to fuck it up.”
Then she melts into the crowd, no doubt on her way to do some more media damage control. We’re all working hard today.
Austin and I stand still for a moment, watching the organized chaos unfolding around us. The spectators vying for a better place to see the racing. Officials and coaches moving here and there, talking into radios in a multitude of languages. Skiers heading back to the lift for another run, or standing at the bottom, realizing their day and their Olympic dream is already over. It’s everything I imagined it would be. And it’s not over for us.
“Let’s go,” I say, nudging him. From here on out, we have to be perfect. To be the two at the top of the podium this afternoon, we have to finish one-two in the next three races. No room for mistakes. No accidents.
It’s time to put the plan into action.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Two Canadians walk into a bar.Actually, there were more of them. A whole ski team’s worth, looking for some karaoke to let off steam after finishing their season. Some were looking to celebrate. Others to lick their wounds. They talked about the day, and the coming weeks and months of training and preparation. At some point, two Canadians walked out of that bar, confident in their future. So confident that one gave up on his plan to keep his feelings to himself until a more appropriate time and impulsively kissed his best friend.
And then our trail veered over the edge and plummeted into unknown and dangerous territory.
But somehow, we are now exactly where we always planned to be. Side by side in the gates. A lifetime of preparation putting me and Austin next to each other and going head-to-head. Only two advance. It has to be the two of us.
Our two rivals are from Japan and Sweden. They’re good. Everyone here is good. As the Japanese skier works with his tech to get his boots clear to step into the bindings, I close my eyes, visualizing the race. I’ve done it twice already today. Three more and I’m golden. Beside me, Austin’s doing jump squats, lettingout explosive breaths to keep his body and mind alert. The last thing we want is a second of hesitation when the start comes.
When the barrier falls, we drop onto the course and push over the rollers. Our arms and breaths come out perfectly synchronized. Japan and Sweden are on the far side. I can see Sweden out of the corner of my eye, but then we drop over the first rise. Austin comes with me, tucking in. Racing strategically is illegal. You can’t block an oncoming racer to give a teammate an advantage. Not officially, anyway. But you can block him to hold your own space in the race, and Austin knows the plan. First and second don’t matter, as long as it’s the two of us together.
Someone’s coming on my left. Not Austin, who is still crouched in tight behind me, drafting until he finds his chance to break out. I push us higher up the turn, hoping to force the passer into the softer untracked surface. The unseen person curses and grunts, but the sound of his skis fall away. We take off over a jump, so the only sounds I can hear are the wind in my ears and Austin’s breathing behind me. Our takeoff was perfect, so our landing should be...
Whap.
. . .
Whap.
Shit. The interval between our landings is farther apart than it should be, and Austin’s is quickly followed by the sound of two more. We’re barely more than a second apart, all four of us.
Another figure appears in the corner of my vision, but the red bib makes me breathe. Austin. He’s coming up alongside me. But with his approach comes the scrape of new skis as someone tries to ride his path past me. We’re coming up to a small uphill section. I can’t afford to lose any speed by pushing the others higher here. It’s something we talked about during training this week. Instead, I tuck in tighter, trusting Austin can hold themoff. Stick with the plan. All the training and practice. No space for doubt. We can do this.
As we come down the last section before the final pitch, the crowd is already roaring. There’s no time to look. I’m still in front and Austin’s beside me, but I have no way to be sure where the Japanese or Swedish skiers are. They’re close. The last jump and how we land it will determine who moves on and who calls it a day.
