I shut my eyes and shake my head again. One run at a time. I can’t be worrying about Kage’s race.
There’s a pause before the semis. One of the Austrian skiers takes a bad fall, though that’s all we hear. No one wants the distraction of imagining injuries and the sight of ski patrol loading someone we’ve raced alongside all season and even for years into a sled. I have enough of that in my memories of Austin’s accident.
Finally, though, we get the call. Ivan’s been talking through our progress so far, reviewing video of our runs. Even thesmallest adjustments can be the deciding factor between making the Big or Small Final now.
“You’ve got this,” he says as the officials round us up.
Austin and I get placed on opposite ends of the gate. Between us are an Italian and a German skier. I allow myself one look down the line as we get into position, but all I can see are Austin’s knuckles wrapped around the handles as he waits for the start.
The barrier drops as I’m still turning my attention forward. Fuck. I push off fractions of a second behind the others, cursing and swearing inside my head the whole time. Fuck. It’s not even one race now. One feature. Rollers. Jumps. Don’t worry about the finish line when we’re barely through the start.
But I’m still on the inside, and somehow as we drop out of the rollers, I’m ahead, even if only by half a ski length. I take a deep breath, re-centering myself. One turn. One heartbeat, then the next.
The German is right on my ass. He’s beaten me before. Recently, though that’s not saying much given the state of my World Cup season this year. I hit the first jump in the exact spot Ivan and I discussed and come down fast, building my lead. He’s still there, though, hovering behind my shoulder, waiting for his moment.
Where’s Austin?
We go through the chicane, where Kage’s Americans fell. I push hard, risking a little contact to force the German off his line. He grunts, but stays close, slipping farther back. Someone else is coming up. For a second, I think I see the red and grey of Austin’s race suit, but I can’t be sure. The German comes up beside me as we do the uphill, then falls away when he takes the next jump later than he should. I’m back on the snow and moving fast before he lands.
In the distance, the bells ring, urging me on.
Austin. He’s there, right? I can’t hear or see him. Not for sure. It’s lost in heartbeats and breath, the scrape of skis on hard packed snow and the grunts as we take flight again and come down hard.
The last pitch. I’m alone out front. Holy shit. This is the biggest lead I’ve had all day. Nothing to do now but bring it home.
A flicker of motion comes up in the corner of my eye. Then the German blows past me, crossing the line only millimetres ahead. He throws his arms up in victory and I watch in shock.
He came first. So I came second. And that means...
I whip myself around, looking back up the hill. It should be empty. Fractions of a second. That’s what separates first and fourth place. By the time I look, Austin should be over the line.
Only there’s only three of us down here in the finish area. I look back up the hill and spot the form on the snow, two thirds of the way down the final descent. He’s missing a ski and finishing a spiralling fall that leaves him face down in the snow.
It’s Austin.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
I don’t think.Nothing that happens next is in the plan. One second, I’m watching, gasping, at the sight of Austin’s body finishing a spectacular tumble. The next, I’m already out of my skis and running back over the finish line.
He’s down. He might be hurt. I didn’t see him fall. Again.
But before I can even get ten steps up the hill, he’s sitting up. Course officials run out from where they’ve been observing the races. He’s already halfway to standing by the time they reach him. He waves, to them and then to us, letting us know he’s all right.
I drop to my knees. My whole body shakes as I watch Austin push himself along on one ski until he comes to where the other finally came to a stop after it popped off. He steps into it, waving his arms over his head again as he makes the final slide down the hill. I watch as he slips past me, crossing over the finish line. The crowd cheers for him anyway, and I stumble after him. He pulls off his helmet and goggles, and he turns as I approach him. His smile and eyes are bright, cheeks flushed.
“You stupid fucking asshole,” I say, not stopping my advance until my hands plant firmly onto his chest, shoving at him as I try to relieve the riot of emotions burning hot under my skin.
He says something like, “I know,” before he folds me into his body and kisses me.
It’s the sort of thing they immortalize in vintage photography and classic art. His strong arms wrapped around me, while mine are crushed awkwardly between us. His mouth is hot and hungry on my lips, and the cry that goes up from the spectators as they watch our display is thunderous. We stay like that for what feels like a lifetime. Kissing. Touching. Apologizing and promising everything without saying a word. When we finally break apart, my head is spinning for entirely new reasons.
“Are you okay? Like, really okay?” I ask. I’m still shaking, but feeling sturdier than I did a few minutes ago.
“Fine,” he says, though he grimaces as he tilts his neck to one side. “Nothing Felix and his torture ice bath can’t fix.”
I push at him again, laughing. Over his shoulder, all our parents are watching. Our moms cling to each other, and I think my dad might be crying. Fuck. I’m not even done racing yet.
