Love you more!
Setting the phone down on the nightstand, I shut my eyes and try to sleep, but the vivid memory of his arms around me lingers like a phantom touch. All I can do is hold my breath and hope that when the season ends, we’ll both still be there, waiting for each other on the other side.
Jet lag has me wide awake at six. I pull on my workout gear and head down to the hotel gym for a treadmill jog. Most of the Circuit is still asleep, judging by the ghostly quiet of the weight room. This morning I have the place to myself except for Thierry, who nodded once from the bike when I walked in.
After a forty-five minute jog, I shower and get dressed in my compression tights, long-sleeve base layer, and the fleece lined with sponsor logos.
The restaurant is buzzing by the time I wander in. The buffet stretches along one wall, serving a blend of Western breakfast and traditional Japanese fare. There’s murmur coming from tables filled with racers, coaches, support staff, and media crew.
Dean gives me a lazy salute from the breakfast bar where he’s constructing a tower of toast and peanut butter. His freshly bleached hair is sticking out in seven directions, and he looks like he hasn’t slept since we left New York, even if he snored loudly the entire night.
“Morning,” I greet him and grab a tray.
“You look awake,” he says, sounding annoyed. “That’s suspicious.”
“I went for a jog.”
“Aren’t you jet-lagged at all?”
“In all honesty, I might crash before dinner,” I admit, spooning warm porridge into a bowl. “You eating anything besides carbs?”
“Don’t disrespect the toast tower,” Dean lifts his plate like it’s a trophy, showing off the ridiculous stack of bread with a grin that dares me to argue.
Max slides into view with a yawn so loud it earns him a glare from an older couple nearby. “I’ll never understand you morning people,” he mumbles.
“You’re just weak, brother dearest,” I tease sweetly, handing him a pair of tongs as he eyes the eggs. “Where’d you leave Kayla?”
“She’s getting ready in our room, drinking one of those protein shakes for breakfast.”
We fall into a familiar rhythm shaped by years of early mornings and unspoken routines growing up together. I grab a bit of everything onto my plate, enjoying trying new things.
At quarter to eight, the three of us stand outside with gear bags slung over our shoulders, waiting for the shuttle. The hotel courtyard is a swirl of languages and excited energy. There are a total of forty athletes this season—twenty women and twenty men—representing a dozen countries, all of us gearing up for the start of the mandatory Ice Cross preseason training camp held at the 1998 Winter Olympics location.
Kayla spots us and jogs over, practically bouncing with excitement. Her puffer jacket is half-zipped over her red, white and blue warmup suit, her signature yellow-lens sunglasses pushed up on her forehead.
“There she is!” she exclaims.
I hug my friend tightly. “Damn, you look like you’re about to sprint up a mountain for fun!”
“Iamthe mountain,” she deadpans, then nudges me. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than expected.”
“Have you heard the rumors about this year’s wildcard entry yet?”
The Global Ice Cross Authority can award up to two additional wildcard entries for athletes who show potential but did not meet qualifications on time. Usually, they’re returning champions who unexpectedly underperformed in the qualifying rounds or top-ranked athletes from other winter sports who want to try Ice Cross.
“No, I haven’t heard anything yet. What’s happening?” I ask.
“So, Lewis Farrington tried to get into the Circuit now that he can’t play hockey in the League.”
My blood freezes at the mention of the asshole. “No fucking way. He should never be allowed to play another sport again. Not after what he did to Teddy!”
“That was my reaction too. Apparently he wanted a fresh start, but got denied.”
“A fresh start?” My voice comes out colder than the ice in the track. “That’s such bullshit.”
She lowers her voice when she says, “Word is, the GICA was split on letting him in. Half the board thought it’d bring publicity, the other half said it’s a disaster waiting to happen. And because Ice Cross isn’t technically a contact sport, they actually considered it. The vote was close—six against, four for. So, no, he won’t be joining.”
