The relief rushes through me so fast I’m dizzy. At least six people on that board had the sense to see his true colors and not let him anywhere near our beloved sport.“Thank fuck for that.”
“Tell me about it. Now?—”
Her sentence gets cut off when Leni Vogel steps out of the hotel. Tall and poised, the Austrian looks like she’s arriving at a press conference instead of a training day. Her blond hair is French-braided tight to her scalp, not a strand out of place. She’s the reigning champion and podiumed at every race last season.
Behind her is Coralie Marchand, wrapped in dark gray outerwear with matching earmuffs and a high ponytail looking straight out of a shampoo commercial. She’s smiling widely, laughing at something Leni whispers to her. Don’t be fooled though, Coralie might dress like she’s late for brunch in Paris, but she’s one of my biggest competitors.
Then there’s Mira Rautakorpi next to her husband, Jere, as they walk across the lot in their matching team Finland jackets. Mira’s long brown hair is coiled into a perfect bun. She doesn’t talk much, but when she’s on the track, she flies. She and Kayla tied for third overall last season.
We all exchange respectful nods. That’s the vibe with most of the top women. We’re not enemies, but not best friends either. Well, if you don’t count my friendship with Kayla.
“The apex predator has arrived,” she mutters under her breath, straightening her spine as Leni walks past.
“Don’t provoke her,” I whisper jokingly. “She’ll eat us for a second breakfast.”
“Oh how I wish she was a hobbit instead of the power house she is.”
I glance over at the men’s group gathering across the lot. There are too many faces to take in at once, but a few stand out right away, my brothers included.
Thierry Perrin looks like he walked off the set of a GQ shoot and onto the track by accident. He’s tan, tall, and built like someone who knows exactly how fast he is. His salt-and-pepper buzzcut is annoyingly flattering, and his husky laugh carries across the space. The French-speaking Canadian is a three-time champion who allegedly retired two seasons ago but here he is again.
Jere Rautakorpi is a complete contrast—a stereotypical Finn, if you will. He doesn’t waste energy on conversation or showing off. He’s all sharp lines and efficiency, known for perfect landings and no-nonsense attitude. Mira once told me he skate-sharpens while meditating. I’m still not sure if she was joking or not.
The rest of the roster blurs. Some faces I’ve trained with, others I only know from finish line photos and online brackets. But there’s no mistaking the atmosphere: high stakes and higher expectations.
We board the shuttle, the training track looming in the distance like an icy serpent carved into the mountainside. It’s the usual preseason venue, but the energy is different this year.
In the window’s reflection, I catch my expression, part excitement and part nerves. Here we go again.
My first run of the day is rough. I misjudge a turn and overcorrect, scraping my elbow against the padding. Ahead of me, Leni glides through the course without a single stumble, slicing through it with surgical precision. Right behind her, Mira is a cannonball. Kayla and Coralie are in the next group.
We only do practice together, otherwise every event consists of single runs. It was changed around ten years ago after two athletes were seriously injured when they crashed in the middle of the track.
I end up coming in seventh after the first practice rounds. It’s not too bad, but not the best either. The sting of frustration settles inside me, but I force myself to shake it off. This is why we practice and work out the kinks before it matters.
After lunch, we go for afternoon drills. My body starts to sync up better by the third round. I stop overthinking, gaining nearly four seconds on my time. The ice feels different under my blades now, less like an enemy I’m battling and more like an extension of myself.
Kayla bumps her shoulder into mine at the bottom. “There she is.”
“Wait, was I missing?” I ask, confused.
My friend laughs. “Only in the beginning, but you were found somewhere between the first and final runs.”
By the end of the day, I’m sore, scraped, and more sure of myself than I was twelve hours ago. We all are. That’s what thismagical place does; it tests you, shakes the jet lag out of your bones and reminds you why you came. Even with the bruises forming under my pads and the ache burning in my thighs, I feel stronger than I did yesterday.
Most importantly, I feel like I belong here. And we’re only getting started. This season is going to be a hell of a ride.
38
TEDDY
JANUARY 7
On my third morning in rehab, I drag myself out of bed, my body slightly sore from a night of restless sleep and too many looping memories. I’m still not used to the quiet of the rehab facility and the new unfamiliar rhythm. After a quick shower, one of the care assistants comes to get me and guides me to the cafeteria.
They help me by carrying the tray and setting my breakfast in front of me—eggs, bacon, and a cup of coffee I grip with both hands for warmth. Then I’m left alone, the empty chair across from me a sad reminder of how different this is from the hospital. Back there, Ivy would’ve been sitting across from me, distracting me with her chatter. Here, my only friend is silence.
I texted Ivy last night, but I haven’t heard back yet. It’s probably because of the time difference or how busy she is with the training camp. Still, I honestly can’t wait to hear from her.Three mornings done, over seventy to go before we’re reunited.
