1
THE CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE
Fans of the Winter Games, rejoice! The day we have all been waiting for has finally arrived. Last night, Team USA rode into the Pyeongchang Opening Ceremonies in a sea of red, white, and blue, hoping to bring home the gold. Years of hard work, dedication to their craft—and no doubt a lot of sleepless nights—have all led to today, when the Games will kick off with Mixed Doubles Curling and Men’s Ski Jumping.
The real story, however, is on the half-pipe, where later this week, seventeen-year-old Mabel Quinn will be making her Winter Games debut. A champion of the World Championships, the X-Games and already a decorated athlete in her own right, the teen is the daughter of gold-winning skier Melanie Quinn and her husband, gold-winning diver, Marcus Quinn. Melanie and Marcus, as fans of the Games might recall, were one of two prominent Team USApower couples in the early and mid-nineties. This reporter is excited to see if young Mabel will be able to follow in her parents’ large footsteps and bring home a medal or three for Team USA If she earns a spot on the podium, she’ll be joining the ranks of close family friend, nineteen-year-old Ryder Finch, who, despite a fiery mishap that almost cost him his spot on the team, brought his first gold home from Sochi four years ago.
With all eyes on our teen darlings in South Korea, may I be the first to say, let the games begin!
-Mikaela Miller, Inside The Games
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PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE
MABEL
Pyeongchang, February 2018
“Mabel, talk to us about that last run. You were successful on your first and second go-arounds, impressing the judges with your 720 aerials and the control shown by your grip and the smooth landing. An 87.75 is an impeccable qualifying score. At just seventeen years old, you are the youngest competitor in this event and the favorite for gold. But on the last run, you seemed to have lost your footing. Did the nerves get to you?”
I didn’t just lose my footing, I slipped and fell flat on my face, sliding down the ramp on my stomach like some idiot amateur attempting their first jump while drunk. It was humiliating, and all I want to donow is crawl into a hole and cry myself to death. But I can’t say that to the legendary sportscaster currently shoving a microphone in my face, trying to get a sound clip for the Pyeongchang Games’ social media feed. I can’t tell him about the immense pressure I’m feeling or that I nailed the 1080 on my third run in practice every single time I’ve tried it. Being a semi-talented seventeen-year-old woman means I already have a target on my back. The last thing I need to do is whine to the world about my failures and make myself look even more like a petulant child.
“Yeah, you know. I got out there and did the best that I could. The 720 is a familiar trick for me and I’m happy to have nailed it. There’s a reason the Games give us three runs to qualify, and I’m proud to have tried something a little more difficult and out of my wheelhouse. It seems like the judges saw what I was going for and I hope to bring some of that showmanship and a little more control to the medal runs. I’d like to bring my scores up, but I’m still happy with where I’ve landed. This is my first Winter Games, and I just feel honored and blessed to be here.”
There. A diplomatic, humble answer that will hopefully appease the masses—and my public relations team. Trina, the PR ruler of my universe, should get me a cookie for how well I’ve absorbed the months of media training I had to endure prior toarriving in South South Korea. There are very few minors representing their countries in this year’s Winter Games, but after a group of teenage snowboarders gave us all a bad rap four years ago in Sochi—think “proving a couple of American fifteen-year-olds can hold their vodka like a Russian mobster” kind of trouble—me and the other under-eighteen-year-olds representing the USA have been trained to be on our best behavior at all times.
No slip ups. No mistakes. Get your medal, smile, be grateful and modest. Perfect little angels.
Which is unfortunate, because all I want to do right now is scream at the top of my freaking lungs.
I am so much better than an embarrassing fall and an 87.75 qualifying score.
I bow out of the interview with an insincere but gracious smile, knowing my cheeks are going to get a workout from the force behind my faking by the time I’m able to head back to the Athlete’s Village and the cot masquerading as a bed in my room. Hopefully, I’ll be able to ignore my teammates in the stands while we watch the rest of the qualifying runs, because I don’t think I’ll be able to stand the platitudes. I’ll just close my eyes and tell them I’m meditating or something.
“Mabel, wait up!”
A large, gloved hand comes down on my shoulder,and I know from the movie-star level infectious voice and the scent of cinnamon gum wafting past my nose that I’d rather stab myself in the skull repeatedly with one of Mom’s ski poles than turn around and greet my companion.
But alas, the cameras are watching.
They’re always freaking watching.
“Hey, Ryder! What’s up?” I say cheerfully as I turn, but drop my voice to a low, menacing tone—a stark contrast to my pageant-winning grin—when we’re face to face. “I’m not in the mood, Rye Bread.”
“I’m not here to mess with you, Marshmallow. I just wanted to give you kudos. That 87.75 is a hell of a score. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am proud, and I don’t need you telling me how to feel,” I say through gritted teeth. Ryder Finch is my ultimate nemesis. Two years older than me and with three golds under his belt, Ryder is the son of my mother’s best friend, Ramona Finch. Ramona and my mom, Melanie Quinn, were the Team USA icon skiers back in the nineties. Together, they ruled the slopes and built a legacy in women’s winter sports that has paved the way for female athletes for the last twenty-five years. When Ryder and I were born only two years apart, it was basically written in the Finch-Quinn prophecy that not only would we follow in our mother’s footsteps, we were destined to be bestfriends and eventually fall in love, have little Finch-Quinn ski babies and have our family immortalized on magazine covers and Wheaties boxes alike.
Unfortunately for me and my parents, I don’t love having my life laid out for me in such no-nonsense terms, even if choosing a snowboard over skis or the high-dive is the most rebellion I’ve mustered in my seventeen years.
There’s also the small matter of Ryder having absolutely no interest in me as anything other than a kid-sister-adjacent figure, a fact that he’s made abundantly clear throughout our entire lives.
Ever since my first day of kindergarten when he called me Marshmallow in front of the entire playground, ensuring that every kid at James Buchanan Elementary would call me Marshmallow for the next ten years, Ryder has been a thorn in my side.
A beautiful thorn in my side, but sharp and annoying nonetheless.
He’s also one of the idiots who got shit-faced on Siberian vodka in Sochi and set a basket of condoms on fire in the middle of the village, making a laughingstock out of Team USA and all teenage American athletes on the roster. He’s the reason I had to do hours of media training along with alcohol and sex education courses on top of my time on the slopes before officially qualifying for Team USA this year.
