“Three days and seven hours,” she said, drowsiness slurring her words.
“Until?” Kirby brushed fingertips through Mara’s hair.
“I win the fifty.”
The women’s mass start fifty kilometer was one of the final events on the last day of the Winter Olympics. Mara and Kirby had been given the television schedule for their dramatic interview with Janette Collins, but by the time the interview and race aired in the US, the Olympics would be over in Italy.
Various moments of trash talk through the years, including the press conference from Beijing, where Mara had truly instigated the animosity and rivalry between them, would also air prior to their race.
Theywere the big story. Still. Their rivalry. Their history. Trash talk, upsets, trading podiums.
If Mara watched every interview, every contentious interaction, she would be able to track the progression of losing her heart. But she was trying not to think about it. Otherwise, she’d get mushy.
She and Kirby had spent that one blissful night together. They’d woken up early the morning after the team sprint to do more press before turning their focus to the fifty-k. But first, Kirby had marked Mara’s body with kisses. She’d left an invisible imprint on Mara to carry with her.
Mara had felt punch drunk. Love drunk. For hours afterward.
They’d hardly spoken since.
Kirby was giving her space to prepare, to rest, to train.
Mara had changed a lot in the past four years. Even more in the past twenty-six days. But she was stillherself. She needed reflection and focus and alone time.
The morning of the fifty-k was warm. Up over thirty-seven degrees. It would be a slushy slog of endurance. That type of race played to Mara’s strengths. She was the best at enduring the misery of a wet, sloppy course.
Mara got ready for the race alone. It was her routine. Lip balm. French braid. Competition sunglasses. The silver ones. They were lucky.
The team and coaches knew to give her a wide berth before a distance race. She needed to mentally prepare as much as physically. And the fifty-k was a mental battle.
Just like Kirby had said.
Mara smiled as she thought about Kirby.
Kirby pushing her to surrender.
Kirby kissing her ear and talking dirty about suffering through her favorite race.
Mara left the changing room, chatted with Coach Karlsson for a few minutes, and joined the huge scrum of racers who would all start at the same time. It would be a melee for position, and Mara intended to be forceful coming off the starting line, to find her footing early, draft with the top of the pack, and run away with it in the end.
Last time, she’d been too confident, and she hadn’t left anything in the tank for the finish line. She’d known Kirby had been close, but she’d underestimated her.
This time she was as confident, but she’d never underestimate Kirby—or any other skier—again.
Mara shook out her arms and tuned out the huge din of skiers talking, of bells and yells in the crowd.
They had two minutes before they took their positions on the starting line.
She hadn’t seen Kirby once that morning, and suddenly, she knew she wanted to. Needed to.
She glanced around but didn’t spot her. They got the signal to begin to line up for the race. Mara’s starting placement was toward the front of the throng, her position prime. She moved through the crowd of skiers.
Someone gripped her wrist. She turned to find Kirby smiling at her. Mara stopped and couldn’t help but smile back.
Kirby reached up and adjusted Mara’s silver sunglasses. It was unnecessary. Mara dressed meticulously, but she liked that Kirby had touched her.
“Break a leg, Mara.”
Mara laughed and shook her head.
