Guys have done worse. Cathy Gore did an Olympic downhill on a torn ligament and walked away; other guys did something similar and never came back. I’m betting I’ll be one of the lucky ones.
I always am.
***
The silence in the car is suffocating.
Élise drives. I sit in the passenger seat, knee propped awkwardly, brace re-strapped, staring out the window at the mountains I can't ski.
Her hands are tight on the wheel. Too tight. Her knuckles are white, and there's a tremor in her fingers that she's trying to hide.
I notice. I don't say anything.
"He cleared me," I say finally.
She doesn't respond. Just keeps driving, eyes fixed on the road.
"With conditions, yeah, but he cleared me. That means it's possible."
"What did he say?" Her voice is flat. Careful.
"That I need to be smart. Limited training. Brace during the race. But he'll sign off on it."
"And?"
"And what?"
"What else did he say, Nico?"
I look back out the window. "That it's a risk. But everything's a risk."
She exhales, sharp and bitter. "Of course it is."
"They need me for the Super-G. Thomas is good, but if I sit out, the globe goes to someone else. And then what was the point of any of this?"
"The point," she says quietly, voice shaking now, "is that you don't destroy your body for one race."
"It's not just one race. It's Finals. It's the globe. It's—"
"It's not worth it."
"You don't get to decide that."
Her hands tighten on the wheel. The tremor is worse now. I can see it in the way her shoulders hunch forward, the way her breathing goes shallow.
She's desperate, I can see it.
But I don't relent. It’s my life, and she thinks she can worry me out of my decisions. That’s not fair.
"I'm racing," I say. "That's the decision."
She pulls into the parking lot of the flat, kills the engine, and finally looks at me. Her eyes are red. Not crying. Just exhausted. Hollowed out.
"He told you shouldn’t race," she says. "Didn't he?"
"He said it's possible. That's all I need to hear."
"He told you it could ruin everything."
