Carry Your Heart (8 page)

“I-I know that. I mean,” he bites his lip. “Right—I really didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t care how much money anyone has.”

Joe looks miserable.

“And there’s no one I’d rather look at right now than Danny,” I manage to say.

“I. I’m sorry, Pippa. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay,” I say calmly. “Fine.” I take a deep breath and smile at Lottie and at Joe. “Just wanted to clear that up.”

He nods. “Got it. Sorry.”

Lottie rolls her eyes. “Joe, you should really take a vow of silence.”

“I might look into it,” Joe says blushing.

I smile wearily at both of them. At least, I’ve forgotten briefly about the people staring. That counts for something, right?

***

I remember Danny in this same cafeteria two years ago, the night before the races. He’d been nervous, he kept spinning his plate, and twisting his pasta up on his fork but not eating any of it because his stomach was heaving with anxiety.

He and Ryan never ate together before races. They were each other’s number one competition. Danny couldn’t handle it, because Danny was always losing out to Ryan.

“I just want to feel even for once,” he told me that night. He was talking about Ryan, how he resented Ryan’s success and then felt guilty about it.

“You will eventually. Don’t stress,” I promised him.

But, he didn’t win any races at Snowbird two years ago. He finished second in three and crashed out the fourth race he entered.

Ryan won every title.

And Danny had pretended to be happy for him, while he was quietly devastated.

I remember him standing in the room with a cell phone cradled to his ear and talking softly to his demanding father. I remember the exhaustion in his voice when he tried to explain. The way his shoulders shuddered silently when the phone call ended.

I remember the hurt look he wore on his face when it was over. How he held his arms around his ribs, like he was protecting them, and tried not to cry. I remember all the things I would have done to take that all away. I remember wishing I could bear the pain for him.

Chapter Nine

The nerves catch me a few minutes before the race begins. On top of the mountain, shivering in a thin racing suit and a coat that’s not doing its job.

There are 100 elite American skiers here, jockeying for a position on one of the US Ski Teams. Only half will qualify for the final. Only three will receive medals.

I take a breath and close my eyes. It’s a long course, but not a particularly challenging one. The question will be whether you can keep your feet. The answer will require patience and control.

The first competitors all clock in around 1:47 and 1:48. I had done a 1:46.4 in practice. If I did that here, it wouldn’t just good enough to qualify for the final, but it might even put me in top ten.

I swallow thickly. I also had done a lot of crashing in practice. And nobody else seems to be having that problem.

I see the dark-haired young skier from Vermont that Lottie had told me about. Penelope Graham—seventeen years old—a real force to be reckoned with.

She starts like a rocket out of a cannon and then carves down the mountain at a breakneck pace. She’s smooth. Like a lean ship born to careen down a mountain, it doesn’t look as hard for her as it does for the other girls.

She immediately jumps to the top of the leader board. 1:44.55.
Jesus Christ, that’s fast.

A full second is an eternity in downhill skiing. And Penelope leads by two whole seconds.

I watch her take off her helmet and shake out her hair and grinning up at her time illuminated on the leader board. She looks so much younger than me.

I see Laurel fold her arms and swear.

Yeah. Join the club, Laurel. Shit.

I close my eyes. I wish I hadn’t been slated to start so late.

Mike ambles over calmly: “Ready?”

I nod. He smiles sympathetically, seeing it all across my face that I was anything but ready.

“Breathe. Just finish—try to keep your speed in check. This is totally doable for you.”

I nod.

“Do
not
try to break that girl’s time,” he warns, as if he can read my mind.

“I’m not going to,” I protest, even though I was sort of thinking about what it would be like to go that fast.

We watch Lottie fly. She looks tiny when she crouches at the starting line. She’s crazy fast on her turns and she approaches the finish line, her time approaching Penelope’s quickly. But, she crosses just before Penelope did with a time of 1:43.98.

Mike whoops. “Attagirl, Lott!” he calls from on top of the mountain, clapping his hands.

I close my eyes, place my hands on my hips, and wait. I turn my gaze to the sky. The clouds blur before my eyes and the time to prepare dissolves before me, into nothing, until it’s time to go.

“Alright, you’re up,” Mike reminds me softly.

I head over to the tent and tighten my boots, feeling suddenly crunched for time. I stretch my legs out again. I line my skis up on the starting line and I stare down the steep slope, all the way down to the finish line.

My first race back.
Make it good.

The chime sounds, I push off, and the earth rushes me, fast, fast, fast. I bend and turn at each gate, dropping my shoulder, keeping the blades of my skis flat.
Control, control, control.
I have to remind myself of that. I make it through the last turn flying

I finish breathless and relieved, scattering snow in a high wave, and turn to the scoreboard. 1:45.55.
Yes!

I smile. Okay. Good. Better than I needed to do. Good enough for the next round.

I’m up first in the final round. Time slows down for me just before the start. I pull my feet together and back, I loosen my neck and shoulders. I wait for the chime and as soon as it reaches my ears, I fling myself out at the hill.

Gate, gate, gate, gate, gate.

I breathe sharply as one of my skis wobble, but I regain control.
Gate.

My ankles ache with the intensity of the angles that I’m working. I push hard and harder still and as my legs seem ready to give, I push all the way to the finish. I whirl around, right away, nearly losing my balance.

My numbers flash up. 1:44.99.
Good. Really good.

As good as I’m going to do today and better than I’ve done all week. I allow myself to smile, to breathe deeply, and then I head back to the center, too nervous to watch the race from so close.

I text Mike:
Let me know if I need to come back.
That will only happen if I finish in the top three.

He texts me back a smiley face.
I will. Great ride!

I head to up The Forklift, a high, elevated food stand on the outdoor second level of the Snowbird Center. I grab a Gatorade and stand by the picnic tables overlooking the course. It’s deserted after lunch, and I lean against the railing to watch the rest of the skiers come in.

No challengers at first—a few come close, but nobody knocks me down. I keep first position until Lottie goes. She hits a 1:44.11.
Shit
. I watch my name slip down the leaderboard.

And Penelope and Laurel still have yet to go.

I bite my lip. One of them will have to fuck up for me to medal, if their first-round times were any indication.

“Hey,” it’s a deep gravelly voice. I turn to see strong arms rest on the railing, close to mine.

I turn my head. Hunter. I shiver.
Great. Hey, Hunter, want to watch me have a nervous breakdown?

“Cold?”

“A little.” He grins and drops his hat on my head. It’s a sweet gesture, even as it flops over my eyes, and falls. I catch it as it tumbles down my shoulder.

“Wow,” he say. “You don’t know how to wear a hat?” He takes my wrist and takes the hat back and grins. “Let me show you.” He slides the hat over my head, messing up my hair. He steps back and gives me a look and laughs.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look like a turtle.”

“Well,
thanks
,” I reach up to pull his hat off.

“Nah, it’s cute, leave it on,” he insists. He smiles. “I like it.”

“You’re into turtles?”

He shrugs. “Sure. They’ve got it all figured out. They carry their homes around on their backs. They can just curl up and pretend to be rocks when shit starts to go down. Live to a hundred.” He grins. “What’s not to like?”

I play with the hat, adjusting it.

“Aw, man, you ruined the turtle effect.”

“What do I look like now?”

He ignores the question and glances up to the race and the large leader board. “Ooh. That sucks.”

“What?”

“It’s the final, isn’t it?” he nods up at the leader board, where my last name is underneath Lottie’s.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m probably going to get knocked out anyways.”

“Not if one of these bitches falls.”

I laugh.

“Who are you most worried about?”

“Penelope Graham and Laurel Bates.”

“Ahhh….I know Laurel.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I know Laurel.” He squints. “I don’t recognize her with her clothes on. Bates?”

“Jesus.”

“She’s sort of a psycho,” he says. “Actually. She might not be a psycho.” He’s squinting. “I
really
can’t tell if I slept with her. Definitely slept with some skier chick named Laurel. I don’t know if she was that blonde.”

“Are you serious right now?”

He chuckles, pleasantly. “Dead serious, Pippin.”

When I glance over, he’s looking right at me, green eyes blazing with warmth. I look back down flushing. “About the other night, I—I wasn’t trying to spy on you.”

He nods, gives me a little shrug. I can’t get a read on his feelings. Maybe he’s just indifferent. “Right on. Well, good luck, Phillippo.”

“Pippa.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I really don’t like that nickname,” I say.

He shrugs. He smiles. “You could stop talking to me and then you’d never have to hear it.”

I smile. “Pretty sure you came over here and started talking to me.”

“You looked like you needed someone to talk to,” He grins. “You want me to leave you alone?”

I don’t want that at all.

“Maybe you just want a new nickname.”

“Pippa works.”

“I don’t like Pippa. What about Philly? Can I call you that?”

“You can call me Pippa.”

“Philly has a nice ring to it. Plus you get your own city and your own sandwich if you go with Philly. And a whole baseball team,” he cocks his head. “Probably some other shit too.”

He pushes himself off the railing and picks up his snowboard and backs away, keeping his eyes on me and a playful smile on his lips. “I’ll pray for Laurel to fall.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Sounds like I might…if you want to medal. I don’t talk to God for anyone, but you know, I have a soft spot for lost causes,” he says, backing up cockily, turning away to swagger off towards the lift.

I watch his bright blue fleece disappear. The best athletes don’t bother with waterproof jackets, particularly when it’s this warm out. You really only need them if you fall. And Hunter’s fleece is definitely not waterproof so he definitely doesn’t plan on falling.

I turn my attention back to the race. I stay in second place until Penelope goes. She takes second and I move to third.

Fuck,
I mutter. Hunter was right. I probably will need divine intervention to finish third.

Hunter’s presence lingers in my mind. How quietly he flirts. How hot-and-cold he can be. How angry he sounded on the phone, how sexy his laugh is, the way he smelled. How badly I wanted his elbow to stay next to mine, touching.
I have a soft spot for lost causes.

I know that this is wrong. Joe insisted he was bad news, and I acted like there was no chance I was ready to move on. But I can’t help but think that there might be a chance. Because he makes me forget. Just for a few seconds, but I’ve never been with him for more than a few seconds.

I’m so wrapped up in Hunter that I don’t notice Laurel’s start. My attention jerks back to her in full. I blink and she crashes out through a gate and wipes out.

“
Shit
,” I say, more shocked than happy that she fucked up. She gets to her feet, kicks off her skis, and tosses her poles angrily and my phone vibrates in my hand.

It’s Mike.

You should probably get back here for medals.

I duck back to the hill quickly, wondering if there’s any chance the last two competitors are strong enough to knock me out of third place. But, by the time I reach the hill, the race is over and I’m still in third.

I won a medal. Holy shit, I won a medal.

The three of us—Lottie, Penelope, and me—step up onto the podium, beaming. I look out at the handful of people who have stayed behind to watch. I smile so hard I almost start to tear up.

Mike wraps me in a big bear hug when we meet back in the parking lot that separates the mountain from the lodge.

“I am so, so proud of you,” he says. He smiles at me, as I stand, bronze medal around my neck, fingering the yellow ribbon.

“So, what did you think?” he asks cautiously. “Do you want to think about it? Try another race in a few weeks? I mean, there’s a little bit of time before you have to decide for this season, but…”

“I’m in,” I say quickly. I start to laugh. “I’m definitely in.”

He gives me a high-five. “Had me worried for a little bit.”

“Yeah, no, I am definitely,
definitely
in,” I repeat. “I feel…I don’t know. I feel great. I feel…almost normal again.”

“Good.” He grins. “I’m so glad you’re back, Pippa.”

“Me too,” I nod and mean it. I don’t know how I ever lived without this.

Chapter Ten

Lottie dresses me to the nines, taking one look at my jeans, t-shirt and boots and shaking her head. “Fuck no, fuck no, and
fuck
no.”

“Lottie,” I whine, when she tosses a short black skirt and high-heeled booties at me.

“What?”

“I’m not trying to attract any attention.”