Carry Your Heart

by Audrey Bell

  I bite my thumbnail thinking of my dad refinancing our house’s mortgage. I need sponsors. I need to start winning. I can’t keep asking for him to support me.

  Hunter is in Spain, now. With a head cold, according to an email he sent at 3 AM this morning.

  We haven’t spoken in two days. The time difference, and the training out in Utah have made the few moments I have to myself scarce, and Hunter’s production schedule is out of his hands.

  We make do with text messages and the occasional email, but they feel hollow and I miss him. It’s overwhelming to miss Hunter Dawson like this.

  The old Olympic village, where all of the skiers are being housed is packed. It’s the first time I’ve had to see a lot of familiar faces since those nasty blogs started showing up, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the looks I’m getting are ones of disgust and judgment, instead of pity.

  The bungalow where Lottie and I are staying is comfortable and we each have our own bedrooms and bathrooms. Laurel is nearby, too; I see her shouting at a muscular man to be more careful with her bags when she arrives.

  Lake Placid is four days long—the first rounds for Grand Slalom and downhill on Thursday, followed by first rounds for Super G and Slalom on Friday. Finals are on Saturday and Sunday.

  It’s a long, long slog—one that requires as much patience as it does skill. With hundreds of skiers, from fifteen year olds getting their feet wet at a qualifier to seasoned Olympians, Lake Placid is an event no one with serious ambitions misses unless they’re hurt.

  Lottie needs to do well here. Mike’s attention has turned to her in a dramatic way. He just wants me in the finals. He wants Lottie to finish in the Top Five, maybe even knock off one of the reigning Olympic gold medalists here.

  On Wednesday morning, the courses are set up and packed with skiers trying to get in one or two practice runs before the qualifying rounds start. Mike’s so intently focused on the Super G with Lottie, that he barely nods his head when I tell him I’m going over to check out the downhill course.

  I stare down at the challenging slope. The terrain is intentionally difficult here, the kind of slope that forces you to really bend your knees.

  I wait forty minutes for my run. It’s fast—really fast. East Coast mountains are slicker than West Coast ones. There’s less snowfall back here, and the less powder, the more slippery the slope.

  I like the speed of it, though. It’s almost too fast. People will hit the brakes hard to prevent themselves from crashing out. I smile. I’m not going to hit the brakes this time. My legs are strong enough to go full throttle.

  On Thursday, Olympic gold medalist Lindsay Mangold is the first racer of the day in the downhill. I’m 36th. Part of the second heat of skiers, but I get to the course early to watch Lindsay.

  She seems relaxed, perfectly at ease, and I’m mesmerized by her staggering power out of the start and her quick, seemingly effortless turns around the gates.

  When she crosses the finish line in 1:39.05, I know it will take a miracle for anyone to top her in the first round.

  Mike doesn’t have much to say to me before downhill. He massages my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “You know what to do.”

  And I believe him. I do know what to do. This is my course. The course I was born for. Everything about it, I love.

  I feel good the whole way down. When it’s so fast, you can’t worry about your time, you know you’re in good shape. When you take each turn at a speed that feels like it’s at the brink of terminal velocity, when you just barely get your skis around the gate, you know that it’s going to be good.

  I cross in a blur, struggling to get my skis out so I don’t crash into the barriers at the base of the slope.

  I turn my head to the scoreboard. 1:39.95. I exhale. Jesus. Less than a second behind Lindsay Mangold. I turn, searching the crowd for a familiar face to smile at. I don’t see any. Just Laurel and Lottie. And their bitchy friends.

  Lottie looks betrayed. Laurel looks pissed.

  I smile at the scoreboard. Fine, then. You can make a lot of things up. You can post them all over the Internet. But you can’t change my time.

  It’s the first time in a really long time that I feel like I could be good enough for something big in this sport. I swallow and smile, the confidence like a drug.

  ***

  I make it through to finals in downhill and GS and manage to get Hunter on the phone. He sounds like shit.

  “Hey,” he rasps.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Kind of,” he says. “On a bus to the airport.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Norway. Glaciers.” He yawns. “I have some fucking flu.”

  “My fault?”

  “Probably,” he says. He laughs a little, sounding tired but happy. “Everyone thinks you’ve hypnotized me. Even the bus driver didn’t believe me when I said I had a serious girlfriend.”

  I smile, liking the sound of that way too much.

  “How’d it go?”

  “I’m though to finals,” I smile.

  “Hey. Way to go.”

  “Thanks. I have more first rounds tomorrow.” I bite my lip. “I finished second in the downhill, though.”

  “Seriously?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a big deal.”

  I laugh. “It doesn’t matter until finals.”

  “It’s still a big fucking deal.” I can hear him shifting on the bus. “Congrats, Speedy.”

  “How’s the snow out there?”

  “Not deep enough,” he yawns. “Micah sprained his ankle yesterday, so he’s headed home. We’re all pretty beat. We might loop back for some West Coast stuff since it’s so icy over here.”

  “I miss you,” I say softly.

  “Me too.” He whispers it. I know he’s on the van, with guys who have known him for years and are already giving him a hard time about having a girlfriend.

  I love you.

  I don’t say it. “You can’t really talk can you?”

  “No, I-I-it’s cool. What’s up?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I smile. “Good to hear your voice. That’s all.”

  “You too,” he says. I hear him sigh heavily. “Well, let me know how it goes tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You’re gonna kill it.”

  “Thanks. Be safe.”

  I hang up the phone, with so many things between us left unsaid. Just another week or two. I can handle that. He’s coming back. That should be enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I make it through finals for the second two events too. Barely, in Super G, which I hate, but I make it.

  The night before the final for downhill and grand slalom, there’s a barbeque dinner, on the wide outside terrace of the center at the mountain’s base, where the ski lifts run from.

  I’m expecting the cold shoulder from Lottie, who has officially decided I’m her competition and therefore no longer her friend. God, things have changed.

  She’s with Laurel, laughing. And I wonder if I should be insulted that she’d rather hang out with someone she used to call a death eater, or flattered that she thinks I’m bigger competition than Laurel.

  Or, if I should feel totally responsible for not telling her I was going to a benefit with Hunter all those weeks ago. Or, if I should feel stupid for thinking she was a good friend when something that small and inconsequential came between us.

  I turn hesitantly around the unfriendly room, looking for someone to talk to. There’s nothing worse than being caught with a plate of food in your hands and no table to go to.

  I see Joe and Parker, a few other alpine skiers and I approach cautiously. Joe gives me half of a smile, but Parker just glares.

  When I sit down, Joe nods. “Hey.”

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Nothing. You had a good run,” he points out.

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

>   “I heard you almost beat Mangold?” Joe asks.

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  I look at Parker. “Hey, Parker.”

  “Hi,” he says tersely. Something is definitely up.

  I look around the table. These guys were Danny and Ryan’s friends. They always had my back, too. I bite my lip. “What’s wrong?”

  Parker gives a short little laugh.

  “What?”

  “You can’t seriously be asking me that question.”

  “But I am,” I say.

  “Alright. I think the whole thing with Dawson is bullshit.”

  I rub my chin softly. “Parker, I can’t…” I swallow. This is not the place to ask for sympathy. They all miss them just as fucking much as I do. “I need…” I exhale. “I haven’t been able to do anything for a year. I still feel like I can’t do things. I don’t. Do you think just because I’m trying to move on, I’ve forgotten what happened?”

  “Hunter Dawson isn’t moving on,” Parker says. “That’s a fucking joke, Pippa, and you know it.”

  “No, I really don’t know that,” I say. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah? For how long?”

  “Parker, Danny is gone.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Parker demands.

  “I still love him and I still miss him and if he were here…”

  “He was going to propose to you,” Parker spits angrily. “He wanted to marry you, and it’s not even a year…”

  “Wait—what?” I demand.

  “Parker!” Joe says shortly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I repeat my question. “What did you just say?”

  “Danny was going to propose to you,” Parker repeats, bitterly, ignoring Joe’s explosion.

  I stare vacantly at him, shaking my head. We were twenty years old. He was going to propose to me? No. I shake my head quickly, my eyes welling up. How did I not know that?

  “We agreed not to tell her,” Joe says thinly.

  “Well, I couldn’t keep it a secret any more,” Parker snaps back. “He bought a fucking ring. She should know that.”

  The room has fallen chillingly quiet.

  I look from Parker to Joe and back to Parker. “How—you decided not to…” I get up, leaving my plate behind, and whirl for the door.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Joe says to Parker. I hear footsteps after mine, out into the hallway, down the stairs, to the parking lot neighboring the village. I press my hand tightly over my mouth.

  He was going to propose to you.

  “Pippa,” Joe shouts. “Pippa. Wait.” I hear him running and I try to run faster, but sobs course through my body and I have to stop. I stagger over to a snow bank and just sit down on it, even though I’m wearing jeans, not snow pants, and it’s wet and cold and dark and January and I’m a fucking wreck.

  I’m crying in a painful, searing way. My lungs physically ache with the effort.

  “Pippa,” Joe says. He kneels before me. “Pippa. It’s okay. Calm down.”

  “I can’t calm down,” I shout at him. “Do you think I haven’t tried that?”

  Joe glances up at the sky and squats there. “Look.”

  I take one breath after another, until I manage to get a hold on my breathing enough to talk coherently. I swallow, wiping my eyes and praying to God that nobody can see me.

  “We didn’t tell you because we thought you’d be upset.”

  “I don’t—I’m not—I don’t. I can’t—it doesn’t fucking matter, does it?” I finally manage to splutter. “God, Joe. It’s not like there would have been a wedding if you said something.”

  “Okay. Maybe we should have told you.”

  “Maybe you should just leave me alone,” I say. I run a hand through my hair, thinking of Danny. Wondering when he decided on forever. Wondering when he was going to ask if he hadn’t died.

  As if he’s reading my mind, Joe starts to answer my questions: “He was going to propose during your trip. He—Parker helped him get the ring.” He takes a step towards me: “You were such a mess after—I just thought. You know, he’d have been your fiancé. It was hard enough losing your boyfriend. I mean, I don’t know. It seemed like it would have made everything worse.”

  “It doesn’t fucking matter,” I say again. “He’s dead. He died when he was twenty. It wouldn’t have been any easier if he were my fiancé. It wouldn’t have been any harder either. We’d never have gotten married if he’d asked, because he died when he was twenty.”

  “Well, that’s obviously not how you should have found out. Parker’s—he’s had a really hard time with the whole thing.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “I don’t like seeing you upset.”

  “Well, then let me get out of your way,” I say. I stand up, brushing snowing off of my legs.

  “The thing with Hunter…”

  “What?” I yell at him, throatily. “What do you want to say? That he’s using me? That he doesn’t give a shit? That I’m not hot enough to hold his attention for longer than two seconds?” I glare at him. I love Hunter. I love Danny. “I’m not that fucked up, Joe.”

  “Nobody said you were.”

  “And I’m not stupid either,” I add angrily. I swallow. “You should give me the benefit of the doubt. I fell in love with Danny, didn’t I? Maybe I know how to pick the good ones. Because Danny was pretty fucking good, wasn’t he?” My voice cracks again. “You couldn’t really get much be-better than Danny.”

  “Yeah, Danny—Danny really was,” Joe whispers. His eyes are full too. “He was the best.”

  “Yeah,” I nod, remembering him vividly and gulping. “I like Hunter, Joey. Okay? He makes me forget. And I’m tired of remembering.” I glance up at the dark sky. “He’s a really good person. And I don’t really care whether or not you believe it, because I already know.” I turn to walk back to the lodge.

  “Pippa,” Joe shouts. I stop, but I don’t turn around.

  He takes a few more steps and puts a hand on my elbow. He turns me to face him. “Look. That whole thing. With Parker?” He swallows. He’s getting emotional too. “It’s not about you and Hunter. It’s just that you….you were Danny’s girlfriend. Even after…after he died, I think we still thought of you that way.”

  I swallow tickly.

  “And now,” with a burst of air he manages to get the rest of it out “…now you’re someone else’s girlfriend and it’s just…Pippa, it just fucking sucks.” He’s crying too, and I reach for his strong shoulders and hug him.

  “Yeah, I know,” I whisper into his ear. “It sucks a lot. I think it will always suck.”

  When I let him go, I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm. “Sorry if I…”

  “No,” he says. “I’m sorry too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I wake up alone. Wrung out like a rag. But I feel lighter, somehow, like a dam broke in my chest and the tension’s gone. At least I have Joe. And Court back east. One amazing parent.

  And Hunter, who has no idea that I nearly had a nervous breakdown in a parking lot last night over an ex-boyfriend he really knows nothing about. Hunter, who has no idea that I’ve fallen in love with him already.

  Your heart is an idiot, I think. Isn’t it supposed to be the case that people who get burned once have a hard time falling in love again? Isn’t there some sort of defense mechanism that prevents this from happening?

  I take my time. This isn’t how I planned to feel on race day, but I go from my room over to the lodge for coffee with a sense of conviction that goes right through my bones.

  The finals’ groups in Lake Placid are small. Just 15 of us for downhill. Two, Lindsay Mangold and Alex White, already have Olympic medals. Lottie’s gunning for second or third.

  And, though I won’t mention it to anyone, I’m gunning for first.

  I’m going third-to-last. Before Lindsay Mangold and Alex White, as luck w
ould have it. Which means that for me to get a medal here, I’ll have to beat the twelve girls before me. And then I’ll have to hold my breath and pray that Lindsay and Alex don’t overtake my time.

  Penelope flies down first. 1:40.02. That’s awfully close to my best time, a time I’m not sure I can repeat, let alone top.

  Everyone is flying today. Lottie finishes in 1:39.38 with a little smirk. Better than my first time. And Laurel finishes just a hair behind her.

  Nobody is slower than 1:41.01 and I realize with a sinking feeling that it would be very easy to finish fifteen out of fifteen in a race where everyone’s times are this close and this fast.

  By the time I’m up, Lottie is still the skier to beat. I swallow thickly, wondering why I’m not nervous, why I don’t feel any enormous pressure to win. All I feel is the fact that this is the clearest day I’ve seen all winter. And that the girls are flying today.

  My skis are, my legs are warm, and the gates are perfectly spaced. I have all the time in the world, I think to myself.

  And when the tone sounds, I just ski. It’s easy. It’s one of those days, where it comes so easy. Something happened to me. I figured something out.

  I hear the cheering before I finish. I hear the whoops. I know I’ve taken first.

  I whip my head around and look at the fluorescent numbers. Holy shit. 1:37.98.

  I can’t help myself. I laugh, high and to the sky. I broke 1:38. I’m a whole second ahead of anyone.

  I can’t contain my energy and my excitement. Bouncing on my toes, praying to God that it holds, that Lindsay and Alex don’t have something up their sleeve that I’ve never seen before.

  Come on, come on. Hold. Hold. Hold.

  I know Lindsay will be close. I watch the seconds as she approaches the finish line. She’s under 1:37. She could knock me out. Come on, faster, faster I say to the clock. Just a tiny bit faster.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as Lindsay blows across the finish line.

  1:38.01. Oh my god. I can’t breathe normally. I just beat Lindsay Mangold in downhill. Holy fucking shit.

  When my eyes flicker open, I see her sighing. Three hundredths of a second. Three hundredths.