Carry Your Heart (7 page)

He rides up with me—leaving Lottie to do some complicated turns at a breakneck speed under the supervision of Barry, an assistant coach.

“Relax,” Mike says gently as we’re about to get off the lift.

“Right, sorry—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you. You’ve got this. Come on.”

We stand up off the lift and glide to the side. It’s an easy run—a blue groomer, a manageable, smooth sloop, with flat, artificially maintained terrain. I used to find these boring—but it’s a good place to begin again.

“Just go for it?” I say.

“Yeah, have a little fun with it.”

I bend my knees and push off, letting the slope and gravity take me. I make my first turn, clean and precise and I feel the rush of blood through my body, the crisp edges of my skis carving the way down my mountain. Most of all, I feel the speed.

Going so fast…it feels pure—fresh and clean. And it feels like a part of me—like moving this fast and this wild is more who I am than anything else about me.

“There you go,” I hear Mike shouting.

My legs aren’t as quick, my turns not as sharp and efficient, but I still can fly—and I still love flying.

As I come to a stop, sending a shower of snow out from under my blades, I catch my breath and start laughing.

Mike pulls up behind me. “Well?”

“Well,” I repeat.

“How do you feel?”

“Fucking amazing.”

He laughs and I throw my head back up at the sky, looking at the sun, which is stronger on any mountain than it is lower down where most of the world lives. I’m closer to the sky, closer to the sun where it’s easier to get burnt and easier to feel alive than it is back on flat ground.

I look down the next slope, a kinder, gentler run. And I know that all this time, all these months, I’ve been missing this too—I had been grieving Danny, Ryan, and the one place I feel at home, mountains.

“Let’s go up.”

“Yeah?” Mike asks.

“Definitely.”

I barely talk to Mike all day, just getting my legs back underneath me—relearning what I always have known—how to go fast.
This
is why I wanted to Olympics—not just for the medal, but to see how fast I can go. How much faster I can still go.

I’m bone-tired and worn out by the time I get down for lunch, exhilarated and exhausted.

“You’re done for the day,” Mike declares.

“No way.”

He smiles. “Yeah, you’re going to be hurting tomorrow as is. Take a bath and chill out. Trust me.”

I roll my eyes but listen to him, hitting up one of the USSA trainers for a Jaccuzzi and a massage—perks of being one of Mike’s skiers, lost cause or not.

I’m not expecting to collapse on my bed and take a four-hour nap when I get back to my room, but when I wake up, the day’s gone and I have texts from Lottie and Joe, from Courtney and my dad.

I exhale and start responding. It’s such a relief to be able to everyone how genuinely great things are and mean it. I’ve been trying to convince them that I was better—my leg had fixed, my heart was unbroken—for the past year and I never quite pulled it off.

I smile to myself—a rush of gratitude that Mike dragged me back here. It’s what was missing at that party I went to with Courtney and in the classes I attended diligently all semester. The sense of being at home—that’s what hadn’t been there.

Chapter Seven

I fucking hate Mike Ames.

And skiing.

And downhill drills.

And the snow in my gloves. I really hate that.

“Motherfucker,” I say for the hundredth time that morning, jamming my foot back into my ski and getting up from the awkward pile I’ve collapsed myself into.

“Pippa,
stop
trying to break your own records on your first day back,” Mike shouts, annoyed that he’s had to repeat himself so many times.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter again. I think I might make it my own, personal slogan. My body has careened around and into flags, my knees have quavered and given out, my pole have caught, my ankles have revolted, and my body’s taken a hell of a beating since I got up to the course this morning.

“I want you eligible. You crash out and you aren’t eligible.
Come on
,” he continues shouting, more frustrated than he is angry. “Achievable goals. It’s your first day back.”

I jump back onto my skis and finish the rest of the flags slowly. My knees ache and shake, and my abs feel like I have been fighting a stomach bug since the beginning of September. Most of all, my brain has really just had it with my body:
this is bad for your motherfucking health, Pippa. Fall over one more time and we are done.

I get onto the snowmobile behind Mike and go up for another hellish run.

“I want you to finish the course,” Mike instructs, exasperated. “I feel like I may have told you that one or two or twenty-nine times, but if you could actually focus on finishing the course, then we can start working on your time.”

“This is so frustrating,” I say furiously.

“I know.”

“I don’t
want
you to be nice about it.”

“Well, tough shit.”

When he deposits me at the starting line and I pull back to launch myself, he grabs me by my arms. “Hold up.” He fixes the snaps on my helmet. “Pippa?”

“Yes?”

“What are we doing right now?”

“Skiing.”

“What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Finishing the course,” I grumble.

“As opposed to?”

“Crashing.”

“No, as opposed to?”

“Seeing how fast I can go,” I say. “Which is not very fucking fast…”

“I don’t care. Finish the course. I need you to finish. That’s it. You’re not going to finish at all if you crash out.”

“This is how I ski, Mike!”

“That’s how you ski when you are top of your game. You took a year off. You’re not there yet. Right now, it’s about doing the best that you can do on Saturday—not doing the best that you can do period. We are training and I need you to finish and then we can speed it up.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Christ, I thought people were supposed to get more patient with age.”

He lets go of my arms. “Alright, take your mark.”

I slide my skis back and coil my weight into my legs, ready to spring forward when he gives the word.

“Go.”

One of the toughest parts about downhill is the launch, you have to come out strong, so you can hit the first turn with enough velocity that your turn doesn’t stop you.

I turn early on each flag. I move more carefully than I’ve been before. I focus on my form instead of on how hard I can push. I make clean, precise turns, completing most of the turn before I round the flag. I feel in control, but I can also feel the milliseconds adding up. I want to push it. I go hard into the last set of turns and nearly tumble across the finish line, but at least I finish.

“Attagirl,” Mike shouts, clapping his hands.

Breathlessly, I turn and smile at him.

“Lottie, baby, come on down,” Mike yells to her.

I watch Lottie come down the same course I’d struggled so much with all day. She’s better than me now. Way better. I try to catch my breath as she speeds cleanly, with staggeringly brief, controlled turns, her body tilting parallel to the ground as she zips effortlessly.

All the years we skied together, she beat me once. I’ll be lucky if I ever beat her again. She and Laurel will be one-two on Saturday. And I have a strong feeling that this prodigal seventeen year old will take third.

Seventeen. I can’t believe I’m racing someone four years younger than me. I felt ancient at seventeen. I feel worse at twenty-one, like things are already starting to pass me by.

I realize, with a twist in my stomach, that I probably will have a hard time getting back to number one in the country in downhill. When Mike said he wanted me to finish, he meant that unless someone fucked up, I had no shot at placing in the top three.

I’ll just have to handle it. And hope to improve.

“Awesome,” I say to her.

“Oh, thanks,” she grins. “You looked great.”

“Right.”

“No, you really did,” she smiles. “You can definitely place Saturday if this is your first day back.”
Bullshit
.

Small, achievable goals first. I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that.

I hate losing. Even in practice.

Chapter Eight

By Friday, my body feels like it’s at war with me—everything hurts. But, I’m getting stronger, falling less, feeling more confident. And it’s easy to be distracted from the physical pain, because the mountain is crawling with skiers from all over the circuit.

And even though I’ve always hated the idea of people talking about me, I’ve never been so sure that they actually were talking about me until now.

The girl from the avalanche that killed Ryan Cameron and Danny Keller. Remember that? That’s her.

The cafeteria the night before the races teems with people I had once called friends and people who I still probably should call enemies. And the rest of the people just pitied me, which made me resent the hell out of them.

“Do not freak out,” Lottie says, taking the tray from my hand and laying flat on the counter.

She starts putting food on my plate. I had been standing, holding a tray in one listless hand like an idiot, for the past five minutes. “Pasta? Competition tomorrow means you eat pasta. Pippa Baker is not fucking afraid of these people. Pippa Baker is getting her pasta and Pippa Baker is going to eat these fuckers for breakfast tomorrow.”

I chuckle.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Pippa Baker is not apologizing for being scared of Laurel Bates and the rest of the Deatheaters.”

“Deatheaters?”

“Yes.”

“Which one is Voldemort?”

“Mm…don’t be ridiculous, there’s no Voldemort. It’s just all deatheaters.”

I laugh at her. “I think that’s enough pasta.”

“There’s no such thing as enough pasta.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Calm yourself and carry that to Joe’s table.” She hands me the tray and meets my eyes. I look at her gratefully.

“Thanks.”

“Joe’s table.
Go
.”

I glance over. “Hunter’s sitting there.”

“And?”

“Can we just sit with someone else?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he’s not as bad as the other people here and there are no free tables.”

Hunter looks angry and hot. I guess that’s just his look. Angry. Hot. Not giving a fuck. Whatever. It’s a good look on him, but I still don’t want to sit as his table.

He’s wearing a hunter green sweatshirt and focusing on his food so he doesn’t have to talk to us. If I hadn’t creepily accidentally spied on him, I could make a joke about the hunter green sweatshirt. I mean, it would be a terrible joke, but awkward jokes beat awkward silence.

“Hey,” Joe says. “You ready, Pip?”

I nod. “I hope so.”

Hunter looks up for the first time. His eyes wander over me lazily and then he looks directly at Lottie. “Well, good luck,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Thanks,” Lottie says. I don’t say anything. The luck he wished was obviously directed at her and not at me.

I watch him clear his tray. So, he’s even more pissed off at me than I thought. I swallow.
I don’t care. I don’t know him. Barely know him. Way too good-looking to trust.

He sorts his silverware from his plate, tosses an empty cup into a gray bin. Even underneath his sweatshirt, you can make out the broadness of his shoulders. His hood does nothing to hide his strong jaw, and…
shit. I need to stop staring.

I break my gaze and look at Lottie, who is smirking.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“What?” I repeat.

“You’re kind of drooling.”

“I’m not drooling.”

“It’s fine if you’re drooling, Pippa. He’s really cute.”

“New topic,” Joe announces quickly.

“What’s the new topic?”

“Doug Cannon is here.”

I raise my eyebrow. Doug Cannon has won Olympic gold medals than any other person in history. Not just in skiing—out of all Olympians.

He retired in the early ‘90s and owns his own mountain resort out in Idaho, but is name hasn’t lost any of its power.

“Where?” Lottie says, swiveling her head. “Why? How? Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

“No, no, no,” Joe explains. “Not like in the cafeteria. He’s on the mountain. Parker saw him watching earlier.”

“Oh my fucking god. That’s amazing,” Lottie says. “Like, amazing.”

“I know,” Joe says.

“Are you sure its him?”

“Yes.”

“How come you didn’t tell us the minute we sat down?”

“Because you were drooling over Hunter?”

“I wasn’t drooling,” Lottie replies, indignantly. “
She
was.”

“No,” I say. “I was glaring.”

“Why would you be glaring? I really don’t think he’s that big of a jerk,” Lottie says.

“I’d steer clear,” Joe says darkly.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“I’ve just heard some stories. I mean, the guy has a lot of money and he parties a lot. I’d just—I’d steer clear.”

“I’m not interested in dating him,” I say, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.

Joe nods. “Nobody said you were.”

“You implied it.”

“Well, he’s a big step down from Danny,” Joe says, unable to keep the emotional edge out of his voice. “Maybe not in the money and looks and fame category, but in the human being category…”

“Hey,” Lottie snaps at Joe.

Joe glances at me cautiously. Maybe he’s not aware of how upsetting it is to hear him talk like that, like I’m going to jump into bed with Hunter and what an insult to Danny’s memory it would be.

Maybe not in the money and looks category…

“Sorry,” he says softly. “I just—I didn’t mean it, like…I don’t want you to…” He takes a deep breath. “All I meant was he’s known for being an asshole to girls. And you’ve been through a lot already.”

I look into Joe’s deep brown eyes and believe him. “You don’t think I miss Danny?”