Page 78 of The Groupie

Rylee

After the qualifying round I’m in fourth place and one of my teammates is in second. We have a third woman in eight place who made it into the final round, Betsy, a young lady who came out of Vermont and I remember her from the regional competitions when she was a kid and I was still in high school.

Chuck called a meeting for us in the evening with the final round in the morning, presumably to give us a pep-talk. The three of us sit at a table in the make-shift community space that doubles as the dining room during the day in the temporary village at Flame. We’re silent, but I feel the questions in their surreptitious glances because they’ve seen the social media clips showing the debacle of the punch. No one’s talked about it. An Olympic official I never saw before forbade anyone saying a word and my teammates haven’t broken that promise.

Then again, they’ve not said much else to me either, besides congratulations when I made it to the final round. The wind swirls and howls outside and I feel the breeze come through the windows and walls of the structure, but I’m well dressed to deal with the cold. The U.S. Olympic team has been outfitted with plenty of gear from sponsors and donors.

“I’m so nervous,” Betsy says. She looks like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “Nothing prepared me for the media attention. You’d think I was the first sixteen-year-old to ever compete in the Olympics.”

“You’re hiding your nerves well. Just keep flashing that smile and keep your mind on performing,” I say, the advice just as relevant for me because I’ve never been such a bundle of nerves in my life. Only it’s not all about the Olympic medal being on the line.

I can’t lie to myself and pretend the heightened skittishness is due to Zak and everything he said, because I believe him and because no matter how I try to suppress them, I have the same feelings about him, the same need to be with him, to have that relationship. And it scares me more than wiping out on the final run with the gold medal on the line.

Chuck finally barrels through the door with his parka zipped up to his nose and sheds his coat on his way to join us, but he doesn’t sit when he reaches us.

“Ladies, I won’t keep you long because a good night’s sleep is most important tonight.” He pulls a thermos from a bag he’s been carrying and three cups. “I brought some warm milk, juiced with some key nutrients and melanin to help you sleep.” He pours it out for each of us. None of us says a word, but he’s right to assume we’ll need help sleeping.

“You feeling the nerves? The pressure?” You all did a great job today both on and off the slope. Just give us more of the same tomorrow. Only notch it up. You’re all here because you’ve been able to perform in the big moment when you’ve had to at one time or another. Hell, just making it onto the Olympic team took some doing.” He pauses and looks around at us, but I don’t meet his eyes.

Separating Chuck the jerk from Chuck the coach suddenly feels impossible when I see the shadow of bruising on his face. It’s as if the impact of Zak’s punch hits me, right in the heart every time I see Chuck.

He runs over each of our routines, giving reminders of what we need to do to overcome each of our tendencies and then he runs down the likely conditions, the weather report and what to look out for on the pipe.

“That’s it ladies. Any questions?” He looks at each of us and when his eyes reach mine, I take a sip of the warm milk and look away.

Betsy asks a couple of things and I stand because I’ve reached the limit of my ability to be in Chuck’s company.

“I’m going to bed.” I turn away and Chuck says nothing. He wouldn’t dare say a word in the other’s company because we’re all doing our best to pretend the punch never happened.

Except me. That punch looms larger and larger in my head, but instead of distracting me from my goal, I use it to give me motivation. Because I want to win and I want him. I want both.

And it’s as if I can’t have him unless I can prove to myself I have what it takes to be on my own first, to win a medal and achieve my personal goal before I can allow the compromise of my independence with a relationship.

* * *

The morning is cold, but the wind has died down and the crowd of boarders is smaller, but the size of our audience is ten times bigger with the media dominating the line around the fence where we line up to start our ascent to the top of the halfpipe.

I scan the crowd, half expecting to see Zak pop out again, but I know that’s not possible. The security officials notified me by text this morning that he was sent home without charges being made and that news buoyed my spirits more than the bright sunshine and perfect layer of snow covering the pipe.

Waiting at the top of the halfpipe is the hardest part of the competition. I don’t watch the others compete before me. In the second run, I’m still in fourth place, but I have a chance to pull ahead to second or third if I nail this one—if I nail the frontside 1080 and follow it with a cab 540, frontside 900 and finish with a McTwist and Haakon flip, aka cab 720.

My turn comes and I slide to the edge of the pipe, heave a big gulp of icy air, letting it spread through me to make every cell in me come to life, then I jump into the pipe. The air speeds past and I rise up over the wall of the opposite side and know I’m going to do this.

When I land after the final cab 900, I glide to the bottom where the others on my team stand cheering and the crowd roars. I’ve moved into second place. A fucking silver medal in the Olympics is within my reach. Possibly gold. I let the roaring fill my ears and my head and feel like my whole body lifts from the sounds, the vibration of victory in the air.

Except there’s one more crucial run that could mix up the standings because the point totals are close. We all head for the top of the pipe again. A couple of women could pull ahead of me, including my teammate, Betsy. She moved into fourth place from eight with a monster first run.

As we wait our turns, I see Chuck consulting with her and I have no doubt she’s going to go for broke because she’s young and that’s what I would do if I were her, what I did when I was seventeen at my last Olympics. I came in fourth place then and was too young to be discouraged. Too disciplined and competitive not to get here again.

I don’t feel my ankle. It’s like nothing ever happened to it. As each of the boarders take their turns, I concentrate on keeping warmed up and limber until it’s Betsy’s turn. I watch as she jumps into the pipe separating myself from the competitor and hoping for the best for her because I once was her.

She starts with a back side 1080 and my mouth hangs open as her performance unfolds and she flawlessly pulls off a second 1080—a cab 1080—followed by an Alley-oop 540, a backside 540 and finishing with a frontside cork 720.

I don’t even need to see the scoreboard as the crowd erupts to know that she’s moved into a medal spot. When I steel myself for a glance, it’s confirmed. She’s moved ahead of me into second place. I’m still I the bronze spot, but the burning need to do better doesn’t quit.

Chuck approaches me and I know what he’s going to say, but I listen when he says it. “You need to include a second 1080 in your run to move up. Are you going to do it?”

“You have to ask?”