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The coach had coughed and flashed the stopwatch in front of Darius as if he were accusing the teenager of a crime. “Boy, you’re wastin’ your time dancin’ around on this ice. You’re too fast for this.” His eyes had traveled expertly over Darius’s lean form, his sinewy legs, his long arms. “You’ve got speed to burn. Should’ve been a short track guy.”
“And so you finally took his advice.” Addisyn tipped her head to the side.
“Yes.” Darius sighed. There was more to the story—much more—but it didn’t need to be rehashed. “And I’ve always wished I hadn’t. I loved figure skating—it was everything to me.” He paused. This was the realization that had been quick to come and slow to leave—the truth that had haunted him for the past four years. Ever since Sochi. “I should have never given it up.”
That was an understatement.
ADDISYN SAT QUIETLY,staring at her plate. She couldn’t process all of this—all the triumph and yet the despair of Darius’s story. Her pulse was throbbing with empathy. For a moment she’d had a desperate urge to tell him everything—how she had tried to climb that sacred ladder herself, how she knew all about the cruel twists the game could take.
At the last minute she told herself to hold back. Sharing that would require that she also mention Brian. And she wasn’t ready to go there—not yet.
But she did have one request. Anybody would have wondered the same, and with her dreams, it was impossible not to ask. “Can I—do you mind if—I mean—would you show me your medal?”
A smile, slow and gentle, spread across Darius’s face. “Sure.”
He left the room and came back a few minutes later with a shoebox in his hand. Setting it on the table, he pulled off the lid.
Leaning forward, Addisyn saw it was full of skating memorabilia—a pair of tacky old skate guards, some brochures and photographs, a few crumbling dried roses.
Darius reached under the layers of memories and pulled out a box. He opened it carefully—reverently.
Addisyn pulled in a breath so sudden it was almost a gasp. The dim lighting shimmered along the finely tempered edges of the metal, which was fashioned in a uniquely curved pattern. On the flat surface was an almost holographic design, elusive and intricate, emblazoned with the Olympic rings.
“Here.” Slowly, Darius lifted the medallion from its cushioned nest. It was bigger than she’d expected—as wide as his palm. “Wanna hold it?”
“Do you mean it?” Addisyn couldn’t believe his offer.
“Sure.” The bittersweetness in Darius’s tone and eyes was unmistakable.
Addisyn struggled to keep her hands from shaking. She couldn’t drop such a precious thing. It felt heavy in her hands, with the solidity of true value. The gold was duller than she expected—a regal matte finish, not the shiny flashiness of cheap wealth. She held the medal by the blue silk ribbon, allowing the gold to spin freely. “What’s the language on the back?” she asked.
“French.” Darius kept his eyes on her, his chin in his palm. “The name and number of the games are written on the back in French and English, since Canada’s bilingual.”
“It’s amazing,” Addisyn whispered. She gave the medal one last look, then returned it to Darius. Suddenly she giggled nervously, overcome by the evening’s impact. “I’m sorry, that’s just so cool for me—getting to hold an Olympic medal—”
Darius smiled in return. “It’s pretty cool, all right.” He gazed at it one last time—lovingly, almost. Then he sighed and replaced it in the box. “You know, one day when I was a little kid, I asked my grandpa if he had bad dreams about not getting to go to the Olympics.”
“What’d he say?”
Darius paused. “He said no. That he’d had a wonderful life and he didn’t regret a thing. He told me a medal was just—metal.” He smiled—a little sadly. “At the time I was horrified. Growing up on Olympic lore like I did, that seemed next door to blasphemy. But now...well, I can kind of see what he meant.”
Darius grabbed the shoebox and hurried out of the room with it. Addisyn sat at the table, still considering his story.
Amazing. Darius had climbed to the top. He’d been where she longed to go. He’d glided across that ice dyed with the sacred Olympic rings. He’d stood on a world stage and won the accolades and affection of all. And yet here he was, obviously beaten. Somehow, Addisyn suspected there was more pain beneath the waves of his story, a pain he couldn’t mention.
For the first time, Addisyn began to wonder. What was it really like at the top, anyway? What was up there that she so desperately wanted? If she decided to pursue her dream, what was she really chasing?
And more importantly, once someone stood on the mountaintop—where did they go from there?
