Page 4 of On the Edge

She’s still bent over, cradling her hand, and as I step toward her to help she looks up at me with the wild eyes of a cornered animal. “Get. Out.”

“Suit yourself,” I say with a bravado I don’t feel as I head out to the hallway. It takes everything I have not to look back over my shoulder.

* * *

Well, that didn’t go how I thought it’d go. Or maybe it did. I don’t know what I expected, really. I figured she’dwantto kill me. But I guess I didn’t expect her to actually hit me. Not that I didn’t have it coming. After five years of radio silence, I deserve that and more from her.

The Center is busy this morning, but I’m still new here so I’m able to make my way to the locker room with nothing more than a head nod to the few people I pass. Once I’m there, I stand in front of a mirror and rub my jaw. It’s still pretty clenched up and even as I try to stretch it out, the muscle resists. I need to get an ice pack on it or it’s going to be swollen soon.

Jeff Beltzer, who’s made quite a name for himself in his nine years on the team, enters the locker room a few feet from where I’m standing. “Hey,” I say as he glances over at me, “I’m Nate. I’m new here.”

“I know who you are, man,” he says in a faint Boston accent. He reaches out to shake my hand and his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Glad you’re joining us.”

I guess I’ve made a name for myself too, which is ironic since I’ve barely stepped up to the start gate on a race course since I was a nationally ranked skier in high school. “Thanks, I’m pretty happy to be here.”

“Long time coming,” he says, but his eyes narrow. “What happened to your face?”

“Uh, unpacking injury this morning,” I say, running my knuckles along my jaw which, if the tenderness is any indication, is probably already bruising a bit. “Living out of boxes right now.” At least half of what I’ve told him is true.

“Of course,” he says with a nod. “You need an ice pack?”

“Probably a good idea,” I say, grateful he suggested it and I didn’t have to ask.

I let him lead me to one of the trainers who of course wants more details. I make up a story about unpacking and carelessly knocking a marble bookend off a shelf and right into the side of my face. It sounds believable enough since I just moved to Park City a few days ago. No one needs to know that I’ve been staying in a hotel suite and the movers are delivering my stuff to my new condo later this afternoon. If anyone knew how I really got hurt, Jackson might lose her job, or they’d keep her away from me, and neither of those options will do me any good.

Jeff takes it upon himself to be my tour guide, taking me to our first team meeting where Coach introduces me and explains that with Josh retiring they’ve moved Taylor Lang up from the B team to the A team, and given me his spot on the B team. Everyone knows that my selection to the team fell under a Coaches Discretion—that a small committee of coaches decided I deserved a spot on the team even though I hadn’t technically qualified for it. That they put me on the B team and not the C team is sure to ruffle some feathers among my teammates, but I’ll deal with that as it comes.

For now, I’m here and so is Jackson, and that’s all that matters.

Coach verbally reviews the training schedule for the week—details that were spelled out in an email we received before arriving here for the first official week of training. My mind wanders, as it often does, to Jackson.Is her hand okay? Will it be a problem if anyone finds out she hit me?

Everyone already knows about our history. Jackson’s crash at Val d’Isère in the Super-G that should have clenched her first place spot for the season in that discipline five years ago was highly publicized. As was the fact that I didn’t show up for that race, even though I was her speed coach. The guilt is a tight knot in my stomach because her career-ending crash and our breakup have overshadowed her other milestones that came before it—the surprise Olympic gold in Giant Slalom during her second season, where the media began comparing her to ski racing icon Mikaela Shiffrin, her seventeen podium finishes her third season on the World Cup alpine circuit, and how close she came to securing an overall World Cup victory her fourth and final season, just over five years ago.

“Dude.” Jeff elbows me, and I look around to see that everyone is getting up, milling around the room, and I’ve just been sitting here lost in my own thoughts.Man, I need to get a grip.Being this close to Jackson for the first time in years is throwing me.

“Sorry,” I respond with a forced smile. “What did I miss?”

“Coach wants you and the other new team members to go get your athlete photos taken on the balcony.”

“Thanks, man,” I say as I stand and make my way toward the door where the two other new guys are waiting for me. They are both young, I’d say early twenties, like Jackson and I were when she made racing her full-time career.

We fill the time with small talk as the three of us make our way through the Elite Training Center. I’ve studied so many pictures of this place that I feel like everything looks familiar even though this is really only my second time here. My first visit, for my interview with the coaching staff, took place after -hours so no one outside of the small group of coaches would know it was happening. I don’t love the backdoor way I made this team, but I did what I had to do to make it happen. I deserve this spot even if I didn’t earn it in the traditional way, and the coaches know that I can compete at this level even if extenuating circumstances prevented me from competing sooner.

“Your videos are pretty dope, dude,” one of the guys says to me. He’s a snowboarder and I can’t remember his name—Zach, maybe? He has a baby face that makes him look even younger than he is. I’m pretty sure he’s on the development team, where I would have started were it not for an emergency surgery immediately following ski season my senior year of high school.

“Thanks, man,” I say. I’d hoped the focus here wouldn’t be on my social media, but I’m not surprised that someone’s already brought it up. My most-watched video where I heli-skied the Cathedral in Alaska last year has over ten million views, and the video of me doing an back flip into Corbet’s Couloir at Jackson Hole, my second most-watched video, has eight million views.

“What’s it like, being famous?” the other dude, also probably ten years younger than me, asks.

“I’m really not famous.” Sure, a lot of people follow me on social media to see me ski crazy lines in the backcountry, but it’s not like I’m a household name—not even among ski racing fans. “I’m just lucky to have sponsors willing to support me in doing what I love.”

“But you’re not going to be able to do that anymore, are you?” Maybe-Zach asks.

“Nah. But that was just a stand-in until I could get back to racing.”

“I can’t believe you even did all that after your surgery,” he says.

Is there nothing about my personal life that’s actually personal?

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