Page 41 of On the Edge

JACKSON

Levi, Finland

“There is no reason you can’t place in the top five for this race,” I tell Nate. “The conditions on this mountain are perfect for you. You couldn’t be in better shape. Just attack this run like you did the last one and you’ll get major points for this race.” I keep my tone upbeat and confident. He needs to know I believe in him.

“I don’t know why you think I can waltz into the top five at my first World Cup race. I’ll be thrilled if I stay in the top fifteen,” Nate says, looking at the course with a small dose of fear in his eyes.

The thing with Nate is, he’s my opposite. I was a come-from-behind kind of skier. Tell me I couldn’t do it, and I’d set out to prove you wrong. Nate had that figured out about me when we were teenagers. He’d taunt me before every race, making me think he didn’t believe in me, just so I’d go out there and prove him wrong—a routine we maintained for too long.Except for the one time he wasn’t there... but I can’t think about that day right now.

Today, I need him to go out there and ski the best he’s ever skied. My future depends on it. And for Nate to do well, he needs to go into this race confident. He needs to believe he has a shot at winning. And for some reason, the person he trusts to be honest with him right now is me.

“Look at me,” I say, putting both my hands on his shoulders as I turn him to face me. “You are sitting in fifteenth going into your second run. Do you know how amazing that is for your first World Cup race? You can do this. You are the best skier I’ve ever known.” Every word of that is true. Marco is an amazing skier—the best in the world—and our US team is full of talented and hardworking men. But Nate has the raw potential to be better than all of them.

He leans down, resting his forehead against the top of my head, our knit National Ski Team hats pressed together. I can feel his breath on my face, and suddenly my heartbeat is pounding in my chest, making it hard to breathe.This is your career,I remind myself.It’s not personal.

That night in the kitchen before we flew to Finland was a mistake. I let my guard down. I was feeling scared about my mom’s cancer, and anxious about the Danforth interview that’s now a little over a week away. I let the attraction overcome my logic and I let him console me when I should have been pushing him away and consoling myself. Letting him back in, in any capacity, is too dangerous. My heart can’t handle any more heartbreak. And that’s what Nate is—a heartbreak I barely survived the first time around.

“Keep talking,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. Goose bumps start at the base of my spine and crawl slowly up my back because I recognize the tenor in his tone. He’s using his turned-on voice—the one I could never resist. But I don’t think he even realizes it. He’s not trying to seduce me out here at the top of the course, in front of everyone. He just needs me to be here for him right now. He needs that connection, to know I believe in him.

Stay focused.

“You know every turn on this hill from your first run,” I remind him. Levi is always tricky because the four hours of daylight means that if you’re lucky enough to land in the top thirty during your first run, your second run is in the dark under the yellow glow of the lights. It can feel like an entirely different course when the light changes that much. “You have the speed and the agility. You are stronger than you’ve ever been. Don’t go too aggressive at the top of the course, save it for the middle where you’ll really need your strength on that steep terrain. Dig in as hard as you can on those turns and focus on your balance. Keep it tight. Your body is ready for this,” I assure him. I squeeze his shoulders as I step away, vaguely aware of the clicking of multiple camera shutters. Of course this is all documented. Everything is.

“Thanks,” Nate mouths as he steps back, then reaches over and clasps my shoulder with one hand.

“Time to warm up,” I tell him.

“Five more racers,” Lyle barks at Nate, “then you.”

From the bottom of the hill the crowd erupts for the skier who just finished. I don’t try to calculate who it was, and I hope Nate isn’t thinking about that either. Comparison is a mind-fuck when you’re at the top of the mountain waiting to go. Lyle stands next to me, the two of us trying to block out the cameras.

Nate easily runs through the warm-up regimen I’ve prepared for him without even breaking a sweat, though his breath is coming out in little white puffs.

“Three more to go.” Lyle gives us the update on Nate’s position in line.

I have him do some high knees to get his heart rate up, make sure he’s good and warm going into his run. “All right, let’s stretch out your back. All the way over.” I guide his head down so his upper body is as close to his straight legs as possible. For someone with so much muscle, he’s surprisingly flexible. Consistent yoga is helping with that. “Bend your left leg and breathe into it,” I say, moving behind him and pushing against the muscles of his lower back and making sure he’s not stiff or tender there like he was in Colorado. “Alternate.”

When Nate is sufficiently stretched out and his muscles warm, I look over at Lyle. “He’s ready.”

“All right, gear on,” Lyle barks as he starts to turn away toward the start gate. “You’ve got about two minutes until you’re at the start gate.”

Nate steps into his skis and straps his helmet on, before turning toward me. He reaches out and takes both my gloved hands in his. “Thank you for being here.”

I resist the temptation to remind him that it’s my job—that I’m paid to be here. That would undo all the progress we’ve made getting him ready for this race. “You got this,” I say instead. “You can win this.”

He leans in as close as the chin guard on his helmet will allow. “I didn’t only come here to win this,” he says, his voice low and steady, but quiet enough that only I can hear him. “I came for you.”

Lyle shoves Nate’s poles between us, clicking them into his gloves, and he’s off toward the start gate. If I hadn’t had so many years of recent practice perfecting my poker face, pretending like nothing—especially concerning Nate—bothered me, my mouth would be hanging open for the cameras. And that’s the very last thing we need right now.

* * *

Heads turn as Marco and I follow the host to our table. A few people have their mobile phones out and are taking pictures or filming us. I hate this part of our relationship, but Marco adores the spotlight, loves being beloved, appreciates every minute of his celebrity. He’s done nothing to earn the good looks that were gifted to him by his parents, but he’s had an amazing career and deserves to be recognized for every win he’s earned. People just can’t get enough.

Once we’re seated and our waiter has taken our drink order, people around us appear to go back to enjoying their meals. Marco has gotten us a round booth tucked into the corner. The nearest patrons are at least ten feet away, so at least we’ve got some privacy.

“How’s Claus?” I ask him when we get seated.

“Shy.” He laughs. As is tradition in Levi, the male and female winners each get to name a reindeer. Claus was Marco’s prize for his first place slalom finish today, and it’s a fitting name given that the Lapland region of Finland is known as Santa’s Lair—home of Santa, including Santa’s Village which is a surprisingly popular tourist attraction. And Santa always presides over Levi’s “bib draw,” the nighttime party that kicks off each World Cup race with the top fifteen ranked racers pulling bibs to find out what order they’ll race in.

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