Page 6 of On the Edge

Andthatwent about as well as I expected too.

CHAPTER3

JACKSON

Park City, Utah

I close the door to my condo behind me and toss my bag on the coffee table before struggling out of my jacket. My right hand is wrapped with an ice pack resting up against my bruised knuckles. I got through the rest of the day with lots of ice and some ibuprofen. I’ve certainly had much worse pain in my life, so even though bruised bones can hurt as badly as broken ones, I didn’t let it get in the way of my first day back at work.

A text pings my phone.

Annie:I got your voice mail this morning when I got into the office, and seriously, you could not have timed that better!

Annie, the head of the racing program at Danforth, has been there since I raced for them in college. We’ve kept in touch here and there. I usually stop and see her at least once a year since I have to drive by Danforth to get to Blackstone Mountain, where my parents spend most of their time since Dad retired a few years ago.

I use voice-to-text to message her back, cursing my stupid injured hand.

Jackson:Oh wow, does that mean you do know of a PT opening in the area?

Annie:I do! Something here at Danforth, actually. I can’t put any more info in a text just yet. Can we chat when I have some more details?

Jackson:That would be perfect, just let me know when you want to talk.

Annie:I’ll call you in a week or two when I have more info.

Jackson:Thank you!

My entire body is humming with adrenaline. A few days ago, when I was enjoying my last day in Italy, Dad called to tell me that he and my mom had just gotten back from a trip to Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston where Mom goes to have monthly tests that make sure her body is responding to the gene therapy treatment that’s kept her cancer at bay for the last decade. And for the first time since starting the treatment, her tests were not normal. While they’ve been scheduling more tests to determine what the abnormal results mean, and what’s next for my mom, I’ve been feeling extremely guilty that I’m not there to help. Thanks to racing, grad school, and my career, I’ve spent the last ten years either in Park City or Europe. This feels like a wake-up call that maybe it’s time to go home.

But you have a dream job for the National Ski Team, a whiny voice in the back of my head reminds me. I know I’d be stupid to throw that away. But my parents have sacrificed everything to make racing possible for me, including my dad living in Europe with me in my late teens and early twenties while my mom stayed in Boston to raise my little brother. Being there to support them through whatever comes is the least I can do.

Annie was the first person I reached out to in the area to see about potential jobs, and I didn’t expect her to know of anything right away. I figured I’d start putting feelers out now with the hopes of moving home maybe this summer, after the ski season is over. But that was back when I thought Josh might be skiing his last season. Now, moving back to New England feels like the perfect antidote to Nate’s sudden arrival. I’m almost giddy with the possibility of putting a couple thousand miles distance between us.

I shoot off a text to my dad.

Jackson:I just heard from Annie Dilmont. She thinks there’s a PT position at Danforth opening up. I don’t have many details yet, but I’m already seriously considering it.

Dad:Don’t get ahead of yourself. This all may be nothing, and even if it’s not, we don’t expect you to leave a career you love to move home.

Home. I honestly don’t know where that is anymore. Probably Blackstone, where my parents live full time now and where I grew up spending every weekend skiing in the winter.

Jackson:I’ll keep you posted. And let me know as soon as you find out more info about Mom’s tests. I’ll be home all weekend.

I find the remote and turn my gas fireplace on, then gather a few pillows up and put them against the arm of my sofa before settling back, pulling a blanket over my lap, and taking a moment. I exhale, relieved that despite the intensity of my work and this new complication with Nate, I have this sanctuary.

Of course, from my perch on the couch I can see a to-do list a mile long—scuffed trim that needs to be repainted, the gorgeous metal pot rack Sierra gifted me before she moved out three months ago that’s still in the box propped up against the wall leading into my kitchen, the two baskets of clean laundry that I need to put away, the stack of mail I need to go through, the hiking boots I meant to return before my trip. All the things I meant to do before my trip. All things I don’t feel like dealing with right now.

I reach over to my bag, and pull the medical files out. I was supposed to have reviewed them earlier today, but I was sidetracked by my visit to the team doctor about my hand. I hate bringing work home, but I needed to get out of there after endless planning meetings this afternoon.

Nate’s file is so thick it’s like opening an encyclopedia. I start at the back, with the details I’m intimately familiar with.Donated kidney to mother, age 19. Details about his recovery from the surgery fill the page, but I was there for every minute of that experience and know even the details that the medical files leave out: how we all—especially his mom—tried to talk him out of it; how he delayed college for a semester because of the recovery; how hard it was on him emotionally to not be able to ski that first winter; how, even when he could ski again, it was like a part of him was missing because it was too dangerous for him to race; how he threw himself into my racing instead, even coaching me in my speed events once I left college and raced for the National Ski Team; how, in some ways, he was never the same after that surgery.

My phone vibrates, an angry buzzing that punctuates the silence. I grab it with my left hand and rest it on my knees so I can slide my finger across the screen to accept the call.You just had to hit him with your right hand?I chastise myself.

TJ’s face and his stupid lopsided grin fills the screen. “Hey, Jackson Hole,” he says, using the nickname he’s had for me ever since finding out I was named after the ski resort where my parents found out they were expecting me and immediately eloped. “Why am I looking at your ceiling?”

“Sorry!” I fumble the phone as I grab it with my left hand and hold it so he can see my bandaged right hand, “It’s hard to function with my right hand all wrapped up.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” He winces. “You hit your knuckles on your desk? Hard enough to bruise them?”

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