Page 71 of On the Edge

By the time we get to the bottom of the run, my lower back is doing that thing it’s been doing for weeks, where it knots up just enough to be inconvenient but not enough to be dangerous.

“You need to see Jackson about that,” Lyle says when I mention it. “She said she was going to grab lunch before the race. Go find her and make sure she’s okay with you racing.”

“I’m not skipping my slalom race because my back’s got a knot in it,” I tell him as I step out of my bindings.

“That’s Jackson’s decision, not yours,” Lyle says, an edge to his voice. Somehow he seems to know exactly what to say to piss me off, a theme I’ve noticed since joining the team. I can’t tell if it’s his way of pushing me to do better, or if he actually doesn’t like me. Maybe this is just part of us figuring each other out.

“Okay. I know Jackson’s not going to tell me to skip a race because I have a knot in my muscle, but I’ll check in with her about it anyway.” I hand my skis to the ski technician and head for the lodge, laughing to myself at the idea that Jackson, who’s skied with actual injuries, would say I shouldn’t ski because of something this minor.

I find her at a tiny table on the patio, the remnants of her lunch sitting on the tray in front of her. She doesn’t see me approach because she’s got her eyes closed and her head tilted toward the sun like she’s absorbing the warmth of the brilliant blue sky. Thanks to her noise-canceling headphones, she doesn’t hear me either. She’s got one boot on the chair opposite her, and her elbow rests on her bent knee.

It’s a pose that’s so familiar my chest aches a bit and I have to remind myself that she’s not the same girl she was when she first got the Waves sponsorship. It was such a clutch deal for her, and that first ad waseverywhere—Jackson, in a white race suit that hugged every single inch of her body, reclining in a gondola with one foot up on the seat across from her and her elbow resting on her bent knee. She was looking out at the snowcapped mountains with Waves headphones over her ears, and across the top of the ad it readWhat are you wishing for this Christmas?She oozed sex appeal, and so the answer was obvious for any male looking at that ad. I’d had it framed and was going to give it to her the following Christmas. By then, though, I’d left, she’d crashed, and everything had gone to shit. The frame is still in a box back in Big Sky.

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking until someone jostles into the back of me and apologizes, so I take the last step across the patio to reach her. When my shadow falls over her face she opens her eyes, but neither of us say anything. Her long hair falls down from under her knit National Ski Team hat, her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her eyes are bright and alive. She looks happy and I can’t stop staring at her like a creep. I want to say something, but I honestly can’t remember why I’m there.

“Are you ready to warm up?” she asks and it’s enough to wake me up from this stupor.

“Lyle wants you to check my back out before I race.”

She sits up, clearly concerned when she asks, “Why, what’s going on?”

“It’s just that same muscle that’s been bothering me. It’s knotted up again.”

“Let’s go take a look,” she says. She stands and nods for me to lead the way to the heated tents set up behind the grandstands where the fans watch the race.

Once there, I slip my arms out of my race suit, pulling it down to my waist and sliding my base layer up so she can see my back muscles. She prods at the offending muscle with the tips of her fingers, and it’s like she’s shooting electrical currents into my back with each touch. I can’t help the small grunts of pain that escape every time she pushes on the muscle—I didn’t expect it to hurt like that. I also can’t help the sigh I let slip when she runs her hands along both sides of it, her warm fingertips grazing my flesh gently.

“It’s pretty inflamed,” she tells me. “How long has it been bothering you?”

“Just since his morning. I probably pushed too hard in GS yesterday.”

“Any regrets?”

“Worth every second,” I tell her and she gives the back of my arm a supportive squeeze.

“You got yourself some nice race points with that eighth place finish yesterday,” she says, her voice placating in a way that has me worried about what she’s going to say next, “but your back is really inflamed. I think you should sit today out. It’s better to miss this one race rather than potentially injure yourself and have to miss the next couple races.”

“It’s just a knot in my back, Jackson, I’m not hurt.” I turn around to face her, crossing my arms in front of me as I do.

Her eyes are glued to my chest where my base layer strains across the muscles there. “Right,” she says, “but if it spasms while you’re racing—which it very well might given how much strain you’ll be putting on it—it could seize up and you could actually get hurt. It’s not worth the risk, Nate.” She drops her voice so low I almost miss her say, “Trust me.”

I reach out and tilt her chin up so she’s looking at me. “I do trust you,” I tell her. “But I need you to trust me too. I’m going to race, and I’m going to be fine.”

“You’re not going to race if I say you’re not in good enough condition.” Those thick pink lips of hers are pressed into a hard line and her eyes are sharp, like she’s looking for a fight.

I take a small step toward her. “Is this a pissing contest? Because your job is to make sure I’m ingood enough conditionto race,” I throw her words back at her, “not to stop me from racing when I’m fine.” Even despite our history and her initial unwillingness to train me, I never felt like she didn’t want me to race or win. Until now.

She crosses her arms over her chest, mimicking my stance. “In myprofessional opinion, you should sit this one out. It’s not worth the risk of getting injured.” She pauses, and when I don’t respond she says, “But if you insist, by all means, go ahead and race. But don’t come expecting me to fix you up when you hurt yourself.”

“Fine,” I say, spinning on my heel and heading out of the tent.

* * *

I stand at the start gate for my second run, and I hope that Jackson wasn’t right. I skied great during my first run, well enough to put me into sixth place headed into the second run. But as I’ve waited my turn, my back has been getting tighter and tighter. It doesn’t matter though, it’s not bad enough that I can’t ski.

I step up into position, situate my skis at the lip of course, plant my poles in front of the start wand, and crouch into my starting position. The beeper counts me down and I throw my body forward, down the initial steep incline of the course.

The first few gates are set closer together so it’s quick turns that require less pressure on my back, but during the steep middle part of the course the posts widen and I’m going faster, requiring more edging so the pressure on my lower back picks up. I’m flying though, my run going as well as it could despite the low-grade pain radiating out of that one muscle. As I approach the bottom of the course and the cheering crowds, the gates are set closer together again and I pick up speed as I slalom between them. The last pole before the finish line comes more quickly than I remember, and I have to cut to the left quick and hard so I don’t veer off course and loose those precious tenths of a second that can mean the difference between fifth place or fifteenth.

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