Dana Mentink - Race for the Gold

“That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She’d watched him sometimes, sitting alone, scissors in his hand that he immediately put away when she approached.

He shrugged and folded it back up and replaced it in the envelope. “A hobby of mine. Learned it when I was a kid.”

She clutched the envelope to her chest. “I’m going to keep it forever.”

“I think of you that way.” He cleared his throat. “When you’re racing, you’re like a bird, flying over the ice without really touching it.”

She found herself speechless as she tucked the little envelope carefully into her pocket. She knew where it would go every race, zipped under her skin suit, right next to her heart. “Thank you,” she managed. “I love it.”

He bent and fiddled with the lace on his shoe. “Ready to go, then?”

She nodded. “I’ll let you lead, since that’s what you’re used to.”

Laughing, sapphire eyes reflecting the sparkling snow, he headed up the road at an easy pace. They ran and laughed and dreamed together until five miles later they found they had looped back to the final bend in the road. Her fingers found the little envelope and she took it out again.

In his eyes, she was a bird, soaring, flying. The image hovered in her heart and awakened something she’d never felt before.

As if in some silent agreement, their pace slowed, breath puffing in the twilight, savoring the last portion of the run together. When they stopped, he took her in his arms again and she stared into those eyes now darkened by the shadows but still luminous as if they generated their own light from deep down in his soul.

He pressed his lips to her temple and she was lost in the warmth, the feel of his strong arms folded around her. “Congrats again, Laney. I know how you’ve struggled for this.”

“We both have,” she murmured.

Neither one of them heard the sound at first. The roar of an engine, the crunching of tires trying to find traction on the snow.

He broke off the kiss as the car rounded the corner, his hand clutching hers.

A flash of metal, the barest glimpse of the driver’s face.

With a sickening crunch, the car plowed into them. As she fell into the crisp layer of snow, she watched the tiny envelope settle gently to the ground.

ONE

Four long years, and it was as if the shock of the accident still lingered in her muscles, weakening the certainty she’d felt as a twenty-three-year-old champion. Now, at almost twenty-seven years old, Laney felt the eyes following her as she climbed from the heat box and clumped her way to the ice. Taking off her skate guards, she slid onto the sparkling surface of the ice and headed for the start line.

Was it whispers she heard from the coaches and the other girls? Or was it her own thoughts bubbling up to the surface, memories from four years before when she’d had her dream and lost it? It wasn’t the venue that sparked the tension inside; she’d spent most of the past year training in this very spot. Nor was it the fear of losing, not really. Though it was a practice race, it was an important one, an indication of her prospects for placing in the trials in a matter of weeks, the event that would decide who made the team for the Olympic Games.

Up until now she’d been training mostly on her own with Max, grinding her body back into shape in spite of the pain. Today was the time she would answer the question publicly. Was Laney Thompson back?

As she glided slow circles on the ice, she pondered the question she’d tried to answer for herself every day since the accident that broke her ankle and left her with a brain injury. Did Laney Thompson still have what it took to compete for the United States in the biggest meet of her life? Her competitions throughout the season had not been stellar, moments of brilliance mixed in with enough mistakes to leave room for doubt.

Again the tickle of guilt that inevitably came with the question. Did she even deserve to be back, poised for a second chance, when Max was not?

She knew he was there somewhere in the arena. How did he feel at that moment? Now a trainer, thanks to the screws in a hip that had been extremely slow to heal, he watched others strive to live out a passion now denied to him.

He’d emerged from the accident scarred inside, too, hidden damage that had caused him to withdraw from her. Or maybe he’d lost any tender feelings for her when she woke up unable to remember chunks of their time together. Something broke there on the snow that day, something more than bones and dreams. She didn’t understand what it was, and maybe she never would.

Beth Morrison gave her a smile, dimples standing out against her pale face, dark hair sporting a hot pink streak today. The girl looked so incredibly young. And when, Laney thought drily, had she become the old lady of the team at almost twenty-seven years old? Beth pointed to Laney’s left skate. “Not tight,” she mouthed.

Laney blushed and dropped to a knee to try it again. Gifted athlete, natural dancer, all-around high achiever Laney Thompson still had to remind herself of the steps to tying her skates. Why had the nuances of short-track speed skating lingered in her memory, but the act of tying her laces remained a challenge? And reading a clock, and remembering to eat or what not to eat? She’d almost triggered an allergic reaction two days prior when she’d been ready to eat a nutrition bar containing peanuts. It’s the brain injury, Laney, not you.

Tanya Crowley shot her an odd look before she concealed her eyes behind racing glasses. Was it disdain Laney saw on her lips? Mind games, an athlete’s trick.

Laney wondered what would happen if she produced a terrible race here today. Practice or not, she knew her performance would answer the question in her own mind. Could Laney Thompson be the person she was before the hit-and-run driver had almost taken away her future?

Her eyes scanned the darkened arena for Max. She did not see him. Zipping her skin suit up to her neck, she had a flash of memory, picturing the cut paper bird he had given her a moment before their lives were changed. After the crash, he’d retreated so far she doubted if there ever really had been the sweet connection between them.

You’re like a bird, flying over the ice without really touching it. Had she read more into those words than she should have?

Would he ever see her that way again? Or was she someone flying away with a dream that should have been his?

No more time to think about it, Laney. Get into position. Game face on.

* * *

Max stood in the shadows, his body tensing just as it always did before the start of a race. Practice run or the real thing, it had never made a difference. When the buzzer sounded, there was only the ice and the finish line and seventeen-and-a-half-inch blades carrying him to victory. That’s what he had loved about it most, how racing stripped everything away to that simple equation. Insane levels of training plus a helping of talent equaled a win.

At least, it used to. He eased the weight off his bad hip, still stiff in spite of the massive efforts he’d made to rehab. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. The only thing that saved him from total despair was this job, the chance to help Laney achieve what they’d both lost. He wouldn’t get all of it back. Anger twisted his soul into an impenetrable knot that separated him from everyone, even Laney.

He found his hands were clenched around the rail as he watched her get into the zone. Would she remember to focus on her cornering? He was already taking notes about her tendency to chat with the other girls. Always kindling with energy, Laney struggled with brain trauma that had left her with a shortened attention span. There was more riding on this practice run than anyone knew, except maybe him and Dan Thompson, Laney’s foster dad, who paced anxiously up and down the opposite side of the oval.