Page 65 of Well Played

He was being kind, and I knew it. Owen was a GS skier, my event, but also Super G, the seriously hard-core race few had the skills or nerve for. He was stunning to watch, with a grace possessed by very few skiers. When he skied down the course, he was fast, smooth, and elegant, almost like a graceful dance.

“What do you need a bandage for?” Owen asked. “Are you injured? Do you need me to take you to the medical team?”

The stress that had built up in my chest exploded at that point, and he stepped closer to touch my shoulder, standing dangerously close as the dam wall broke and tears streamed down my face.God, he was hot, but right now, it was all I could do to not lose it completely.I felt like an idiot, blubbering in front of the biggest superstar on the circuit.

“No.” I pulled the tissue from my jacket pocket and held it to my eyes to stem the flow. “Jeff….”

“Jeff?”

“Jeff thinks my boobs are too big for ski racing,” I sobbed. “He told me I need to bandage them down or, better still, have them removed. He said a woman with double D breasts is too large for ski racing.”

Owen sniggered, taking me by surprise. “Seriously? That is his biggest issue? Clearly, he has reached the end of his coaching life. So what? By the time you are in a race suit, they are strapped down. Besides, you have a strength and style most of the women lack. You drive your ski hard; few women can do that. But you favor your left ski. You just need to work on your transitions, and you will podium every time.”

Wait, he had watched me ski?

“Umm…” I said, unsure of what to say as my face flushed deeper. “Knee reconstruction three months ago.”

“That explains it. You need to trust yourself. You did the rehab didn’t you?”

I was saved from responding as the announcement came for bib numbers one to fifty to progress to the marshaling area.

“That’s me,” I told him, grabbing my boot shells and bending down to tighten the laces on my liners.

“Sophie,” he pulled my attention back up to where he still stood. “You can do this. You have the skills. Focus on the transition of your balance from one ski to the other. Stop favoring your left leg. Good luck. I believe in you.”

Owen walked to the door and placed his hand on the handle. But turned back to me, a naughty glint twinkled in his eye. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, I think your boobs are hot as fuck.” My mouth dropped, but he was gone, leaving me with a view of skiers streaming past in the corridor.

Gathering my gear and getting to the marshaling area was a blur.Owen had spoken to me. Knew who I was. And thought I was hot? No, he thought boobs were hot, I corrected myself.All men think that. Well, except Jerkwad Jeff.

Stripping off my jacket and undoing the zip down the side of my pants, I started warming up, stretching, twisting, and loosening my hips. I had one shot at this. If I didn’t finish in the top five, I wouldn’t accrue enough points and my season would be over. Maybe not in as spectacular a style as last year when I blew my knee on course, but over, nonetheless.

As they counted down the competitor’s numbers, I clicked into my skis, and double-checked my gear. Bindings, ski edges, poles, helmet, arm guards, gloves. The last thing anyone wanted in a race was an equipment malfunction. One of the dangers of ski racing was the risk of serious injury. There was a concussion, knee blowout, or worse, at pretty much every event. While the Austrians were fabulous with medical treatment, the last thingI wanted was to injure myself now and spend the summer in rehabilitation. Again.

Focus.I steeled myself, watching the Czech girl in front of me enter the start gate. I counted the timer down.Three, two, one, beep. She burst through the start wand as soon as the buzzer sounded and flew down the course toward the first gate. Red, blue, red. Then she was over the crest and out of sight. I glanced at the time displayed on the huge digital screen. She made good time over the first part of the course. Sliding into the tiny hut, I slowed my breath and my heart rate and leaned into the wand. I glanced at the timing box. Thirty seconds.

Stilling my mind, I focused on what I needed to do, what I had done millions of times. Block out the world, the officials, the noise from the crowd. Only the timer counting down broke into my zone. The final five seconds were critical. A slow start was the end of the race. A good start was everything. One-hundredth of a second could mean the difference between first and fifth in this sport. Once you blew a gate, there was little chance to make the time up.

Five, four, three, two, one. Planting my poles, flexing my boots with as much tension as I could, and leaning up onto the tips of my skis, I counted the final beeps, and as soon as the buzzer sounded, I thrust as hard as I could out of the gate. I landed a few meters down the course, skating and using my poles to adjust to the pitch, tucking my body to reach the first gate where the technical part of the course started.Red, blue, red.Counting them down, I carved as close to the gates as I could without the fatal mistake of clipping it with my ski.Clack, clack,my arm guards whacked against each flag as I passed, and it felt good. I gained a rhythm, essential if I was to record a good time.Roll, roll, roll, I coached myself as I sped down the course, focusing on each tiny movement and remembering Owen’s words about being balanced on my skis. As I tucked the final fewmeters over the finish line, I skidded to a stop in front of the crowd, the cheering and ringing of cowbells breaking through my concentration as I became aware of the world around me. Spectators rang cow bells along the course, but usually, I didn’t hear it, too focused on the next turn and how my ski felt against the snow.

This was the worst part. Waiting, hoping I didn’t get a disqualification for a technicality. I didn’t need to wait long; the time flicked up on the huge Longines board at the bottom, and the crowd roared. My name flickered to the top of the list in white lights. First place. I dropped my head for a moment to recover my composure, before lifting my arms to wave to the crowd and the cameras, leaving the finishing area to hug my friends.

Although technically I skied for Australia, I had dual citizenship thanks to my father and trained at Beaver Creek in Colorado with many of the US girls. Since Australia was a small country in winter sports, the Australian Institute of Sport had negotiated a deal, and I was considered a de facto part of the US team. These girls were friends. We trained together and supported each other. We shared an apartment, and they were squealing, hugging me, as I tried to eject from my bindings. It was surreal, but I knew not to get too excited. There were another ten skiers after me, the second run being in reverse bib order. Any of them could clock a faster time and pip me.

The next twenty-five minutes were nail-bitingly tense as I changed into my warm-down suit, checked, and packed away my gear, watching each result from the athletes’ waiting room. Several skiers came close, but in the end, no woman skied a better time.

The squealing and hugging engulfed me as the girls embraced me, congratulating me on my first podium of the season.

“Maybe I should speak to you between all of your races,” Jeff grunted at me as he passed, although I noted he stopped short of congratulating me.Why did this man hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?

A roar of applause filled the room as everyone watched the screens mounted from the roof as Owen skied his final run, recording a time half a second ahead of second place. With such a considerable margin, we knew no one could touch him. Even with three skiers to go, it was clear he had won. The man was on fire, but as he waved to the crowd, it wasn’t with a sense of arrogance like many of the guys on the circuit. He thanked them for their support, shaking hands and congratulating the other racers. My skin tingled, remembering what he had said, how he had stepped in to help me.

Don’t get ideas above your station!I berated myself.He was just being kind. By tomorrow, he will be kind to some other girl and will have forgotten your name.

Within half an hour, my warm, fuzzy sense of accomplishment had morphed into a whirlwind. My head was spinning with the flurry of activity, being pushed from camera to press conference. Journalists tugged on my arm, asking me questions, and I answered the best I could, hoping I didn’t sound like an idiot. Everyone wanted a piece of me, and officials steered me to where I needed to be next.

Owen stood beside me at the awards ceremony and smiled as the Australian national anthem, Advance Australia Fair, played before his The Star-Spangled Banner. With what felt like the entire village of Kitzbühel before us, the media requested we pose for photos, displaying our medals. He slipped his arm around me as we held our medals out to the camera, and my heart beat a fraction faster, my skin warmed from his touch.

As the journalists drifted away, Owen whispered in my ear, “I’ll see you at the party tonight.” Before I could acknowledgehim, he was gone, slipping into the crowd like he was a regular guy, not a world-class athlete.

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