I’ll be lucky if I ever beat her again. She and Laurel will be one-two on Saturday. And I have a strong feeling that this prodigal seventeen year old will take third.
Seventeen. I can’t believe I’m racing someone four years younger than me. I felt ancient at seventeen. I feel worse at twenty-one, like things are already starting to pass me by.
I realize, with a twist in my stomach, that I probably will have a hard time getting back to number one in the country in downhill. When Mike said he wanted me to finish, he meant that unless someone fucked up, I had no shot at placing in the top three.
I’ll just have to handle it. And hope to improve.
“Awesome,” I say to her.
“Oh, thanks,” she grins. “You looked great.”
“Right.”
“No, you really did,” she smiles. “You can definitely place Saturday if this is your first day back.” Bullshit .
Small, achievable goals first. I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that.
I hate losing. Even in practice.
Chapter Eight
By Friday, my body feels like it’s at war with me—everything hurts. But, I’m getting stronger, falling less, feeling more confident. And it’s easy to be distracted from the physical pain, because the mountain is crawling with skiers from all over the circuit.
And even though I’ve always hated the idea of people talking about me, I’ve never been so sure that they actually were talking about me until now.
The girl from the avalanche that killed Ryan Cameron and Danny Keller. Remember that? That’s her.
The cafeteria the night before the races teems with people I had once called friends and people who I still probably should call enemies. And the rest of the people just pitied me, which made me resent the hell out of them.
“Do not freak out,” Lottie says, taking the tray from my hand and laying flat on the counter.
She starts putting food on my plate. I had been standing, holding a tray in one listless hand like an idiot, for the past five minutes. “Pasta? Competition tomorrow means you eat pasta. Pippa Baker is not fucking afraid of these people. Pippa Baker is getting her pasta and Pippa Baker is going to eat these fuckers for breakfast tomorrow.”
I chuckle.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Pippa Baker is not apologizing for being scared of Laurel Bates and the rest of the Deatheaters.”
“Deatheaters?”
“Yes.”
“Which one is Voldemort?”
“Mm…don’t be ridiculous, there’s no Voldemort. It’s just all deatheaters.”
I laugh at her. “I think that’s enough pasta.”
“There’s no such thing as enough pasta.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Calm yourself and carry that to Joe’s table.” She hands me the tray and meets my eyes. I look at her gratefully.
“Thanks.”
“Joe’s table. Go .”
I glance over. “Hunter’s sitting there.”
“And?”
“Can we just sit with someone else?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he’s not as bad as the other people here and there are no free tables.”
Hunter looks angry and hot. I guess that’s just his look. Angry. Hot. Not giving a fuck. Whatever. It’s a good look on him, but I still don’t want to sit as his table.
He’s wearing a hunter green sweatshirt and focusing on his food so he doesn’t have to talk to us. If I hadn’t creepily accidentally spied on him, I could make a joke about the hunter green sweatshirt. I mean, it would be a terrible joke, but awkward jokes beat awkward silence.
“Hey,” Joe says. “You ready, Pip?”
I nod. “I hope so.”
Hunter looks up for the first time. His eyes wander over me lazily and then he looks directly at Lottie. “Well, good luck,” he says, getting to his feet.
“Thanks,” Lottie says. I don’t say anything. The luck he wished was obviously directed at her and not at me.
I watch him clear his tray. So, he’s even more pissed off at me than I thought. I swallow. I don’t care. I don’t know him. Barely
Seventeen. I can’t believe I’m racing someone four years younger than me. I felt ancient at seventeen. I feel worse at twenty-one, like things are already starting to pass me by.
I realize, with a twist in my stomach, that I probably will have a hard time getting back to number one in the country in downhill. When Mike said he wanted me to finish, he meant that unless someone fucked up, I had no shot at placing in the top three.
I’ll just have to handle it. And hope to improve.
“Awesome,” I say to her.
“Oh, thanks,” she grins. “You looked great.”
“Right.”
“No, you really did,” she smiles. “You can definitely place Saturday if this is your first day back.” Bullshit .
Small, achievable goals first. I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that.
I hate losing. Even in practice.
Chapter Eight
By Friday, my body feels like it’s at war with me—everything hurts. But, I’m getting stronger, falling less, feeling more confident. And it’s easy to be distracted from the physical pain, because the mountain is crawling with skiers from all over the circuit.
And even though I’ve always hated the idea of people talking about me, I’ve never been so sure that they actually were talking about me until now.
The girl from the avalanche that killed Ryan Cameron and Danny Keller. Remember that? That’s her.
The cafeteria the night before the races teems with people I had once called friends and people who I still probably should call enemies. And the rest of the people just pitied me, which made me resent the hell out of them.
“Do not freak out,” Lottie says, taking the tray from my hand and laying flat on the counter.
She starts putting food on my plate. I had been standing, holding a tray in one listless hand like an idiot, for the past five minutes. “Pasta? Competition tomorrow means you eat pasta. Pippa Baker is not fucking afraid of these people. Pippa Baker is getting her pasta and Pippa Baker is going to eat these fuckers for breakfast tomorrow.”
I chuckle.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Pippa Baker is not apologizing for being scared of Laurel Bates and the rest of the Deatheaters.”
“Deatheaters?”
“Yes.”
“Which one is Voldemort?”
“Mm…don’t be ridiculous, there’s no Voldemort. It’s just all deatheaters.”
I laugh at her. “I think that’s enough pasta.”
“There’s no such thing as enough pasta.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Calm yourself and carry that to Joe’s table.” She hands me the tray and meets my eyes. I look at her gratefully.
“Thanks.”
“Joe’s table. Go .”
I glance over. “Hunter’s sitting there.”
“And?”
“Can we just sit with someone else?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he’s not as bad as the other people here and there are no free tables.”
Hunter looks angry and hot. I guess that’s just his look. Angry. Hot. Not giving a fuck. Whatever. It’s a good look on him, but I still don’t want to sit as his table.
He’s wearing a hunter green sweatshirt and focusing on his food so he doesn’t have to talk to us. If I hadn’t creepily accidentally spied on him, I could make a joke about the hunter green sweatshirt. I mean, it would be a terrible joke, but awkward jokes beat awkward silence.
“Hey,” Joe says. “You ready, Pip?”
I nod. “I hope so.”
Hunter looks up for the first time. His eyes wander over me lazily and then he looks directly at Lottie. “Well, good luck,” he says, getting to his feet.
“Thanks,” Lottie says. I don’t say anything. The luck he wished was obviously directed at her and not at me.
I watch him clear his tray. So, he’s even more pissed off at me than I thought. I swallow. I don’t care. I don’t know him. Barely
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