Colorado.
The trip, the trophy, everything. After years of practice, years of frustration, they were so close now he could taste them.
“Next year will be yours,” the Judge had told him during the agony and tears that had followed last years race. “Next year Tyler will be too old to compete, and you’ll be number one.”
Tyler. What a joke. Why couldn’t his father understand that it was the shitty way the slope had been groomed—the goddamn ruts that had caught his skis—that had caused him to lose by half a second. Not Tyler.
One more run
.
“Hey, Frankie, you sleeping or what?”
Startled, Frank whirled. His brother, Zack, wearing black boots and a black racing suit, ambled toward him over a small mound of packed snow.
“Just studying the course, Zack-o,” Frank said.
“As if you needed to. You could ski backward and there’s still no one in this field who could catch you.”
Frank jabbed a thumb toward the huge board where the times for the first run were posted. “You could.”
Zack laughed out loud. “Make up three seconds on you when I’ve never once beaten you on a run? You’ve got to be kidding. Listen, all I want to do is stay on my feet and get that second place trophy. There’ll be plenty of time for me next year when you’re racing Seniors.”
“Sure, Zack-o, sure. Lay it on any thicker and I’ll slip on it. Since when did you get off thinking you could psych me?”
And psyching he was, too, the little worm, Frank thought.
They were just about two years apart in age, but Zack had hit a growth spurt just after his thirteenth birthday, and suddenly, over the year that had followed, the competition between them had intensified in all sports—especially in skiing, where the gap separating them had been narrowing all winter.
Again, Frank glanced at the time board. There was a wide margin between Zack and the boy in third place. The final run was a two-man race, and his brother knew it as well as he did. He was being psyched, all right. Zack would be skiing second, right after him, and he was getting set to pull out all the stops.
“Listen, Frankie,” Zack said, with that note of sincerity that Frank knew was a crock of shit, “I mean it. I’ll try my best, sure. But I’ll be pulling for you, too. Believe me I will.” He reached out his hand. “Good luck.”
Frank looked at his brothers hand and then at his face. There was something in Zack’s eyes that made him almost shudder—a confidence, a determination he had never seen in them before. It was a look, though, that he knew well—a look he had faced many times in the eyes of their father. Frank hesitated for a fraction of a second and then pulled off his glove and gripped Zack’s hand tightly.
“Go for it,” he said.
“I will. See you up top.”
Zack smiled at him, nodded, and wandered off to join a group of racers waiting for word that the second run was to begin.
Frank glanced over at the crowd of parents preparing to make their way to vantage points along the course. At that instant, the Judge, who was chatting with several friends, looked over. Frank smiled thinly, and his father responded with a hearty thumbs-up sign.
One more run
.
Restless to get it over with, Frank crossed to retrieve his skis from the rack where they and those of the other competitors were lined up on end like pickets in a fence. He knew he was shaken by the brief encounter with his younger brother and by the look in his eyes. And that knowledge upset him even more.
Three seconds was a lot, true, but the way Zack had beencoming on over the past few weeks, anything was possible. For a moment, Frank even toyed with the notion of asking him to back off, to wait his turn.
It wasn’t fair, he thought. First that goddamn rut, now this. It was
his
year. The Judge had said so himself. Nothing was going to keep him from that trophy, that trip—nothing and no one.
He pulled his skis from the rack and ran his hand along the bottom, testing
The trip, the trophy, everything. After years of practice, years of frustration, they were so close now he could taste them.
“Next year will be yours,” the Judge had told him during the agony and tears that had followed last years race. “Next year Tyler will be too old to compete, and you’ll be number one.”
Tyler. What a joke. Why couldn’t his father understand that it was the shitty way the slope had been groomed—the goddamn ruts that had caught his skis—that had caused him to lose by half a second. Not Tyler.
One more run
.
“Hey, Frankie, you sleeping or what?”
Startled, Frank whirled. His brother, Zack, wearing black boots and a black racing suit, ambled toward him over a small mound of packed snow.
“Just studying the course, Zack-o,” Frank said.
“As if you needed to. You could ski backward and there’s still no one in this field who could catch you.”
Frank jabbed a thumb toward the huge board where the times for the first run were posted. “You could.”
Zack laughed out loud. “Make up three seconds on you when I’ve never once beaten you on a run? You’ve got to be kidding. Listen, all I want to do is stay on my feet and get that second place trophy. There’ll be plenty of time for me next year when you’re racing Seniors.”
“Sure, Zack-o, sure. Lay it on any thicker and I’ll slip on it. Since when did you get off thinking you could psych me?”
And psyching he was, too, the little worm, Frank thought.
They were just about two years apart in age, but Zack had hit a growth spurt just after his thirteenth birthday, and suddenly, over the year that had followed, the competition between them had intensified in all sports—especially in skiing, where the gap separating them had been narrowing all winter.
Again, Frank glanced at the time board. There was a wide margin between Zack and the boy in third place. The final run was a two-man race, and his brother knew it as well as he did. He was being psyched, all right. Zack would be skiing second, right after him, and he was getting set to pull out all the stops.
“Listen, Frankie,” Zack said, with that note of sincerity that Frank knew was a crock of shit, “I mean it. I’ll try my best, sure. But I’ll be pulling for you, too. Believe me I will.” He reached out his hand. “Good luck.”
Frank looked at his brothers hand and then at his face. There was something in Zack’s eyes that made him almost shudder—a confidence, a determination he had never seen in them before. It was a look, though, that he knew well—a look he had faced many times in the eyes of their father. Frank hesitated for a fraction of a second and then pulled off his glove and gripped Zack’s hand tightly.
“Go for it,” he said.
“I will. See you up top.”
Zack smiled at him, nodded, and wandered off to join a group of racers waiting for word that the second run was to begin.
Frank glanced over at the crowd of parents preparing to make their way to vantage points along the course. At that instant, the Judge, who was chatting with several friends, looked over. Frank smiled thinly, and his father responded with a hearty thumbs-up sign.
One more run
.
Restless to get it over with, Frank crossed to retrieve his skis from the rack where they and those of the other competitors were lined up on end like pickets in a fence. He knew he was shaken by the brief encounter with his younger brother and by the look in his eyes. And that knowledge upset him even more.
Three seconds was a lot, true, but the way Zack had beencoming on over the past few weeks, anything was possible. For a moment, Frank even toyed with the notion of asking him to back off, to wait his turn.
It wasn’t fair, he thought. First that goddamn rut, now this. It was
his
year. The Judge had said so himself. Nothing was going to keep him from that trophy, that trip—nothing and no one.
He pulled his skis from the rack and ran his hand along the bottom, testing
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