Coming In From the Cold(20)

"Yeah?" Why would the guy want to chitchat when he was three minutes from launch?

"I just heard the Germans radio up that the second jump is chewed on the left," J.P. said.

Dane stared him down. "Are you sure that's what they said?"

"Ja. Absolut. My mother is German." J.P. winked.

Dane flexed his knees, trying to think. He turned back to J.P. "Why isn't Harvey calling it up?"

J.P. shrugged. "No clue. But I'm taking the right side. Makes a nastier  radius into the carousel, but if it keeps me on my feet … ."

Fuck. Was this guy pulling his chain? Dane had already plotted his  course. This asshole was probably just trying to rattle him. J.P. had  never beat Dane in a race. But this year, the younger man was performing  better than ever. Perhaps feeding a few doubts to Dane was part of his  big strategy.

Dane heard his name called by the judge in the start house. He stepped  forward, and his long boards were slammed onto the snow in front of him.  Dane clipped in, staring down the course, clenching his jaw.

Coach hustled over, checking Dane's bindings. "What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing. Fuck it," Dane said, snapping his goggles down. He shook out  his quads, gripped the starting gate and stared on to the course. He  focused his gaze right between the blue lines, while the start counter  began to beep its warning pitch.

Behind him, his competitors began to call out. "Kill it, Dane! Like a boss!"

When the start counter chimed, he launched himself forward, poling madly  to accelerate. Then gravity kicked in, the icy pitch slanting away  beneath him until he felt the familiar roller-coaster drop. Dane tucked  his poles under and bore down into an aerodynamic bullet position. The  first turn was to the left. He rolled his skis onto their edges, his  legs and boards hugging the slope, his muscles stepping up to handle the  g-force of the sudden curve.

His headache forgotten, years of training and muscle memory kicked in.  The next two turns came in quick succession, and he held his line. He  was entering the fastest part of the course now. A lesser skier would  lose his nerve, dialing back to keep things in check. But Dane watched  the first jump rush up at him. He leaned his shoulders forward and  welcomed the air. Over the years, dozens of journalists had used the  phrase "death wish" to describe his aggressive style. In Dane's world,  there were only two certainties-death and gravity. Every other human  being on the planet lived with the same constraints, of course. It was  just that Dane was more keenly aware of them than most other people ever  were.

Dying in a high-speed crash would be no worse than wasting away in a  nursing home. Any risk was justifiable when no one depended on you. Who  would it even hurt?

Willow.

Even as he reached seventy-five miles an hour, the image of her shot  through his guilty brain. And even that infinitesimally brief flicker of  her was enough to alter his consciousness. As he landed the first jump,  his skis hit the snow at almost the same nanosecond. Almost, but not  quite. There was a bobble in his right ski. He squared his shoulders and  corrected his position, preparing for a hard turn to the right.

Unfortunately, he overcorrected. And now, even bearing down like a tank  at the next turn, he swung it wide. That's how things always  unraveled-one misaligned turn led to an even bigger one. Each mistake  raised the stakes for the next one, leading to even bigger corrections.

Just like real life.

He was about four feet further to skiers' left than he'd planned to be  when the second jump came into view. And just like J.P. had said, it was  chewed all to hell. But it was far too late to change course. All he  could do was watch the lip come for him, the ice yanking his skis apart  as he launched.

Flung clumsily into the air, his weight too far back on his hips, Dane  windmilled his arms to try for a better position. But the universe  wasn't having it. He landed one ski perfectly. And the other one caught a  sickening edge as it came down off-kilter, snapping the ski from the  binding at the first pressure he put on it.

And then came the inevitable terror of flying down the hill in little  more than a body stocking, nothing but goggles and a helmet to protect  himself. He edged his remaining ski as best he could, dumping maybe  twenty miles per hour before it, too, gave out under pressure. His body  flew on past, flinging Dane chest first into the netting.

It might have been okay, if he'd landed facing the sky. But the full two  hundred pounds of him landed on his right knee. There was no telltale  pop of ligaments separating. Only a sudden pain, and then a strange  snowy numbness in his leg.                       
       
           



       

The first person to reach him was a gate judge. "Va tutto bene?" the man asked. Are you all right?

Hell no. He was not.



* * *



He must have blacked out, because the next thing he noticed was a man  shining a light in his eyes while yammering away in Italian. He was  strapped down to something. The sled? He raised his head. He was on a  stretcher at the bottom of the hill. There seemed to be a hundred people  standing around.

Must be bad. "Coach?"

"Kid," it was Coach's voice. "You got your bell rung."

Dane stared up at Coach, but unfortunately there were two of him. "That all?"

"Not sure," Coach hedged. "You told them the pain in your right leg was a nine."

Christ.

"Danger, dude. I'm so sorry." It was a new voice.

Dane looked up to find a blurry version of J.P. standing over him. "The  fuck you are," Dane muttered. "This works in your favor."

"Jesus, dude. That's harsh." Both J.P.s were shaking their heads. "Hang in there."

There was another burst of Italian chatter and Dane felt himself lifted.  His body was jostled in the air. A shot of fire ripped down his leg.  Dane gasped and closed his eyes.





Fifteen





Willow's phone buzzed while she was at work. Callie's text read: Did you read the sports page today?

Willow, who never read the sports page, replied: Why?

Callie's answer was: Read it. And then call me.

The headline made Willow gasp. "Olympian Danger Hollister's Season Ends Early With Broken Knee In Italy."

She dialed Callie at home. "It's going to sound vain, but I feel responsible," she said.

"Willow, it can only be your fault if you flew to Italy and pushed him off the hill. Which would not have been a bad plan."

"You always snap me out of it, Callie." Still, his brother died, and now  his leg was broken. And she'd told him she was pregnant, all in the  same week.

"Well, guess who is flying in for surgery tonight? They're putting two  screws into his tibia. The way the entire ortho unit is running around,  you'd think the queen was coming to dine."

"No way! Do you think you'll be assigned to him?" Callie worked as an  inpatient hospitalist at the Windsor County Medical Center.

"I hope not. In fact, no way. If Asshole Baby Daddy's file falls in my hands I'll swap him for another patient."

Willow laughed. "That's very loyal of you. But you don't have to do that."

"Seriously. It would be just too tempting to forget to order his pain meds."

"You always make me smile."



* * *



A day later Willow got one more text: Asshole assigned to my asshole ex.

To which she replied: How fitting.

Willow did her best not to think about Dane after that. What she really  needed to do was distance herself from him and figure out her own life.  Telling him had been a real error. She couldn't stop hearing him say,  you really are a fuckup. And feeling like one was not a good frame of  mind, not for someone who needed to make a big decision.

So Willow went to yoga class, and in Child's Pose tried to open her  heart to the possibilities. She'd begun reading adoption websites in her  spare time. There were many families standing ready to adopt. Willow  knew this. But she had grown up knowing that her parents didn't love her  enough to keep her, and she had vowed many times over never to do that  to a child.

And now here she was, considering that very thing.

Willow put her forehead on the yoga mat and tried to center her flailing soul. The decision would not be rushed.



* * *



But even breathing exercises could not prepare her for the shock of  seeing a certain green Jeep climb her driveway two days later. At the  kitchen window, she froze as the driver's side door opened. Coach  stepped out, and she heaved a sigh of relief. But of course it was  Coach. Men with broken legs did not drive Jeeps.

Willow had turned back to the shopping list she was working on when she heard raised voices.

"I can't stay here."

Willow's neck prickled with recognition. She peeked out the kitchen window.

"Get out of the fucking Jeep, Dane!" Coach had opened the tailgate and  was addressing someone in the back. "I'm not carrying you up your flight  of stairs on Main Street just because you're a stubborn son of a  bitch."