Max Blanco was next to her, suited up for their celebratory cooldown run along the road freshly cleared by a snowplow. She knew his elation matched her own. On a whim, she held a pretend microphone in front of his face, strands of her blond bob whipping against her cheek. “So, Mr. Max Blanco, how exactly does it feel to know you’ll be going after the most important gold medal in speed skating a few months from now?”
He laughed and she tried not to fall too deeply into those aquamarine eyes that made something inside her dance like a wind-borne snowflake.
“Maybe I should be asking you that,” he said. “How does it feel?”
She held her head up to the sky, closed her eyes and let the dancing flakes pepper her cheeks. “It feels like there is nothing in the world I can’t do.”
He suddenly grabbed her around the middle and swung her in dizzying circles until she was gasping for air.
“I told you, didn’t I? You struggled all season, but you laid it down when it counted and now you’re going. All the way!” He returned her to earth. “So after our run are you going to let me take you on a date?”
She felt herself blushing deeply. “We’re together all the time.”
He fisted hands on his lean hips and clucked. “That’s called training, Laney. A date is when two people go out and have a good time together without the need for free weights and treadmills.” He moved closer. “Come on, you promised once the trials were over you’d go out with me. I want to say I dated you before you won your gold.”
She shivered. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”
He toyed with a section of her hair. “It’s only great if you’ve got someone to share it with, someone who understands.”
Did she understand what drove him? She knew the nuts and bolts of short-track speed skating, she understood the drive, the fiery burn that propelled them all to work through pain, to compete with only one goal in mind. But though Max fascinated and attracted her, she did not fully understand him.
A few people filtered out of the arena, techie types mostly. Most of the athletes and trainers had gone home to celebrate or indulge their sorrows. That was the hardest part. Only six of her women friends on the National Team had made it and the rest were devastated, plain and simple. But that was short track. Friendships were left at the edge of the ice.
Max pulled a small envelope from the pocket of his nylon jacket, fiddling with the corners. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into her hands.
She eased the flap of the envelope open and gently removed a tiny square of paper, notched and cut in what seemed like a million places. “What is it?” she breathed.
He took it from her hands and unfolded the square. It opened into the most intricate paper cutting she’d ever seen. He held it up and the sun shone through the minuscule cuts to reveal a bird, wings tucked, soaring against a cloud, breeze fluttering the paper feathers.
“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