Free Carry Your Heart by Audrey Bell

keeping the blades of my skis flat. Control, control, control. I have to remind myself of that. I make it through the last turn flying
    I finish breathless and relieved, scattering snow in a high wave, and turn to the scoreboard. 1:45.55. Yes!
    I smile. Okay. Good. Better than I needed to do. Good enough for the next round.
    I’m up first in the final round. Time slows down for me just before the start. I pull my feet together and back, I loosen my neck and shoulders. I wait for the chime and as soon as it reaches my ears, I fling myself out at the hill.
    Gate, gate, gate, gate, gate.
    I breathe sharply as one of my skis wobble, but I regain control. Gate.
    My ankles ache with the intensity of the angles that I’m working. I push hard and harder still and as my legs seem ready to give, I push all the way to the finish. I whirl around, right away, nearly losing my balance.
    My numbers flash up. 1:44.99. Good. Really good.
    As good as I’m going to do today and better than I’ve done all week. I allow myself to smile, to breathe deeply, and then I head back to the center, too nervous to watch the race from so close.
    I text Mike: Let me know if I need to come back. That will only happen if I finish in the top three.
    He texts me back a smiley face. I will. Great ride!
    I head to up The Forklift, a high, elevated food stand on the outdoor second level of the Snowbird Center. I grab a Gatorade and stand by the picnic tables overlooking the course. It’s deserted after lunch, and I lean against the railing to watch the rest of the skiers come in.
    No challengers at first—a few come close, but nobody knocks me down. I keep first position until Lottie goes. She hits a 1:44.11. Shit . I watch my name slip down the leaderboard.
    And Penelope and Laurel still have yet to go.
    I bite my lip. One of them will have to fuck up for me to medal, if their first-round times were any indication.
    “Hey,” it’s a deep gravelly voice. I turn to see strong arms rest on the railing, close to mine.
    I turn my head. Hunter. I shiver. Great. Hey, Hunter, want to watch me have a nervous breakdown?
    “Cold?”
    “A little.” He grins and drops his hat on my head. It’s a sweet gesture, even as it flops over my eyes, and falls. I catch it as it tumbles down my shoulder.
    “Wow,” he say. “You don’t know how to wear a hat?” He takes my wrist and takes the hat back and grins. “Let me show you.” He slides the hat over my head, messing up my hair. He steps back and gives me a look and laughs.
    “What?”
    “Nothing. You look like a turtle.”
    “Well, thanks ,” I reach up to pull his hat off.
    “Nah, it’s cute, leave it on,” he insists. He smiles. “I like it.”
    “You’re into turtles?”
    He shrugs. “Sure. They’ve got it all figured out. They carry their homes around on their backs. They can just curl up and pretend to be rocks when shit starts to go down. Live to a hundred.” He grins. “What’s not to like?”
    I play with the hat, adjusting it.
    “Aw, man, you ruined the turtle effect.”
    “What do I look like now?”
    He ignores the question and glances up to the race and the large leader board. “Ooh. That sucks.”
    “What?”
    “It’s the final, isn’t it?” he nods up at the leader board, where my last name is underneath Lottie’s.
    “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m probably going to get knocked out anyways.”
    “Not if one of these bitches falls.”
    I laugh.
    “Who are you most worried about?”
    “Penelope Graham and Laurel Bates.”
    “Ahhh….I know Laurel.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I think I know Laurel.” He squints. “I don’t recognize her with her clothes on. Bates?”
    “Jesus.”
    “She’s sort of a psycho,” he says. “Actually. She might not be a psycho.” He’s squinting. “I really can’t tell if I slept with her. Definitely slept with some skier chick named Laurel. I don’t know if she was that blonde.”
    “Are you serious right now?”
    He chuckles,