“I get all that. And I’ll go anytime, Adam. Far away as April wants. I’ve told her that more than once.”
“The Olympic and snowboard mafias, and Helene, want you to make the move now. To get out of her life and let her win.”
“She’s happy to be free of her mother and the rest of the team. She’s laughing off the pressure. I’m not wrong about this, Grandpa. I know her.”
Wylie saw his fly vanish and felt the jerk on his line simultaneously. It was a small fish, and Wylie let it run until tired, then skittered it across the surface, knelt, and released it. He dried the fly and smudged some floatant onto the feathers, then cast it to the far bank. He gave it a quick mend and let it ride.
“Then the meeting got interesting,” said Adam. Wylie looked over his shoulder at his grandfather. “These are not subtle people. So hear me out. They’ve got a reward/punishment offer for you. Ready? Their current thinking is that U.S. ski cross is a losing proposition for the Seoul Olympics. John Teller had that fabulous run through Sochi, but he was our only one. Looking ahead, they see you and Sky and Tyler Wallasch and a couple of guys out of Aspen, and that Bridger kid out of Colorado. They’re impressed, but not impressed enough. So on a go-forward, the USSA and Olympic plan is to cut ski-cross support to a trickle.”
“Ski cross is the best winter Olympic event there is!”
“The masses want boarding, not skiing. You know that.”
“But ski cross is faster and crazier. It’s a downhill blitz and a giant slalom and a NASCAR wreck waiting to happen — all rolled into one. Shit, Adam. Don’t get me started.”
“There’s no accounting for what people want, Wylie. Or what they don’t. But, of course, there’s the reward side of the equation.”
Wylie glanced back again. He couldn’t keep the hostility out of his heart or his voice. “Bring it.”
“If you break off with April, the USOC will put more resources behind ski cross. And the USSA will do likewise. They say they are offering you a chance to do something for yourself, and your sport. Not to mention theirs.”
“Do you really believe they’d do much?”
Wylie glanced back and Adam shrugged. “I can’t vouch for what they’d do. They won’t make any commitment that can’t be denied, or at least modified. It’s all CYA. This is how our sport is run, unfortunately. By organizations with their noses to the wind. But there are many winds. They change and die and start up again.”
Wylie lifted the fly and false cast to dry it. He used a reach cast to create an upstream mend midair, and put the tiny fly close to the bank with a big loop behind it. “Okay, so what if I leave April and she isn’t happy? What if I break her heart and mess her up?”
“Helene said it’s worth the risk because April doesn’t know herself. The boosters agreed.”
“Buncha fuckin’ pigs.”
“Possibly.”
Wylie saw the gliding, unhurried rise and felt the sharp tug, then nothing. He raised his rod tip smartly and the fly line whizzed downstream in a wake of spray. The fish was heavy and it found the fast water. Wylie knew he would either keep up with it or lose it. He splashed ashore and followed the narrow foot trail downstream, giving up line as he had to.
The foot trail was muddy and his boots slipped on the contours. It was like being on a ship pitching in an ocean. The fish exploded in a spray of red and silver, a kype-jawed rainbow, and Wylie heard the hard splat when it hit the river. Now it had most of his line, and Wylie felt no surrender, only an extra burst of strength as the fish tore into his backing and the reel screamed. He came to a chasm in the bank and leaped into it, climbing and slipping up the steep far side. The fish jumped again, and it looked so far away and alien, as if projected onto a plane that wasn’t quite real, like an old Hollywood backdrop.
The next break in the bank was a shallow mud wallow, so he cut inland around it, busting through the brush, only to see that the trail would soon end at a gravel bar and a pool too deep to wade across. Once upon the bar, he dropped his phone to the rocks, lifted the rod skyward, and threw himself into the pool. He was instantly heavy and cold. Using one arm, he pulled himself forward, barely staying afloat in the deep, still water. It rushed over the top of his waders, trying to sink him. His boots were eerily heavy. The cold made it hard to breathe. Through the rod he could still feel the faraway fish muscling along with the current.
He tried to do the same, scooping himself with one hand toward the river proper. The current finally took him and he buoyed upright, running without his feet touching, as in a dream. Then he found bottom, a blessed rocky slope up which he clambered, pulling himself onto a shallow riffle, where he got his feet under him and renewed his trudge downstream. His heart was pounding, but he was breathing steadily and deeply and this was his mission. He retrieved the backing and a few turns of line.
Which was when the line jumped back at him, then went slack, the distant weight of his fish vanished. Wylie dropped to his knees, bellowing in agony, his voice puny in the world.
Adam caught up with him a minute later. He waded out onto the gravel and stood not far from the still-kneeling Wylie, whose teeth were already chattering. “Good effort,” said Adam. “You did everything right that I could see.”
“I’m not going to go until she asks me to.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“The only thing on Earth I’d trade April Holly for is that fish.”
“Of course.”
“Shit. Man. Christ.”
“Well said. I picked up your phone.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Later that same day, Wylie looked through the Let It Bean window and saw Jacobie Bradford III traipsing across the lot in full fly-fishing regalia — waders snugged with a wide padded belt, gaitered boots, a rain jacket over a fleece, a thousand-pocketed fishing vest with gear dangling. He wore a light blue buff around his throat and a cap over his bald head. He stopped and patted the MPP possessively, like fingernails on a chalkboard to Wylie. Bradford then looked toward Let It Bean and marched forward.
“Look what’s coming,” said Beatrice.
“One-hundred-proof evil,” said Belle. “Can’t an avalanche just take him?”
Jacobie swung open the door and walked in, his cleated boots clicking loudly on the faux-wooden floor. It was three o’clock and Let It Bean was nearly empty. “Wylie, I’d like to have a word with you in private.” He looked at a few of the customers to make sure they’d heard him. Belle turned her back on him and Bea marched away into the kitchen. Jacobie watched them, eyes on their butts in frank appraisal. “But first, whip me up a nonfat latte. Small. I should know what the competition is up to.”