Sky Carson looked at him from behind gate 4. Sky had smoked the qualies and semis to earn the first gate pick, and gate 4 would give him the shortest line into the first bank. Sky had already taken and held that line in both his qualification races and his semifinal run the day before. He was yet to lose a race, or even his lead. Wylie had watched, impressed. He did think Sky was taking some unreasonable risks, as if he were racing on the Imagery Beast instead of on a real course, but he was putting down the runs like he owned them. Bridger Burr and Josh Coates, teammates out of Crested Butte, Colorado, took gates 2 and 3, respectively. Wylie knew they could be expected to help each other if necessary. In ski cross, a racer might sacrifice his own run — and take out an opponent or even two — so that his teammate could win. Few spectators here on Mammoth Mountain today expected such teamwork from Wylie or Sky.
Wylie looked over at him. There had been no words between them since the MPP incident. Sky waved. His beard and mustache were blue, his helmet white, and his goggles red, with black lenses. Wylie smiled to himself. Then Sky held out both hands toward him, palms up, as if in question, ski poles dangling by their straps. He grabbed the poles and sidled around the start gate, backing up the slope toward Wylie. Wylie back stepped and they met behind the house.
Sky lifted his red goggles and fixed Wylie with the Cynthia stare — lake ice over unquestioned determination. “Good luck, Wylie. But I won’t have any kind of mercy on you.”
“None expected, Sky. If you make that first hole shot again, prepare for some genuine pressure.”
“Keep your skis off mine, pal.”
“Ditto your poles and my legs.”
“The officials have been ordered to call a tight one.”
“When you hear my skis in your draft, remember that I have twenty pounds on you and I’m going to pass.”
“You remember that I’ll punish you severely for unsportsmanlike conduct. Such as running me off the course.”
“Good luck to you, too, then, Sky.”
“My words mean nothing to you.”
“Approximately.”
“I can do no more for you. This is for Robert.”
“For Robert.”
They banged gloved fists and glided away from each other, Sky loosening up at the waist, Wylie yawning again.
The starter called them into their gates. Wylie slid forward until his ski tips touched the blue dye. He lifted his goggles again, then firmed them against his face, snugged the helmet and pushed the strap under itself and against his throat. Again he checked all his zippers and buttons, loops and hooks, cuffs and pocket flaps, and every small thing that could retard his speed. His bib was tight and he liked the big odd number: 77.
He looked down and saw the line for a hole shot of his own into that first right bank. First in, first out. Tempting. His route would intersect Sky’s, without doubt. So Wylie considered a more cautious start, which would take him lower, ceding the lead to someone else, likely Sky. Then he’d play catch-up as he usually did, the Wylie playbook.
His heart boomed away and he heard the familiar roar of blood in his ears and his mind felt lighter now and damn if he didn’t like the idea of a surprise start. Sky might well be caught off guard, and Wylie had his good left foot to count on through that first right bank. Sky would be flabbergasted, and Claude Favier, too, and, really, the whole mountain would.
He took three deep breaths, exhaling fully, then yawned again. He felt the vanishing CO2 replaced by a cold surge of oxygen. Vision clear and ears sharp. Now I see. Make the shot. Take the lead. Yes. It’s yours. For Robert. For April and the girls. For me.
The gates swung open and Wylie dug powerfully with his poles. He launched and dropped like a cannonball, hitting the steep half-pipe flank with a deep bend of skis, crossing the bowl barely ahead of Bridger Burr and Josh Coates, but already behind Sky Carson.
Through the first short run, they formed a tight knot, skis rattling, poles digging. Wylie’s legs felt heavy, and whoever was behind him was close indeed. He held his line to the first bank, but Sky got there well ahead of everyone. Wylie ceded the turn, then tucked in behind Sky on the short straightaway leading to Launching Pad. The course was fast and he was airborne before he knew it, soaring off the jump just behind Sky. Then Wylie was floating, weight forward and ski tips jammed downward to dig into the air as the vast Sierra peripheries slowly unfolded around him. Then the course rushed up. He landed well, closing fast on Sky, hearing the hiss of Sky’s skis and the louder hiss of his own, and the steady grind of those behind him. He carved close behind Sky and into the welcome pull of his draft. Pressure, he thought. Pressure him off this mountain. One of Sky’s poles flicked oddly and Wylie felt a sudden stab of pain in his left shin.
The four drafted tightly toward the first gate, a sweeping right. Sky took it high, above the track, where the snow was less trammeled by racers. Wylie followed, snow blasting his goggles and the rasp of skis close behind him, urgent and high-pitched. He tried to focus ahead, but all he could see beyond Sky was the course jumping crazily ahead of him. Then a maddening moment as Wylie carved too hard into the gate on the race-battered ice and had to check his speed. He shouldered past the panel as tight as he could, but coming out he heard sudden dread quiet behind him as Bridger Burr swept past.
Tucked into Burr’s draft, Wylie held third position down the straight toward jump two, Goofball. The straight was wide but offered insufficient velocity to pass. He broke left of Burr for the jump, launched high and deep into the sky. Another long moment of motion frozen in time, then Wylie hit hard and tore into a gentle left bank leading to the next gate. He held third place through the panels and came out fast.
On Dire Straights, he freed his speed, hugged his fall line to come up tight on Burr, his thighs parallel to the snow, calves together, knees working like pistons. The heaviness in his legs was gone. He was thoughtless and automatic, arms and poles acting far ahead of his dumb authority. He felt no more in control than a sneaker in a washing machine. This straight was his bread and butter, the most profitable feature of the course for a large racer. Wylie felt huge. He tucked around Burr, made an easy inside pass, and found himself breathing down the neck of Sky Carson.
Tucking in behind Sky again, he ooorahed to rattle Sky’s cage. They sped toward Conundrum, where Robert had had his tragic fall. Wylie moved deep into Sky’s draft, but Sky was staunch, claiming his line for the commanding center of the Conundrum ramp. Wylie dropped back inches as Sky pressed ahead, loosening a blast of snow and ice into Wylie’s face. Sky had the good lane and launched off Conundrum. Wylie shot into the air on Sky’s right. Leaning into the sudden silence, Wylie pressed hard, driving his ski tips down so the wind wouldn’t flip him. He heard the slash of Burr, then of Coates, both launching behind him. His altitude was good. He could see Sky fully extended, straining for inches. Sky landed past where Robert had hit the ice. Wylie landed right on it, but lightly — for him — and well balanced, and he felt the CR Fives arcing radically, their sharp edges carving around a wide right bank that suddenly dropped him onto the next straightaway.
Wylie closed on Sky again, tight to his draft. But again Sky was staunch and relentless, body and nerves stout, giving Wylie not one inch, nor the slightest hint that he was even aware of the threat behind him. Down the mountain they flew, rippling with speed, bound by a tenuous bond of velocity and blood.