Race for the Gold. Dana Mentink
he could be perfectly still, hushed as the long corridors in which he’d become invisible seventeen years prior when his brother lay dying. The softest sound, the barest squeak of a rubber-soled shoe on those yellow hospital tiles could break the fragile silence that meant his brother was okay, sleeping peacefully through another night.
God worked in those still moments, he’d been told. So he’d stayed silent, waiting for healing that God withheld. Often Max would go back to that place in his mind, and his fingers would once again reach for his pocket for the tiny pair of scissors that was no longer there. He required stillness to wrestle with tensions he could not skate away from, but not Laney.
“Let’s go walk the track.”
She started, as if she hadn’t realized he was still there. “What?”
“You aren’t going to be able to sleep.”
“How exactly do you know that?”
Because I know you almost better than you know yourself. Every sinew, every muscle, every weakness, every magnificent strength. “You’re twisting.”
She looked at her finger, wound in the string of her windbreaker. “Well...”
“And your foot is jiggling up and down, and you look like you’re about ready to break into a wind sprint.”
She flashed an exasperated grin. “Sometimes I wish you didn’t know me so well.”
“I’m your trainer. It’s my job.” My job. So why did Laney Thompson feel like so much more than just his job?
“I’m just keyed up about what happened to Dad.”
“I know.” The hallway lighting picked up glints of gold in her hair, an irrepressible twinkle in her eyes.
“All right, Mr. Blanco. To the track we go.”
Max waited at the door while Laney changed into her running shoes and fed Cubby his fish dinner. Cubby was a slow eater, and Max stood patiently as Laney watched to be sure the old animal finished every bite.
“Good job, Cubby Cat,” she said as the cat licked his paws with a delicate tongue.
The night closed around them as they started away from the athlete housing, the sky pricked by numberless stars. To the left was a small trail that led to a lake now frozen over. They’d run it many times in years past when their training and competition schedule had brought them here. A delicate veil of snow drifted through the sky as they took the other direction, on a well-paved sidewalk that led to the training facility.
He wondered if she ever fought flashbacks of the night they’d been the victims of the hit-and-run driver. Though he’d never admit it, he hated to run anywhere in the vicinity of a road, preferring now to do his workouts on the track or on quiet mountain trails when he could find them. If he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to travel back, he could hear the skidding tires and the snapping of his own femur. Worst of all, he remembered hearing Laney cry out, his own body too mangled to allow him to claw through the snow to reach her. One quiet moan that would live forever in his memory.
He forced his brain back to the present as they hiked to the oval. He marveled again at the engineering feat required to build such a venue. Five acres, roughly the size of four football fields, nestled under a clear span suspension roof, home to a four-hundred-meter speed skating oval and two international-size ice sheets. Buried under the ice sheets and track were thirty-three miles of freeze tubes that kept the concrete base at eighteen degrees Fahrenheit no matter the season. They were headed now to the four-lane 442-meter state-of-the-art running track.
He ushered her in first, darting one more look at the serenely falling snow behind them. A movement caught his attention. Off near the tree line, under the shifting shadows. A person? He looked again. Nothing at first, making him think perhaps it was a raccoon or maybe a bird. As he started to turn away, a figure detached itself from the shadows and began moving toward the lake.
Probably someone out for a walk, not unusual, except that the person appeared to have come from the direction of the athlete housing. So what? he asked himself again. An athlete or trainer out for a stroll, nothing more, winding down just as they were. Nonetheless, prickles of unease danced along the back of Max’s neck as he noticed that the person had a small bundle under one arm.
“Be right back,” he called to Laney, and for some reason he could not explain he found himself following.
“Max?” Laney called from behind him. “Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. Walking quickly, he closed the gap.
Whoever it was didn’t notice his approach until they were nearly to the wooden dock that served as an overlook and a cast-off point for fishermen trying their luck in the lake. The figure gave a surreptitious glance around, stealthy and unsettling.
“Hey,” Max said.
The form jerked.
Max saw he’d been right—the stranger held a bundle in his arms, which he now readied himself to throw into the water.
“What are you doing?” Max said again.
He heard the sound of running feet and Laney sprinted into view. Max knew suddenly what was in that dark bundle, and he also knew he would not let it go to the bottom of the lake. He reached out to stop the outstretched hands, trying to seize the wrists.
Something sliced through his forearm in a sizzle of pain. He heard Laney cry out as he pitched backward into the water, the weight of his body punching through the thin crust of ice at the lake’s edge.
* * *
Laney hadn’t realized she was screaming as she ran. No words, just an explosion of emotion. Events unfolded in rapid-fire, just as they did in every race. The shove. Max crashing into the water, chips of ice spiraling upward luminous in the moonlight. Movement, darkness, an endless moment of fear.
Then Max’s head popped up. The person who’d pushed him slipped, fell forward before getting up and running along the trail. She didn’t think, just moved, muscles overriding good sense as she closed the gap and hurtled onto the shoulders of the person who had just shoved Max into the pond.
“What are you, crazy?” she grunted.
He, it was a man, she concluded quickly, was sturdy and strong and her fingers lost their grip on the slippery fabric of his ski jacket. She fell to one knee and the man wriggled out of her grasp, grabbed the bundle from the ground and sprinted away. She could run him down, she knew, but she was not sure she could restrain him.
Scrambling to her feet she turned to the water. “Max,” she screamed as loud as she could.
Beth Morrison raced up, dressed in a warm jacket and jeans. “What...?” she started.
“In the pond,” Laney said by way of an answer, yanking off her shoes.
“You’re not jumping in there,” Beth said, clutching Laney’s arm.
Laney shrugged her off and made for the edge of the dock.
“No,” Max shouted from the pond. “Laney, do not jump into this water,” he hollered. “I’m okay.”
She knew it was not true. At her feet was the proof. Drops of blood dotted the snow, and she was pretty sure whom it belonged to. She pushed to the edge of the dock.
“No, Laney. He’s coming out,” Beth said, grabbing her again. “Look.”
Max was indeed making his way to the dock, swimming where he could until he reached the iced edge and then cracking his way through. “He needs help,” she said. “He’s got a bad hip.”
Jackie Brewster hurried up, her cheeks pink, breathing hard. “He’s perfectly fit, and you are not to go in that water, either one of you,” she commanded, unzipping her jacket. “I will if necessary.”
“He’s my trainer...” Laney began. Friend. Confidant.