Crazy Blood Read Free Page B

time. They raced one another, not the clock. Ski cross was one of the newest Olympic events, aimed at the new generation and considered by many to be equal to the fearsome downhill in peril and prestige. It was certainly rougher. For Wylie, winning this Mammoth Cup ski-cross event five years ago had been a defining moment in his life.
    He explained to Beatrice the United States Ski Association point system, and how only the winner of that day’s final would automatically go to the Aspen X Games the following week. The four finalists were that close in total points. The three others could advance only as alternates, at the discretion of the USSA selection committee.
    â€œBut either way, Robert’s retiring after this season,” said Belle. “To get married and work a job. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? With all his talent? With the Olympics only two years away?”
    â€œHe’s going on to the next thing,” said Wylie. “That’s what people do.”
    â€œThat’s what you did,” said Beatrice. “And at least Hailee is, like, moderately cool.”
    Belle just shook her head.
    Glancing across the stands, Wylie saw Hailee sitting with Cynthia Carson—mother of Robert and Sky. Cynthia, his father’s executioner. Hailee waved. Cynthia acknowledged no one, all her attention forward on the coming race, looking to Wylie, as always, commanding, indestructible, and frightening.
    The stands were full. Wylie knew many of the people gathered here, but many he did not. The faces had changed in five years. It was an odd feeling to be remembered in your hometown but also to know that its memory of you was already fading. At twenty-five, with a Mammoth Cup win to his credit and youthful indiscretions still trailing him, Wylie was a notable here, but old guard. The new hotshots were teenagers. Chloe Kim was good enough to have made the last U.S. Olympic boarding team but, at sixteen, was too young by IOC rules. There was much talk in town of half-pipe boarder Johnny Maines—not quite twenty years old yet and maybe the next Shaun White.
    The women ski crossers went first. Wylie was struck by how much faster they had gotten in his five years away. They were stronger and braver. Sitting on either side of him, Beatrice and Belle fidgeted with anticipation. Beatrice was a slopestyle snowboarder and could make the Mammoth snowboarding team for next year. That was a matter of time and money. Five grand, roughly, Wylie thought. Belle was an up-and-coming ski-cross racer like him. She was fearless, even as the ten-year-old whom Wylie had last seen. They watched an eighteen-year-old out of Tahoe win the women’s ski-cross finals, a full ten feet ahead of the pack. She skidded to a stop in the out run, throwing a wall of snow and a smile at the photographers.
    Wylie felt the sun on his face and smelled the sweetly noxious fumes wafting up from the waxing station. Nothing on earth better than a sunny morning with good snow on a mountain. He thought of the late bright mornings at the Great St. Bernard monastery in Switzerland, the sunlight on the mountains so precise and brief that long winter. There was never quite enough light at Great St. Bernard. Or the Benedictine monastery at Tegernsee, or the Monkey Temple in Kathmandu, or even in Lillehammer. Was there enough light in winter anywhere? Sometimes at dusk, he’d watch the last of that light dim down to no light at all and he’d have this squirrelly fear inside that it would never come again. But those were good years, alone and free.
    Wylie’s two years of wandering after Afghanistan were his way of shedding what he had been: boy, son, brother, baker, barista, ski-cross racer, marine. He had ditched himself as thoroughly as he could, believing that later he could re-collect the useful parts. He’d tried to simplify without oversimplifying: mountains, snow, and speed. He’d stayed at the monasteries because they were