Page 23 of Ride with Zane
“Okay, Ash, let's call it a night.” Raven whistles and the music stops. “Are you up for a cup of tea?”
I cringe at the idea of feeling that awful taste. “What about a hot chocolate?”
“Deal,” she giggles as we walk toward the locker room.
After stripping off my outfit and wearing my comfy leggings and maxi t-shirt with my sneakers, I reach her at our cafeteria.
Raven and I take our seats. “How are we feeling for the weekend?”
Peering at the marshmallows melting in my hot chocolate, I smile. “I'm so ready, but still it freaks me out knowing these results are the ones I've expected in all these years.”
Raven squeezes my hand across the table. “You've got this. In the last weeks you've pushed yourself to your limits, but I confess your performance has a high standard and these points will send you right to the Olympics.”
Seeing a bike passing by I peer outside the window before shaking my head with a sigh. “I hope so.”
“Ash, positive mind, powerful spirit. Never doubt your gut. Follow your instinct and I'm always here if you need me.”
I nod at her. She's absolutely right, my personal messy life can't ruin my future. I'll take care of Rock after the competition. I can't do both and the Olympics are my goal. “Thank you, Raven. I couldn't be where I am without your support and help.”
She finishes her cup. “You're way much better than me, Ash. Your talent took you here and I can’t wait to see you wear the Olympic gold medal too.”
Rolling the cup, I follow the chocolate movements. “That's the main goal, and no one will take it away from me.”
“That's the spirit.” She gets up. “I'm off home, do you need a lift?”
“Nope.” I get up too. “but thank you for the offer.” After a hug I watch her leave and I go back to exercise a little more before heading home and pack the bag.
The hum of the wheels is a soothing counterpoint to the tumult of my thoughts as I drive the familiar yet foreign expanse of highway leading to Minneapolis. With each mile, the anticipation builds—a fusion of excitement and apprehension that grips me with an intensity I’ve never known. I glance in the rearview mirror, the reflection of a determined figure staring back at me. With a deep, steadying breath, I bolster my resolve. “Ashley, you’ve got this,” I whisper to myself, the words a personal mantra. “You’ve practiced for months, every spin, every jump, every lift. Tomorrow is your day; you give it your all. No holding back.”
The Minneapolis skyline looms ahead, its city lights a dazzling array that pierces the darkness. It’s such a stark contrast to Newtok’s quiet, unassuming streets where I honed my craft, where every neighbor is family and every victory shared. I’m the small-town girl standing on the precipice of something monumental, and as the city’s embrace draws near, the little voice of self-encouragement amplifies in my heart. “This is your moment, Ash. Shine.”
Morning dawns, and the ice calls to me, gleaming under the arena’s bright lights—a vast, icy canvas awaiting the imprint of my blades. My heart pounds in rhythm with the music that fills the air, each note a familiar companion to the routine I’ve etched into my very being. With grace and power, I execute each movement. The ice sings beneath my skates as I leap, spin, glide—every motion an extension of my soul. And when the final, breathtaking spin concludes my performance, the crowd’s roar is a tidal wave of affirmation. Flawless.
The aftermath is a whirlwind—flashing cameras, a sea of faces, and the rush of euphoria. I smile, still riding the high of performance as I’m ushered into the limelight. “Amazing performance, Ashley!” an enthusiastic voice calls out from the crowd. Gratitude warms me, and I offer my thanks, cheeks flushed with the intensity of the moment.
“Can we have a moment for an interview?” A reporter from national television approaches, microphone in hand. I agree, my voice steadier than I feel as I share the journey that brought me here—the sacrifices, the triumphs, the support of my hometown.
Exhaustion sets in later at the hotel, yet it’s rivaled by a restless energy that courses through me—a call to motion that I can’t ignore. Acting on impulse, I grab my car keys; the familiar roads of Newtok beckon me home.
At the gas station, I pause for a coffee, its bitter warmth a necessary anchor. Back on the road, the sight of a black car in the rearview mirror interrupts my thoughts. “You’re being silly, Ash,” I giggle at first, dismissing the notion of being followed as paranoia.
But as I weave through random turns and the black car steadfastly trails me, my laughter evaporates. It’s unnervingly close now. Panic nips at the edges of my calm. I press the accelerator, the engine’s growl intermingling with the pounding of my heart.
Frantic, I dial my dad, his voice a welcome sound. “Cupcake! You were amazing,” he says, pride evident even through the phone.
“Dad.” My voice shakes as I glance at the mirror.
“Ash, you okay? Where are you?”
“Dad, I’m about fifty miles from Newtok, and there’s someone following me,” I confess, my voice quivering as my grip tightens on the wheel. I’m pleading silently for the black car to take the next exit, to just disappear.
“What? Ashley, stay calm and focused on the road,” Dad says, his voice a blend of concern and authority.
“I’m trying, Dad.”
“We’re on the way, okay?”
“I—I thought it was just my imagination, but they’re still there,” I report, my eyes darting back to the mirror; the black car is now an ominous presence in the night.