Saturday's Storyteller: "She hurtled down the track, the icy winds whipping her face, and she hoped it was fast enough this time."

by Belinda Roddie

She hurtled down the track, the icy winds whipping her face, and she hoped it was fast enough this time. Every swish of her skis - every sting of frost striking her in her exposed cheeks - reminded her of her pace - of her trial. She could feel her fingers already grow numb beneath her gloves, but she kept her grip on her poles firm, eyes forward, the zephyrs attacking her windbreaker.

When she came to a stop at the bottom of the hill, she could already see her father despite the falling sleet. He was shaking his head. She couldn't see his mouth, but it was probably drawn in a straight line beneath his ski mask. He waved his stopwatch, and she felt her shoulders sag.

"Two seconds too late, Lexi," he remarked gruffly. "No way in Hell you'd get gold."

"Silver?"

"Not even 4th," he grunted. "Forget it. Let's go home."

Lexi exhaled. At this rate, she felt more obliged to sit back with a hot chocolate and read a good book than continue to train. After all, she liked skiing, but she never thought she'd do it competitively. But her father had. And he had a silver medal - his bane. He was an Olympian, so she had to be, too.

With white peppering her hair, she pulled the skis off her boots and made the miserable trek back to the van. Into the blizzard she went.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.