“Ready.” The sled jerks with the dogs’ wild jumps at that softly spoken command.
Gary saunters over. “Okay, musher number ten, looks like you’re off?”
“I am.”
Gary scribbles down the time.
Tyler’s jaw is set with determination as he releases the snow hook. His sled speeds away with a round of cheers from the volunteers. He throws an arm up to wave but doesn’t look back.
CHAPTER TEN
A deep rumble sounds in Bentley’s chest, his rapt attention on my laptop monitor as fourteen dogs run toward the Burled Arch, their path lined with cheering fans and bright spotlights to cast out the darkness.
“You remember that, huh?” I stroke the husky’s fur with my fingers, comforted by his warmth next to me as we watch the livestream of the Iditarod from my bed. “I’ll bet you miss it.” It’s been five years since Bentley was retired from his racing team, and while the dog never crossed that finish line in first place, he completed the grueling journey to Nome enough times to be considered a world-class canine athlete by many in the mushing community.
It feels good to be home, and yet the sudden and complete silence after so many days of people and planes and hoopla is at the same time disconcerting.
Jonah and I landed in Trapper’s Crossing early this afternoon. My truck was waiting for me where I left it, cold and buried under a foot of snow.
After a lengthy scalding shower to soothe my aching muscles and a touch-base call to Cory to learn all that I’d missed in my days away, I swung by my parents’ place, collected a dog and a plate of lasagna, and came back to my little cabin in the woods.
All day, I lectured myself about how I didn’t need to lose another moment of sleep over dogsled races and mushers, how I needed to get back to regular programming. And yet my carefully laid plan of passing out from exhaustion was foiled the moment I knew Tyler was going to win the Iditarod.
He took the lead after Unalakleet and has held it, growing it by the hour as he raced along the coast, whipped by high winds across Norton Bay near Shaktoolik and then narrowly escaping a snow squall before White Mountain that slowed several other mushers.
They’ve been preparing for his grand entrance for hours in Nome, and now, after nine days and ten hours of racing crossing the Alaskan wilderness, I’m watching Tyler cross the finish line.
I could lie and say my only interest is in the dogs—like it was when I stayed up to watch Harry cross last year—but I wouldn’t be fooling anyone, including myself.
Still, I let my attention shift to the dogs for as long as possible. There’s nothing in their gaits to suggest Tyler worked them too hard, but I already know he wouldn’t. The veterinarians handling the finish line won’t find anything worrisome with any of them.
The team passes under the mammoth carved wooden archway, and Tyler pushes back his hood. My excitement and disappointment war inside, constricting my chest. He’s achieved something no one has since 1975: he has won the Iditarod as a rookie.
And he did it with his entire team of dogs crossing the finish line. Another rarity.
Based on the GPS tracking, Harry will come in fourth, behind Skip and last year’s winner, Jessie Schwartz from Seward. But he’s a good seven hours behind. Tyler will be snoring in a warm bed by the time the next racers slide into town.
For a man who was so convinced this was his year to shine, Harry is going to be furious.
Reporters flock toward Tyler with their cameras and microphones angled as he throws a hand up to the crowd. The commentator, a man with a deep, buttery voice, interprets the scene—the chaos, the excitement, the adrenaline that must be coursing through Tyler’s veins.
Tyler looks rough. More than nine days without a shave or a decent sleep, beyond the one he had lying next to me. The ruff around his hood is iced over, his skin is wind-burned, his eyes red and drawn.
But a serene look passes over his features, overshadowing all those other details, and when he tips his head back toward the night sky, it’s as if I can feel his triumph radiating through the screen. It gives me a small reprieve from the awkward exchange at our parting, a moment where I can be happy for him and his accomplishment.
It doesn’t last long, though, as he flaunts that devastatingly handsome smile at the crowd and cameras flash, capturing the moment.
My stomach sinks with the bitter heaviness of regret. How did I misread everything so epically … again? I was so sure there was something more between us than friendly banter. But did I imagine everything? Was he leaning in to kiss me, or was it me, leaning into him? Was his comment about me being beautiful just innocent flattery? Jonah has told me I’m beautiful before, too, and look where that ended.