I’m thirty-eight years old. I can repair torn ACLs and clear blockages from intestines, reconnect nerve tissue, and, when necessary, amputate limbs, but I can’t accurately decipher when a man is flirting with me?
I didn’t understand how much I was hoping for this thing between us to be real until Tyler told me it wasn’t.
The rest of my time at the checkpoint was a blur. I threw myself into my task, focusing on the teams coming through to keep my mind from wandering, working until I slumped into my sleeping bag, my eyelids shutting almost instantly.
Tyler drops his snow hook and is off his sled, heading for the dogs with a bag of pork belly, their tails wagging. Meanwhile, the race officials rummage through his sled, ensuring he has all the mandatory gear as required by the rules, including the dog diary I signed, before they can officially declare him the winner.
It’s difficult to see through the crowd, but he pauses long enough to hug an older gentleman. No one I recognize. His father, maybe? I never asked Tyler if he had someone waiting for him at Nome, but it would make sense. Most mushers have a handler lined up for when they arrive in the city, so the dogs can be properly cared for while they rest.
From there, it’s an assembly line of procedure—Grant McManus introduces Tyler to the crowd as the champion before shuttling him over to hand him the oversized prize check for photo ops, and then beyond to a slogan-laden presentation of a pickup truck from the sponsoring dealership. Finally, they head to a table, where Tyler sits with Tank and Nala, and the officials place yellow rose garlands around the lead dogs’ necks.
I smile as he ropes his arms around them, pulling them tight to his side, his grin for the cameras genuine and wide.
Reporters converge with microphones and questions, and I strain to hear his answers around all the background noise, hoping to glean a bit more insight on a man who avoids talking about himself.
“You were living in Finland before you moved to Alaska last summer. And you raced and won the Finnmarksl?pet, the longest dogsled race in Europe, a year ago at this time. How would you compare these two trails?” a female reporter, unseen on the screen, asks.
“They’re both incredibly challenging. The Finnmark is a bit shorter at 750 miles, but with strong winds across the fells and the temperatures, it can get treacherous. I’d say finishing either is a great feat, no matter whether you’re first or last.” His eyes dart to the camera before shifting to a spot on the ground
“Did you grow up mushing?” a man asks.
“I didn’t. I discovered it a few years ago, when I moved to Finland from Montana and fell in love with it immediately.”
“You say you’ve only been doing this for a few years, and yet here you are, a world champion of the Finnmarksl?pet and now the Iditarod.”
“Maybe more than a few years.” He grins sheepishly. “And I had good training. Tero and Anja Rask, of Rask Huskies in Finland, have been mushing their entire lives. Tero has raced and won the Finnmarksl?pet three times. They’re both here, actually. Right over there.” He points somewhere beyond the camera and throws up a wave, I assume, to them.
I mentally take note of the names, intent on searching them once I can peel my gaze from Tyler’s face. That answers the question about the man he hugged.
“You were married to their daughter, Mila Rask, also a competitive musher in Finland. Is that how you were introduced to mushing?” another male voice asks. They’re firing questions at Tyler from all angles, as if armed with them ahead of time. I guess that makes sense. No one has been able to pin him down until now, and people watching want to know about this year’s champion.
The muscle in Tyler’s jaw ticks. “Yes, that’s right. My wife’s family are big into mushing and when I met her, I fell in love. With everything, I guess. Her. The dogs. The life.”
My heart squeezes, hearing him so candidly admit that.
“Mila Rask was a top-five finalist in the Finnmarksl?pet in previous years and expected to win one day, until she tragically passed away during childbirth just under two years ago, as did your son. Did you …”
The reporter’s question fades with the blood rushing to my ears, my horrified focus on Tyler’s face as it takes on a stony expression. This reporter clearly dug into Tyler’s personal life in preparation for the interview. Why would he mention that on a livestream as Tyler’s celebrating his win, though?
No wonder Tyler avoids interviews.
My stomach churns as I wait for Tyler’s answer to the insensitive ass’s question—whatever it was. “That’s right. This is Mila’s team.” His attention shifts to Tank, his hand scratching the dog’s chest. “She always talked about racing the Iditarod, and so it was a no-brainer that I would do it for her now that she can’t. This race, and this win, was for her.”