The Winner	 The Winner by Voyagerbabe

 Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

 Author's disclaimer: Alliance owns Ben. I own Ashley. This story is
dedicated to all the young men and women who have worked so hard to become
athletes in the Special Olympics.

 Author's notes: This is an answer to the whipped cream challenge on RSY.

  

 Most of the kids were eating, but I wasn't. 

 The strawberries, melon, and grapes were fat and juicy, sending gushes of
sweet juice down the chins of the others as they bit in. Thick dollops of
whipped cream had been squirted over each cup, and as anyone knows,
whipped cream just won't stay fluffy and cool for long in the middle of
August. I knew that by the end of the race, those sweet little clouds and
that glistening fruit would be mushy and hot, the cream puddled and melted
on the bottom of the cups. 

 I also knew, however, that not eating them was giving me an advantage. At
least three of the twelve girls who would be racing me were there under
the tent, digging in to the free treats while they were still good. In
twenty minutes, when the starter's gun fired, a fair portion of their
blood would be in their stomachs. All of mine would be in my muscles,
ready to push me to victory. 

 For what must have been the fiftieth time, I leaned over, running my
hands carefully over the sleek wheels of my chariot. The entire community
had held a fund raiser to buy me this special racing wheelchair, and I
couldn't let them down. I had to win, to make the thousands of hours of
training mean something other than gallons of lost sweat. To pay back in
pride all the ice cream socials and community garage sales. 

 More importantly, though, I had to win for Mom and Jeremy. Five years
ago, a drunk driver on the I-90 blindsided our Toyota. I was nine, Jeremy
barely two. He took my legs. He took their lives. 

 My fingers absently trace the smooth curves where my thighs end, just
above where my knees used to be. With my legs went my hope for the US
Olympic Track and Field Team, but that wasn't the real loss. I'm still
here, with the Children's Special Olympics, the thick muscles of my arms
and back propelling me at speeds that can *exceed* those of runners with
all four limbs. No, my legs weren't the real loss. 

 The real loss was watching little Jeremy chase bugs across the front
porch, giggling so hard that his toddling steps would stumble, falter,
then fail him entirely. The way he would smear spaghetti-sauce art across
our kitchen wall, or 'dance' along with the radio in nothing but his
diaper. The loss was my Mother's special peanut-butter brownies, of her
arms holding me after I missed placing in a track meet by half a
heartbeat. It was not hearing her sing off-key while she did the dishes,
or making up silly limericks about bad television shows. 

 I close my eyes, trying to stop the memories. I can't let this happen,
not now. Less than twenty minutes from now, I will have to be operating at
my absolute prime, and I cannot see the finish line with tears in my eyes.
Slowly, I try to replace the sorrow with anger, fire to push me towards
the gold. 

 Suddenly, a man's voice intrudes. "Would you like some?" I open my eyes,
and my breath catches in my chest. He's gorgeous. 

 Eyes every bit as blue as the summer sky look down at me, kind and
compassionate, but without the sympathy and pity I see so often. His face
is boyish and smooth, sculpted with a classical appeal that reminds me of
the drawings of Prince Charming from my childhood books of fairy tales.
Dark hair is cut short, but just long enough that sweat has made it curl.
He's not as tightly muscled as the athletes here, but the physique beneath
his volunteer's tee shirt is trim and toned, the muscles of his smooth,
hairless arms clearly defined though not bulging. I like that unlike most
handsome men, he's chosen a tee shirt that fits, rather than one that will
stretch tightly against those broad shoulders. 

 It takes me a long moment to notice that he's holding a fruit cup.
Closing my mouth, I shake my head. "No thanks. I want to keep all my
energy right here." I flex one arm in demonstration. He nods and smiles,
revealing perfectly white teeth. 

 "Intelligent decision, Ashley. I just didn't want you to miss out unless
it was by your own choice." He raises the fruit cup. "For later, then?" 

 I shrug, "I wish, but it won't be any good later." 

 "Ah. Well then, I'll let you prepare." He turns to go, but something
suddenly occurs to me. "How did you know my name?" 

 He turns back, a slight smile bringing to my attention a dimple in his
right cheek. "Quite simple, actually. You're number thirteen...Ashley
Keil. I memorized the athlete's names in the events I will be assisting
with." 

 I grin. "Wow. What's your name?" 

 "Benton Fraser. You can call me Ben if you wish." 

 "All right, Ben...I'll see you on the winner's platform. I'll be the one
holding the cross-country gold." I spin my chair in a tight circle for
effect, holding my breath so as not to choke on the dust cloud that kicks
up in the hot, dry summer air. Ben takes a step back, then nods
pleasantly. 

 "I hope so. Good luck. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm afraid I need to
attend to some duties at the main track." With a polite nod, he leaves,
and I find my eyes inadvertantly following the fit of his blue jeans.
Quickly, I shake my head. No distractions means no distractions. 

 Trying to push the handsome volunteer from my mind, I take one wrist in
the grip of my other hand, pulling gently but firmly to stretch the
muscles and limber the joint. If I want my boast to Ben to become a
reality, I've got to be ready. 

 *** 

 "On your marks..." My eyes are fixed on the road ahead like lasers, my
muscles straining as my gloved hands grip my wheels. I see Ben out of the
corner of my eye, standing as one of the spotters up on the curve ahead.
He's going to see exactly what I can do. Exactly how good I am. 

 "Get set..." Every fiber in my body is tense, my heart pounding. My
entire being is centered on the finish line, five kilometers away over
three hills and six turns. I know that by the time I get there, I will be
sweating, panting, and exhaused, my body on fire. But I also know that I
will get there first. 

 "Go!" With a massive heave and a primal battle cry, I send my chair
flying down the track. Within moments, I've got a steady rhythm going, my
arms moving back and forth against my wheels in powerful strokes like the
oars of an ancient Roman battleship. The faces and cheers of the
spectators blur past me, and my vision is locked on the track ahead. I can
hear my pulse in my ears, feel the sweat begin to bead and drip on my skin
beneath the pounding rays of the sun. Time is measured in each heaving
breath, distance vanishing beneath my tires. 

 I am only marginally aware of each racer that slips behind me, but I am
very aware that I have taken the lead. Jeremy's sweet face appears in my
mind, and I imagine him clutching my mother's hand, standing in the crowd
and watching me push on to victory. I know they can see me from heaven,
and I want them to see me proudly holding high the gold medal. 

 By the time I reach the last hill, I feel like my arms have been filled
with white-hot coals. My chest is tightening, my heart beating it's way
through my jersey, but still, I continue. I only have to make it to the
top, then my momentum will take me down and across the finish line. I am
in the lead by almost two meters, my victory assured. Biting my lip, I
shove harder at the wheels, ignoring the pain. 

 Suddenly, the fabric of my glove pinches. I've reached too low on the
wheel, my glove has become caught. I hear myself scream as the speed of
the wheel jerks my arm down, then hear a snapping sound, like a dry branch
cracking. A sharp lance of agony sears up my arm from my wrist, and I feel
blood, warm and wet, dripping towards my fingers. The crowd gasps, and my
chair careens out of control, toppling onto it's side. I fall out, sobbing
in pain and rage. Why did this have to happen! I was so close! So damned
close! 

 I lay there in the dust for what seems like years, hearing the other
racers fly past. Only two seconds ago, I was celebrating my victory. Now I
won't even finish! 

 The medics are shouting for people to get out of the way, waiting for the
last racers to pass so that they can get me. I don't want them to come. I
don't want to be carried off the track a failure. 

 Tears mingle with the sweat on my cheeks, and I imagine Mom and Jeremy
looking down, shaking their heads in disappointment. It's all over, my
dreams destroyed. I look up at the blue sky, begging their forgiveness,
knowing that this is an unforgivable failure. Suddenly, through the blur
of tears, I see a face lean over me. It's Ben. 

 His strong arms wrap beneath me, lifting me as easily as if I were a rag
doll. He's careful not to touch my shattered wrist, allowing me to cradle
it close. I look into those blue eyes in confusion. Why isn't he waiting
for the medics? They're the ones who will take me to the hospital. He
doesn't have to do this. 

 Ben doesn't take me to the sidelines, however. He doesn't carry me to the
waiting stretcher, or hand me over to a medic. Instead, he looks into my
eyes, his own filled with understanding. "Do you want to finish?" 

 My heart soars as I realize the gift he's offering me. He will be my
chariot. I may not win, but at least I'll complete what I set out to do.
Blinking back my tears, I nod. 

 The crowd is silent as he begins to walk down the track, carrying me. My
blood has turned the front of his white tee shirt scarlet, but strangely,
I don't feel the pain any more. I feel like I'm floating, cradled safe in
his arms. I only see Mom and Jeremy, watching me from behind the
fluttering ribbons of the finish line's broken tape. Even the medics seem
to realize the importance of this, and they make no move to stop Ben as he
takes me those last two hundred yards. 

 Finally, we step across the finish line, and I begin to cry again as the
crowd bursts into a loud, roaring cheer. This time, though, my tears are
of triumph. I see Mom and Jeremy bending over me, their faces superimposed
over those of the medics as I am lifted from Ben's grasp and laid on the
backboard. The medics are fussing over me, yelling orders and asking
questions. I ignore them. My injury doesn't matter. 

 Ben smiles at me proudly, and I smile back as he walks beside the
stretcher. He reaches into his pocket, then leans over, pressing something
cool into my hand. I can feel that it's metal, and I open my hand
curiously, straining to look at it from my strapped down position. Ben's
blue eyes are soft. "I know it's not a gold medal, but it's the best I
could do...I think you more than deserve it." 

 It's some kind of policeman's badge, the gold crest glinting brightly in
the sun. "Are you a cop?" 

 "RCMP, actually." 

 I smile lazily...the painkillers the medics are giving me have begun to
take effect. "Oh. Thanks." 

 He vanishes from my view, and for a moment, I think he's left. Then he
reappears, handing something to one of the medics. "You can give her this
later," he says, "I think she wanted it." 

 It's one of the fruit cups. I don't know how he did it, but the fruit is
still glistening and fresh, cool drops of condensation forming on the
outside of the plastic cup. The whipped cream is still a light cloud on
top, promising to be perfectly sweet and airy. I stare at it in amazement,
but he just smiles. "I kept it for the winner." 

 THE END