Chapter Thirteen
Liam
The air is so cold it bites my lungs as I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
The rhythmic scrape of boards being waxed, the chatter of the crowd, and the occasional sharp clink of bindings being adjusted fill the starting area.
It’s a symphony of nerves and focus. I’ve heard it a thousand times, but today it feels different. Heavier.
I tighten the strap on my helmet, my fingers working automatically, even as my mind buzzes. My board rests against my leg, the familiar weight of it grounding me like it always has. But my heart is racing, not from adrenaline—not yet—but from the creeping fear that I might screw this up.
What if this is the last time I ever stand here?
The thought needles at me, even as I shake it off. I’ve done this run more times than I can count. My body knows every move, every jump, every twist in the course. Muscle memory is supposed to take over. But right now, my legs feel stiff, my knees locked tighter than they should be.
“Thompson!” The starter calls out my name, and I glance up to see Lon, my coach, giving me a thumbs-up from the edge of the course. His confidence in me is unshakable, and I want to feed off it. Instead, it feels like it’s all just... pressure.
I drop my board to the snow, letting it settle. My boots click into the bindings, the sound loud and final in my head. This moment, the seconds before the first run, is the hardest part. The waiting. The wondering. The mental battle of blocking out everything but the mountain in front of me.
I shift my weight side to side, testing the responsiveness of the board beneath me. The edge catches just right, a good sign. But I can’t shake the way my hands are sweating inside my gloves, despite the frigid chill in the air.
The announcer’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers, calling out my name and listing my accolades. I barely hear it. My focus narrows to the top of the slope, to the first drop that kicks off the run. My run.
Just another ride. I repeat it like a mantra, though my chest tightens with doubt. My gut twists with nerves, the way it always does before a big competition. But this time, there’s something extra sitting there—a weight I can’t quite shake.
My goggles fog briefly as my breath quickens, and I adjust them, sucking in the icy air to clear my head.
I look down at the mountain—at the winding curves and sharp turns, at the jumps and rails waiting for me to hit them perfectly.
It’s familiar and daunting all at once, like facing an old friend you haven’t seen in years.
I close my eyes for a beat and let everything else fall away. The crowd noise fades. The chatter disappears. It’s just me and the mountain now.
You’ve done this a thousand times. You’re ready. You’ve got this.
The starter counts me down. Three. Two. One.
I shift forward, feel the glide of my board under me, and suddenly, the world tilts. Everything slows, sharpens, focuses. There’s no room for fear now, only movement. Only instinct. And the only way out is down.
The moment I drop in, the world shrinks to just me, the board, and the mountain. The noise of the crowd and the buzz of the announcer dissolve into the crisp whistle of wind past my ears. My heart, pounding seconds ago, steadies into a calm, measured rhythm as I lock into the flow.
The first drop is steep, and the board edges bite into the snow, sending up a spray of powder as I carve my way toward the first jump. My legs absorb the jolts from the uneven terrain, every muscle coiled and ready. I keep my body low, my hands loose, finding the balance between control and speed.
The jump rushes toward me faster than it should, but I’m ready.
At the lip, I crouch and spring upward, pulling my knees to my chest. For a moment, I’m weightless, suspended in a perfect arc against the icy blue sky.
The board twists beneath me—a clean frontside 540—and I spot the landing just before gravity pulls me back down.
My board kisses the snow like it was always meant to, and I ride away smoothly, a jolt of confidence firing through my veins.
The rails are next, and I set my edge, angling toward the first one.
I shift my weight as I hop onto it, the board sliding along the polished metal with precision.
My balance is perfect—shoulders aligned, knees bent.
I dismount cleanly and pivot into the next approach, my movements fluid as I transition seamlessly to the next feature.
A sequence of smaller jumps follows, each one demanding a different trick—tweaked grabs, spins, and shifts that keep the energy high. The snow crunches beneath my board with every landing, a satisfying reminder that I’m nailing each section so far.
The rhythm of the run takes over, a steady push and pull between speed and control.
The mountain is alive beneath me, every curve and crest something I’ve memorized and mastered over years of riding.
I hit another jump, this time spinning into a corked 720, the rotation smooth and deliberate, the crowd roaring faintly in the distance as I stick the landing.
The final section looms ahead: a massive kicker.
It’s the showstopper, the moment every rider knows can make or break their run.
My legs burn as I power through the approach, crouching low to build speed.
The kicker rises like a wall, but I don’t hesitate.
I launch off the edge, and the world blurs as I pull into a double cork 1080.
My body twists and inverts in the air, and for a second, time slows as I spot the landing and adjust my board’s angle.
The impact jars my knees, but the landing is solid. I ride out the final stretch, my chest heaving as I raise a fist instinctively, the exhilaration coursing through me. The crowd’s cheers break through the haze, and I let myself breathe—really breathe—for the first time all day.
Sliding to a stop at the base, I look back up at the mountain. I did it. Whatever happens next, whether I win or lose, this run was mine.
I tell myself not to, but my eyes betray me, scanning the sea of faces gathered at the base of the mountain. Beanies, sunglasses, scarves, and heavy coats blur together, a kaleidoscope of winter gear that makes it impossible to pick anyone out.
Still, I look. I can’t stop myself.
It’s ridiculous. Even if she’s here, she could be anywhere—tucked into the warmth of a lodge, perched on the edge of some viewing area, or standing somewhere in this mass of people.
But there’s a part of me that hopes. Hopes for a glimpse of her.
Hopes to see that stubborn chin tilted up, those bright blue eyes sharp and focused, watching me the way I couldn’t help but watch her.
I don’t even know why it matters. I’ve ridden in competitions with tens of thousands of eyes on me before and never cared. But now, I’m scanning a crowd for one person, one face. And with every second that passes without finding her, an ache builds in my chest.
My board digs into the snow as I shift my weight, pretending to adjust my stance so it doesn’t look like I’m desperately searching for someone. My breath fogs the air as I shake my head. Get it together, Liam.
But as the announcer booms my score and the crowd erupts into cheers, my head turns instinctively again, searching. Always searching.
Zach meets me at the bottom of the mountain, his grin splitting his face as he barrels toward me. Before I can brace myself, I’m caught in one of his signature bear hugs, my board still strapped to my feet.
“Great job, man!” he says, his voice filled with excitement.
I nod, still catching my breath, the adrenaline thrumming through my veins. “Thanks.”
“I mean, seriously,” he continues, practically vibrating with energy. “That was flawless. The spins, the landings—perfect! And your score? Dude, you’re going to win this thing!”
His enthusiasm is contagious, and I manage a small laugh as my trainer pulls me into another rib-crushing hug. “Easy, Zach,” I say, half-joking. “I still need to breathe.”
“Breathe later,” he teases, stepping back to look at me, his eyes practically glowing with pride. “This is your day, Liam. Soak it in.”
I should feel more than I do. Relief. Pride. A sense of triumph. But as I unstrap my board and glance back up the mountain, all I can think about is Maggie. Was she watching? Did she see me?
The crowd’s cheers swell again as the announcer calls out the next rider, but it barely registers.
Zach’s talking a mile a minute beside me, rattling off something about how clean my cork 1080 was, how I’ve locked in a podium finish at the very least. But his words feel distant, muffled, like I’m hearing them through a layer of snow.
“Did you hear me?” Zach nudges my arm, snapping me back to the moment.
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a grin. “Thanks, man.”
But my mind is somewhere else entirely. With someone else entirely. And as the next rider barrels down the slope, I can’t stop myself from glancing toward the crowd again, searching for a hint of brown hair, or a flash of blue eyes.
What are you doing, Liam? You’re not going to find her in a crowd this big.
But even as I tell myself that, my chest tightens with the possibility that Maggie might have missed it. And for some reason, that feels more important than winning this whole damn competition.
As the next competitor crosses the finish line to a roaring cheer, I glance out at the crowd one last time, telling myself it’s pointless. The sea of bundled-up spectators is massive, faces obscured by scarves, sunglasses, and hats. There’s no way I’ll actually find her. No way.
But then I do.
There, near the edge of the viewing area, partially hidden behind a cluster of people, is Maggie. Her dark brown hair peeks out from under a simple beanie, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. Her gloved hands are wrapped around a steaming cup of something, and for a moment, I’m frozen.
She’s looking right at me.
My heart thumps hard in my chest, and I blink, convinced I must be imagining it. But then she lifts one hand, offering me a small wave, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.
For a split second, everything else fades away—the noise of the crowd, the chatter from Zach, the announcements blaring over the speakers. All I see is her. And in a sea of faces, somehow, I found her.
A laugh escapes me, half disbelieving, half exhilarated. The universe must be on my side today. First the run, and now this.
I raise a hand in return, my fingers tingling despite the warmth of my gloves. She doesn’t move, doesn’t wave again, just holds my gaze for a beat longer before turning back to her cup.
“Who’s that?” Zach follows my line of sight, but I shake my head, keeping my grin to myself.
“No one,” I say, feeling the excitement swell inside me. No one who just made my entire day with a single wave. And drinks tonight? Suddenly, that’s the real victory I’m looking forward to.