“Thinking maybe I’ll back off after this season,” Derek admitted. “Be a good dad, not get myself killed on a trick, be a good husband.”
“You’ll miss it, man,” I pointed out.
“Maybe I’ll manage, or work with a sponsor, get some weekend-level tricks in on my downtime, but yeah… I’m thinking about it. Got a call from a big sponsor and I’m not sure I want to commit.”
“What about the O-team?” I asked with caution. Both of us wanted a spot on the Olympic squad, had been working our way to it for a long time, and now he was backing off.
“Family means more right now,” he said, and he smiled so widely I couldn’t argue with what he believed.
I clapped a hand on his shoulder, said all the right things, but inside was a different matter.
That was what happened when you got involved with someone. You lost focus. You softened. I couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever. Not me. I was going all the way. I’d made the right choice even if Jack was in my thoughts more times than he should be.
Every practice run felt as if it mattered—the slam of my body into the airbag reverberating through my bones, the hiss of compressed air rushing around me. Abel Riding—a former X Games legend turned trainer—and my coach yelled through the chaos with sharp, unmistakable commands: “Tuck sooner! Spot your landing earlier! Hold that grab!” Other coaches chimed in, their shouts mixing with the dull thud of boards hitting plastic, until it felt like the whole mountain was conspiring to push us riders harder.
Every twist, every off-axis grab, every stomp on the inflated surface was one step closer to proving I belonged on the biggest stage. He barked corrections at me, and the other coaches had plenty to say as well. Younger riders watched with wide eyes, and a couple of my peers—Derek included—muttered about me trying things they weren’t ready to risk. But risk was the point.My breakout year had brought the sponsors circling, and now I had to show them it wasn’t a fluke.
The truth was, I should have been buzzing with adrenaline and focus. And I was, mostly. But every time I hiked back up the stairs to reset, I caught myself thinking about Jack. The press of his mouth, the rasp of his beard, the sound of his voice when he told me it was okay. It had been weeks since Caye Caulker, but he was still in my head more than I’d ever admit. I kept telling myself I was right not to chase it. My schedule was jammed, my life measured in rotations and competitions, and I didn’t have room for distractions. Even ones with blue eyes and broad shoulders.
By the time I crashed back in my condo every night, my muscles ached in that way that meant I’d worked hard, but I was buzzing and high on life. Even more so tonight because the hockey preseason had started and there were games streaming. My thumb hovered over the options. My team faced Carolina in what promised to be a physical, intense battle. But instead, I ignored the New York game and cued up Railers versus Boston. That told me everything I didn’t want to say out loud. In pre-season, not all the big names played—I wasn’t even sure Jack would be on the ice, but fuck, there he was, as the camera followed them through the tunnel and heading onto the ice, leading his team.
The camera zoomed in on his face, sweat dampening the ginger-blond beard still clinging to his jaw. God, that beard. He was strong, carved from stone, blue eyes blazing with intensity. Gorgeous. So sexy, I could feel the heat spike in my blood just staring at the TV. He radiated command, and I couldn’t tear my eyes off him.
Jack looked sharp. Leaner, faster, more alive than he had been on the flight to Belize. His focus was absolute, every shift astatement. I felt something twist in my chest—pride, maybe. And longing. Damn it, I missed him.
Midway through the second, Boston’s winger broke free on a rush, but Jack read the play as though he’d scripted it himself. He pivoted, angled his body perfectly, and cut the guy off with a textbook hip-check that had the commentators shouting his name. The puck squirted loose, and seconds later, he threaded a crisp pass that set up the Railers’ rush the other way. Goal! When Boston pressed again on the power play, Jack dropped to the ice to block a rocket of a shot, popping back up without missing a beat, directing traffic in front of his goalie like a general. He looked every inch the captain, fire in his stride, and it made my chest ache with pride.
The Railers scored again, late in the second. Jack threw himself into every check, every block, and when the buzzer sounded and they’d won two to nothing, I caught myself smiling at the screen like an idiot.
Rinkside, a reporter intercepted Jack as he came off the ice. “Captain O’Leary,” she called, shoving a mic under his chin, “what changed over the summer? You look sharper, faster, more focused than ever.” Jack’s gaze slid past the scrum of cameras for the briefest second, something unspoken flickering in his eyes, before he answered in that calm, dry tone of his.
“Sometimes you just need to get away, clear your head, remember what makes this game matter. I had two weeks that reminded me who I was. That’s all.” Everyone else nodded, as if it were about conditioning or coaching. But me? I instinctively knew it was about the cay.
I should message him.
Hell, I even picked up my phone, thumb hovering over Jack’s name. We’d swapped numbers on the cay just to coordinate dinners and dive times, never once saying we’d use them once the trip was over. But now? I wanted to send him something—just a quickwell done, you were incredible out there. Would that be breaking our pact, shattering the line we’d drawn around fourteen days of sun, sex, and then goodbye? I stared down at some of the casual shots I’d taken when he hadn’t seen me—we hadn’t gone the selfie route often, but when I’d had a chance, I captured an image or two. One was him on the balcony, shirt off, the late sun painting his skin gold while he leaned on the railing and stared out to sea, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He’d looked so peaceful, so solid, and seeing the photo now made my chest tight. The other was taken in bed, his head tipped back in laughter at something dumb I’d said, his beard shadowing his jaw, teeth flashing white, eyes alive. That one gutted me the most, because it wasn’t just sexy, it was happy—and I wanted to be the reason he laughed like that again.
The vibration from my phone broke the spell. My agent’s name lit up the display. I thumbed it on.
“MarvTech wants to talk,” she said without preamble—that was how Marissa Logan worked. “Big deal, Tian. Not quite Red Bull numbers, but close. We’ll set a meeting this week.”
Big money. Bigger exposure. Everything I’d been working toward since I strapped onto a board. My sponsors wanted more, the media wanted more, and I was ready to give it to them. So why did part of me wish I could trade it all for another night tangled up with Jack O’Leary?
November under the floodlights,crisp Alpine air sharp in my lungs, the roar of the crowd like a living wall pressing in. Flags whipped in the cold night wind, boards scraped against the icy start ramp with a harsh, metallic bite, and the floodlights turned every snowflake into glittering diamond dust. Cameras panned to each of us at the top, mist puffing from our mouths as we psyched ourselves up. World Cup events in Europe were insane,but Austria in particular was another level. The landing zone was carved out of glacier ice, with music thundering from the speakers; the crowd was packed in, as if it were already the Olympic Games.
I tugged my gloves tighter, board edge biting into the start ramp. The US guys had already put down some solid runs, but I was hungry for more than solid. The announcer called my name—Tian-Lei Cai-Wilder, USA!—and the roar from the crowd shook the air.
I dropped in for my first run; muscles coiled and threw a switch backside 1440 melon. Clean, high amplitude, stomped it like I’d done a thousand times into the airbag.
When the score came up—84.5, good enough for provisional second—Abel barked, “Good start.”
I nodded, already knowing it wasn’t enough to win, but it was the banker I needed.
On my second run, I went bigger, doing a frontside 1800 mute with five full rotations, the board locked in my grip like it was glued there. I felt the wobble as soon as I landed, board chatter rattling up my legs, my hand brushing the snow.
“Fuck,” I snarled as I stopped near Abel.
He shook his head and mouthed, “It’s okay.”
