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More honest.
Except I look behind me and they’re all there. Logan and Tansy and Timmy, Z and Ophelia, Cam and Luc. They’re all watching me, waiting, and I know I don’t have a choice, know I never did.
“You want the camera?” Luc calls, but I shake my head. I’m usually the one who loves to record this stuff, to put it on the website for the fans. But I haven’t touched the website in seven months and this … this just feels too personal for anyone else to see.
I already feel way too vulnerable as it is, my emotions on display for Z and Luc and Cam to read so easily. The thought makes the ache inside me worse and I know it’s now or never.
Fuck it. It’s now.
I brace myself, push off, and slide right over the edge of the world.
Behind me, I hear the others calling my name, yelling encouragement. I block them out—not because I don’t appreciate the support, but because I can’t listen. Not now. Not to them. Not to anything, really, but the pounding of my heart and the blood rushing through my veins.
It’s a fast ride, the snow fresh and slick beneath my board. But that’s good, exactly as I want it. Because if the powder is taking all my concentration, then I can’t think of anything else. Can’t worry about anything else. Not about Logan or Tansy or a future I can’t even begin to picture.
I’m bombing the mountain, building up speed ’til I’m going wicked fast and end up hitting a cornice pretty early. I launch myself off the top of it, pull a cannonball, where I grab the front and back of the board at the same time and spin straight into what has to be a seventy-foot drop. It’s fucking sick, fucking amazing, and then I’m slamming into the snow hard, knees bent to absorb the impact, and that’s it.
Adrenaline rips through me, adrenaline and excitement and a fucking rightness I haven’t felt since December. This is what I’ve been missing like a phantom limb. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
I shove all the doubts, all the worries, all the fears, into the back of my mind and just ride. I just fucking ride.
The chute curves and I throw my body into it, shifting my shoulders and my hips and the board just enough to make the cut. There are no trees up here to worry about slamming into, but there are rocks. Huge fucking boulders that would end me in seconds if I hit them.
I torque around the first one, then slide between two into a narrow, rock-lined chute with sides so close I’m nearly scraping them with my shoulders. I hunch a little to give myself more room, curving inward, then laugh when I realize the chute ends with a fucking ramp.
I bend my knees, get a little closer to the ground and then I’m right there.
>
Going off the edge.
Falling.
Flying.
It’s the best fucking feeling in the world.
I bust out a 1080 reverse double cab and then grab the back of my board and hold on for fucking life as I fall the rest of the way. Fifty feet, seventy-five, a hundred. A hundred and fifty. Where’s the ground? Where’s the fucking ground?
I crane my head, look over my shoulder and there it fucking is, right below me. I slam into the snow, hard, fling myself forward to keep the momentum going. I’m fucking free, fucking flying, and it’s never felt so fucking good.
There’s another turn up ahead followed by another narrow chute, then what I think is a pretty gentle slope. It’s a good place for me to stop, easy to get a snowmobile to, easy to get me back up to the top. But fuck that. It’s been so long and this feels way too good to stop and I know, I know, I’m riding this bitch all the way down the fucking mountain. I’ll worry about how I get back up later.
I slam out of the chute going faster than I should be. Eighty miles an hour heading toward eighty-five, ninety. Ninety-five. I should slow it down—I know I should—there’s just too much risk going this fast. But I don’t give a shit. Not right now. This is just way too fucking much fun.
I bend my knees a little, go into a partial tuck to reduce air drag so I can go faster.
Faster and faster and faster.
I whip through the valley, shoot off the edge of another wicked cornice and pull out a backside rodeo 1260 before slamming back into the mountain. I plow right over the gentle slope I should stop at, my momentum carrying me all the way through it and over the edge of a wicked natural ramp in seconds.
I do a double front flip—just for shits and giggles—brace for impact. I hit hard, with only a second to get my bearings before I’m going over another sick cornice, this one bigger than all the others put together.
I feel it as I go over, feel the snow shift weirdly under my board, and I know what’s going to happen even before it does.
Fuck. Shit. Goddamnit.
I don’t even bother pulling a trick this time, just aim for the fucking ground. When I hit, I’m tucked low for speed and push it, using every ounce of strength I’ve got to go faster than I ever have before.
