My thermal top is sticking to my armpits and I’ve drunk half my water already, but at least my snowboard is where I left it. Saskia sits nearby, tilting her face to the sun. She still hasn’t acknowledged me, but the moment I pick my board up, she grabs hers and races ahead to the tow lift. I hurry after her, trying to regain my focus.

As we ascend, a figure in a mint jacket busts a huge spin. Shit—that’s a girl! You can usually tell female riders from the way they ride—less power, more cautiousness—but this one rides like a guy, fully committed to her moves. How can I compete with that? Hopefully she’s not a Brit.

I pull myself together. For now, all I have to worry about is Saskia. She drops in as I fasten my bindings. Damn. She just did back-to-back 720s. I don’t think I can do that.

Come on! Your sponsors would drop you if they knew what a chicken you are!

I take a deep breath and plunge in, but my board is sluggish and unresponsive and I’m all over the place. The best I can manage on my last hit is one full rotation. A shaky 360.

Out of control, I speed on down, catch the toe edge of my board, and fall into some poor guy’s lap, knocking him backward to the snow.

Brilliant. I’ve just mown down Curtis Sparks, three-time British half-pipe champion. Saskia’s older brother. “I’m so sorry!”

He helps me up. “No problem. You all right?”

“Yeah, are you? I hit you pretty hard.”

He seems amused. “I’ll live.”

I’ve had a big-time crush on this guy for years. He’s not just gorgeous and mega-talented. When asked why he hadn’t qualified for the last Winter Olympics, he looked the interviewer in the eye and said: “Because I’m not good enough.” He didn’t mention having major surgery shortly before the qualifiers. No excuses. His own harshest critic. I loved him for that.

I lift my goggles to see what’s up with my board.

“Hey, I saw you in the Brits last year.”

“Yeah, I saw you, too,” I tell him.

Flustered by the way he’s looking at me, I examine my snowboard. “My binding came loose again. Have you got a screwdriver?”

“Let’s have a look.” Curtis crouches over my board and grasps my binding with large hands. His hair is darker blond than his sister’s and really short, his skin golden, pale around his eyes from his goggles.

“Hey, Sass!” he shouts.

And there she is, watching us.

“What did you do with my screwdriver?” he calls.

She comes over with a large screwdriver with a purple plastic handle.

I take it. “Thanks.”