“I flew in this morning,” Brent says.

“Grenoble?”

“Lyon.”

“That explains why I didn’t see you,” Curtis says. “I flew to Grenoble.”

I saw the airline tags on their snowboard bags.

“I drove out,” I say.

Curtis’s eyebrows go up. “All this way?”

“For old times’ sake. It gave me some thinking time.” To think about you, among other things.

Heather bursts back in. “Guys?” She sounds breathless. “Our phones are gone.”

CHAPTER 6

TEN YEARS AGO

Saskia has her arm around me like I’m her new best friend. She smells of perfume, heady and exotic, though she wears no makeup apart from violet eyeliner that makes her eyes look even bluer.

We’re in a booth in Glow Bar, six of us, all girls. I had no idea what to wear tonight. Saskia seemed the type who would dress up, but screw that, it’s minus ten out there. So I pulled on skinny jeans and two sweaters, prepared to look like a dork, but the girls around our table, who seem to be mainly French, wear jeans and sweaters too, and we all still have our snowboard jackets on. These are my kind of people.

The place is heaving. I’m not into the whole après-ski scene. I came here to train, not to party. I’ve always found it odd how some visitors to ski resorts spend more time in bars than on the slopes. Still, Glow Bar is the only bar in the village.

On the stage, a live band plays thrashy punk rock.

Saskia shouts over it. “Are you here for the season, Milla, or just for the comp?”

“The season,” I say. “You?”

“Same.”

Nerves skitter across my stomach. All winter, I’ll be training side by side with my closest rival. I’ll be able to follow her progress, but it will work both ways. I take in her narrow shoulders and hips. She’s a couple of inches shorter than me, but height is no advantage in the pipe—a lower center of gravity aids balance. Still, when it comes to power, I’ll have the advantage. I’d love to see how she works out in the gym. She must have amazing lower-body strength to ride like she did earlier.

“Have you got sponsors?” she says.

“Yeah.”

She waits expectantly.

“Magic snowboards. Bonfire clothing, Electric eyewear.” And a muesli-bar brand, but I won’t mention that in case she laughs. I drove out with my little Fiat Uno stacked to the roof with the things and I’m sick of them already, but at least I won’t starve. My sponsors are product only—they send me stuff; I somehow fund my own training—but I’m not going to tell her that either. “I had a different clothing sponsor two years ago and they dumped me when I busted my knee.”

“That happened to me, too,” one of the girls says.