The sense of déjà vu catches me off guard. One night ten years ago Curtis warned me to stop drinking, and I should have listened to him, but I didn’t.

Just like I’m not going to now.

I hold my glass out. Brent must be more rattled than he’s letting on, because his hand shakes and he sloshes whiskey all over my fingers. I suck the sticky liquor off and knock the drink back.

I think Curtis noticed that little tremor, because he’s eyeing Brent as if trying to assess what he might be capable of.

He’s looking at the wrong person.

CHAPTER 8

TEN YEARS AGO

I stagger across the plateau, head throbbing, stomach heaving. Hoping I can make it to the half-pipe without vomiting again.

Huge banners have been erected: Le Rocher Open. Bibbed competitors blast out of the pipe, warming up; others stretch or adjust laces and bindings. Faces are tense, riders focused on the runs they’re hoping to do. Just like I would be if I wasn’t too busy trying not to puke.

I’ve been attempting to eat ever since I came home from Glow Bar last night, but I can’t keep anything down. I’m so angry—mainly with myself. How could I have fallen for it? I’m twenty-three, not a teenager. Peer pressure or not, I should have known better.

Hip-hop booms from a sound system; the sunlight pierces my brain. I shield my eyes, wishing I could curl up in a silent, darkened room and sleep off my hangover.

The guy beside me bites into an overripe banana and my stomach clenches. I can smell it. There are camera crews on either side of me—Eurosport, France 3, a couple more. I clamp my lips together. Don’t vomit again.

There’s a buzz of foreign languages in the queue to sign in. As I collect my competition bib, some of the girls from last night walk past, snowboards under their arms. I lower my head, not wanting to see them laughing at me.

Someone taps my shoulder, and Odette swoops in to kiss me on either cheek. “How are you?”

I raise my eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Her smile turns to puzzlement. “What?”

“The vodka?”

“Vodka?”

“That I was drinking all night?”

Odette’s face flushes pink as I explain. She looks around for Saskia in disbelief. There she is, in her white Salomon jacket, way up at the top, about to drop in. Odette turns back to me, words tumbling out of her. Apparently Saskia set it up before I entered the bar, suggesting they drink water shots to faze the competition.

“I’m so sorry,” Odette says. “I didn’t know.”

From her mortified expression, I believe her. “What about the other girls. Did they know?”

“I don’t think so.”

I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse.