Dale nods at Heather. “She wanted to.”

Seriously? I glance at her. Why would she want to come? I always got the impression she hated this place.

“And to answer your earlier question,” Dale says, “no, I didn’t sleep with your bitch of a sister.”

Curtis scrambles up. “There’s only one person allowed to badmouth my sister, and that’s me. But I choose not to because, unlike you, I have some damn respect.”

There’s a tense silence.

It seems the mood up here can change as quickly as the weather conditions.

CHAPTER 10

TEN YEARS AGO

Brent and Curtis sit opposite me in the bubble. The wind has really picked up and our little cabin shudders from side to side. I groan and clutch my stomach.

“Don’t you go pukin’ on my new snowboard pants,” Brent says in his thick London accent.

“Yeah, you have to watch her around your pants,” Curtis says. “She trashed mine yesterday.”

I check Curtis’s lower leg. There’s no rip. They’re new ones. Now that the pressure of competition is over, Curtis and Brent are all smiles. And they have reason to be. Curtis came third, Brent fifth. A good showing for the Brit boys.

Another gust of wind catches the cabin and my stomach heaves. The reek of stale cigarette smoke doesn’t help—whoever was in the cabin before us scorned the no-smoking signs.

I climbed in here wanting a few runs to vent my anger. Still, it’s probably a good thing they jumped in with me, because they’re stopping me from dwelling on my disaster of a day. With Curtis’s blue eyes on me, it’s hard to think at all.

“I thought you two would be down there celebrating,” I say.

“I always do a couple of runs after a comp to wind down.” Curtis glances at Brent. “And Brent had this Swiss girl from last night chasing him. Needed to make a quick getaway.”

I smile and turn my attention to the boards propped against the window. Brent’s is so covered with his sponsors’ stickers that I can hardly make out what model it is. A Burton something. The Shaun White pro model, I’m guessing. If Brent keeps riding the way he is, Burton might bring out a Brent Bakshi model next year.

I nod at the Smash sticker. “Do you really drink that shit?”

“Why? Want one?” Brent rummages through his backpack and produces a luminous orange can, which he cracks open and holds out to me.

“No,” I say. “Actually, yeah. I’ve never tried it.” I take a sip. “Ugh. It’s like mouthwash.” I hand it back. “I heard it’s got the caffeine of three coffees.”

“It’s five.” Brent stands, his dark hair brushing the cabin ceiling. Cold air rushes in as he slides the window open and drains the can through the gap.