“What are you doing?” I say. “The marmots won’t be able to hibernate this year.”

“I can’t stand the stuff.” Brent closes the window and stashes the empty in the side of his backpack. “Don’t tell anyone, because they’re paying for my season.”

I like Brent. He reminds me of one of my brother’s mates, Barnsey. “Are they paying you more than Burton?” I ask.

“They’re paying more than all my other sponsors put together.”

“Seriously?” But it makes sense. Brent’s the guy who goes big. He’s the perfect figurehead.

“When they told me how much they were offering, I said I’d get their name tattooed on my arse.”

“You didn’t!”

Brent lifts his jacket and grasps the waistband of his snowboard trousers as though he’s about to rip them down. “Want to see?”

Unsure if he’s serious, I glance at Curtis.

Curtis throws his hands up. “Don’t look at me. Why do you think I’ve seen his arse?”

Brent laughs and sits back down. He has the cocky confidence that comes from being exceptionally good at a sport—and not just any sport, but one that involves flying through the air at great height. Yet he’s funny with it. Not to mention cute, with his ready smile and incredible dark eyes.

I saw him on breakfast TV before I came out here. The female presenter—Anna something, an attractive woman in her forties—asked him what muscles you needed for snowboarding. Pretty much all of them, he told her. She persuaded him to take his shirt off, so he stripped and she was all over him. The male co-presenter practically had to restrain her.

It was a hilarious example of reverse sexism. If you flipped the genders—a male presenter, a female athlete—it would have caused nationwide outrage. As it was, half the audience was laughing at her, the other half was going equally wild. Brent sat back, taking it all in stride.

And yeah, that chest. I got it. Yet he doesn’t affect me like Curtis does.

I grip my seat as we’re thrown about some more. The bubble slows to a crawl.

“You know Dale asked me for a Smash this morning?” Brent tells Curtis.

“Did he?” Curtis says.

“He went home with the barmaid last night.”

“Who, Heather?”

“I don’t know.”

“Long, dark hair?”

“Yeah.”

“She lives with my sister,” Curtis says. “Wear him out, did she? Lucky for you.”

They laugh.

“Where did Dale come in?” I say.

“Seventh,” Curtis says.