He can’t speak. He’s trying to draw breath.

My heart is still hammering away. God, that was scary.

Curtis stares at me like he can’t get over how hard I hit him. “You looked like . . . you were going to open the door,” he croaks. “And I didn’t want . . . them to know anyone had seen them.”

“I wasn’t bloody going to. I was trying to work out if it was you or Brent. Or someone else.”

“It’s Brent.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw them go in there.”

Panic over. It wasn’t a scary psycho. It was only Brent.

I try to calm my breathing. “What are they doing in there?”

“Beats me.”

“Are they having an affair?”

Curtis manages a smile. “I have no idea.”

I’m about to go back out to try to hear what they’re saying, but there’s a click and light floods in under Curtis’s door. Curtis puts his finger to his lips. Doors close.

“They’ve gone,” I say.

Curtis struggles to his feet. He’s wearing his thermals, a long-sleeved black top in a stretchy fabric that clings to his broad shoulders and tight-fitting black long johns. The red mark on his temple has come right up.

I’m wearing my long-sleeved thermals too, and now that my shock has subsided, I’m shivering again. I wrap my arms around my chest.

He peels a duvet from his bunk and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I drape it around my back.

He stands close, his eyes dark. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

His room smells of freshly washed laundry, or maybe it’s his thermals.

He strokes the back of his neck up and down, looking at my mouth. When he realizes what he’s doing, he snatches his hand away, pulls a second duvet off his bunk, and slings it around his shoulders. “What’s the story with you and Brent anyway?”

Hope flares. “There’s no story. We haven’t seen each other for ten years.”

He sinks to the mattress. I perch beside him, a careful distance away.

As I’ve done so many times before, I imagine what might have happened if I’d made a different choice that night. I picture myself as I was back then: Daredevil Milla, super focused and super fit. Just as alone in the world as I am right now, but not nearly as bothered by it. Hardly aware of it even. Hopeful and excited about a future of contests and podiums.

The young Curtis wasn’t the player I initially took him for and remained single for most of that winter, focusing instead on his snowboarding. Jacinta Lee—an Aussie pipe rider—was the only girl I saw him hook up with, and that didn’t last long.