Brent and I sit side by side on the carpet at his place. Seven of us are crammed in front of the telly to watch the new Burton DVD. The fire crackles, the heat of the flames blistering against my forehead. It’s New Year’s Eve, but with perfect riding conditions and more snow on the way, we elected to have a quiet one.

Everyone cheers as Brent’s name flashes up on the screen. Jay-Z’s “Young Forever” starts playing. And there’s Brent, tanking toward one of the biggest jumps I’ve ever seen. He flies through the air in a huge 720. And stomps the landing.

I flash him a smile and he presses his knee subtly against mine. My occasional nights in his bed are our little secret still. Nobody except Curtis knows about us, though Saskia suspects. She asked me about him the other day—asked if we were seeing each other. I denied it. I’m not sure why but I don’t want her to know about our nights together. It’s not like Brent and I are together or anything.

I look over at her and she’s watching us. I move my leg away.

On the sofa, Curtis and Odette are side by side, laughing about something. The two of them seem to get on really well. Odette had a bad fall yesterday and she has an ice pack clamped around her wrist.

The doorbell rings.

Dale jumps up. “I’ll get it.”

He’s wearing bright purple, heavily ripped jeans that make my hair, dyed pink the other night in a dodgy kitchen-sink job, seem subdued in comparison. My towel ended up pinker than my hair, but at least nobody else will confuse me with Saskia. Three times people have mistaken me for her now, and it pisses me off.

Dale returns with Heather in tow. She wrinkles her nose at his jeans. She’s wearing her tight black dress and kinky boots. Must have just finished work. Brent’s eyes follow her across the room; Julien’s, too. Curtis keeps watching TV, apparently immune. I shuffle closer to the fire to make room for Heather and Dale on the carpet.

On the screen Brent launches off jump after jump.

“Where’s that?” I say.

“New Zealand,” Brent says. “Snow Park last August. It was epic. Burton paid for me and Curtis to fly out there.”

“Lucky bastards,” I say. “Some of us were working. How come you compete at half-pipe anyway? You’re so good at jumps you could compete at big air.”

Brent doesn’t answer.

“He wants to go to the Olympics,” Curtis says, getting up to poke the fire.

Brent flushes. He actually does.

Everyone laughs. Everyone except me. Big air isn’t an Olympic event. Not yet anyway. Even half-pipe hasn’t featured for long—just the last few Olympics.