“Why are you laughing?” I say. “It’s fair enough. Doesn’t everyone want to go to the Olympics?”

“I don’t,” Dale says.

“Why not?”

Dale snorts. “Corrupt as hell. I’m not playing their game.”

I look at Curtis. “Do you want to go?”

“Yeah, sure,” Curtis says.

“We went there already,” Saskia says.

“What?” I splutter.

“As spectators,” Curtis clarifies. “Nagano in ’ninety-eight. Our parents took us.”

“Wow,” I say. “The first-ever half-pipe event. That must have been amazing.”

“It was pretty cool.” Curtis tosses another log onto the fire, prompting another round of hissing and crackling.

I hold his gaze sometimes, hoping to make him look at me the way he used to, though he never does.

“I watched it on TV,” Brent says. “I was fully into skateboarding and I said, ‘Right—that’s going to be me in ten years’ time.’ I didn’t know the Olympics only runs every four years.”

Dale snorts again.

“Are you aiming for the next one?” I say.

Brent smiles awkwardly. So these next few years are just as important for him as they are for me. I have Olympic dreams myself, but I need to climb farther up the UK rankings before I dare voice them.

“How do you get a place there anyway?” I say.

“You have to do the FIS world cups,” Curtis says. “To get enough points.”

“Bloody FIS,” Dale says. “I’d choose the X Games over the Olympics anytime.”

The X Games are invite only; I know that much. Curtis has been—he competed last year—but Dale hasn’t. It must be a sore spot for Dale.

“Shhh!” Julien points to the TV. His name appears on the screen.

But Dale is still ranting about the FIS—the International Ski Federation.

Julien hunts for the remote with a pained expression. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. And see Saskia doing the same. Her eye catches mine and I clamp my hand over my mouth.

Julien nudges Curtis. “Look.”

A smothered sound escapes from behind my hand. I lower my head and run from the room. Saskia follows, and we stand in the tiny kitchen, laughing helplessly.

“Poor Julien,” I say.

“Wanker,” she says.

We laugh some more. I find it impossible not to like her. And this is how I like her best.

She spots the cask wine on the counter and empties her wineglass into Curtis’s basil plant. “Ugh. No wonder this tastes like shit.” She pulls a Kronenbourg from the fridge. “Want one?”

“I prefer vodka,” I say. “But go on, then. Seeing as it’s New Year’s.”

Bottles in hand, we sit on the counter, close enough that I can smell her perfume. This is the first time I’ve drunk since the Le Rocher Open.