Saskia launches off the jump and I can’t hide my smile when she spins again. I’ve raised the bar and she can’t reach it.

Curtis sees my face. “Be careful with my sister.”

“What do you mean?” I say, startled.

“Just . . . Be careful.”

“Are you asking me to go easy on her?” I say. He better not be.

“No. But she doesn’t like to lose.”

I laugh. “Does anyone?”

Curtis opens his mouth as though he’s about to say something, then clamps it shut.

That gets me wondering what else she’s done. But we have an understanding now. She’s not going to do anything else underhanded.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I play hard, too.”

Just then, Julien flies off the jump with some kind of weird corkscrewed spin. This is what I love about freestyle snowboarding. It’s not like cycling or running, where races are won by hundredths of a second and it takes a photo finish to decide. Our sport is so young that riders are landing new tricks all the time—tricks people never thought possible or even imagined. Just think what they’ll be doing ten years from now.

Brent slaps my back when I catch up with him. “Good one, Mills.”

Five backflips later, I’m feeling pretty smug. Every time I land one, I tell myself I’ll quit while I’m ahead. Then I see the look on Saskia’s face and make myself do another.

This is how I’m going to beat her. Not through dirty tricks, but by sheer hard work, nailing new maneuvers one by one. I have a panel of experts on hand to ask advice from and three more months before the Brits in mid-April. I can do this.

Brent and Dale sit at the top eating muesli bars—mine. Good thing someone likes them. I still have twenty boxes of the things. Setting my board down, I sink to the snow beside Brent and tear into a muesli bar of my own.

A feminine gasp makes me turn.

Saskia stands nearby, hand cupped to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Milla.”

Dread slides over me. My snowboard isn’t where I left it.

I scramble to my feet. It’ll be behind me. Or even racing down the slope, where it’ll eventually hit a soft patch and come to a stop.

But it’s not.

“It was an accident,” Saskia says. “I caught it with my toe.” She points to a hole in the snow.

I rush over. Just visible, some thirty meters down a narrow crevasse, is my precious snowboard.

I look at her and catch a hint of a smile, which she quickly wipes.

So much for our understanding. She may not realize it yet, but this means war.

CHAPTER 23

PRESENT DAY

Brent taps the window of the operator booth. “Tempered glass.”