Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

I take a few more seconds to steady myself, to find my center. And then fuck it—I can’t wait any longer. I get in my stance and press the board forward so that I’m gliding down the steep peak of the roof.

I do a slow 180 off of it, hit the dumpster just right with a backside Lip Slide that has me coasting fast along the edge of it until I 540 off the back corner. I’m frontside now, so that when I jib into the tailgate of the truck parked two spaces away from the dumpster, I hit it hard before flipping off its edge and onto the fresh pow.

Fuck, yeah!

I couldn’t have asked for a better start to the run that pops my cherry after a long, dry spell—and I’m grinning like a fucking gaffer as I coast the ten feet to the first flight of stairs. And then I’m right there. I do a Switch Butter, then put my weight on my back foot, and pop the front of my board up. I hit the rail frontside and grind my way down, going fast thanks to the high fluoride wax. I’m flying by the time I hit the bottom of the rail and I rodeo it off the back.

My landing’s a little off—I didn’t get quite enough air—and I asspass my way across a good twenty feet of snow before I can dig in my board and drag myself to a stop.

But I’m laughing as I unbuckle the board and climb back to my feet. No doubt, it was pretty fucking sick for the first ride of the season.

With my board clutched in my hands, I climb back up the stairs, then jog across the parking lot to the building. I can’t wait to go again.

I do it three more times before the sun finally comes up. I’d stay here all day if I could, but this is a pretty popular group of shops here in Park City. The businesses will start opening in an hour or so and the parking lot will fill up pretty quickly. Besides, I got what I came for.

A few runs where it was just me, my board, and the fresh powder.

A few runs where there was nobody to watch, nobody to judge.

A few runs where, after months of hell, I feel like myself again.

It won’t last, but right here, right now I feel good. Not great, not invincible, not even happy, really. But good enough.

Maybe that’s why I’m not ready to leave yet. After so many months without it, the snow continues to beckon. I may not be as good as Z or Ash or Cam, but I love snowboarding just as much as they do.

Maybe more, because I have to work for it so much harder than they do.

Fuck it. One last run won’t hurt anyone, I tell myself as I start my fifth climb up the ladder. I’ll make it quick—just do the roof and the dumpster, and maybe butter my way across the parking lot. It’ll only take a couple of minutes. In fact, I—

I freeze as I pull myself onto the roof, staring in surprise at Z, who is sprawled across the apex of the roof like he owns the place. Then again, that tends to be how he acts everywhere he goes.

“Hey, bro,” he says, lowering his Wayfarers so he’s looking at me over the rim. “Sick ride.”

“It was pretty good.”

He snorts.

“It was broadway man, and you know it. You fucking own streetstyle.”

“I’m pretty sure Darcy and Marc own streetstyle, but thanks for the vote, man.”

Figuring what the hell, I settle myself down next to him, bracing my feet on the slant so I don’t slide down. I got in four good rides—trying for a fifth was greedy anyway.

“Darcy and Marc are pussies,” he says. “They don’t take the risks you do.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s because they have multi-million dollar careers to think of.”

“Multi-million dollar whatever. You start playing it safe, you die. Simple as that.”

“Wait, let me write that down.” It’s my turn to snort. “Pearls of wisdom from the Z Michaels School of Snowboarding.”

“Hey. You could get worse advice than that, you know.”

“Oh, I know. I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten worse advice than that from you. Even if you are the greatest snowboarder to ever ride.” I say the last in a douchebag announcer’s voice, mocking the guy from ESPN who kept saying that about him all last season—even when he fucked up. Most especially when he fucked up.

Z just laughs, like I knew he would. But then he looks at me, really looks at me, and I can’t help squirming under the scrutiny.

“You’re probably right, dude. Probably right.”