Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

I get great air—I mean, fucking great air—and I use my thighs to propel myself even higher as I start my first backward roll. 360, 720, 1080—there it is. I did it. I look to come down but there’s still more air to catch, so I fucking do it, underflipping one more time—and coming out

of it with a full 180 Twist that lands me perfectly positioned on the pow.

For a second, I can’t believe what just happened. I start going over the spins in my head, certain that I’ve fucking miscalculated—certain that I’ve counted 540 degrees too many.

But then Z is running down the hill and Ash is running up the hill and they’re both screaming like a couple of fucking banshees—or gaffers who’ve never seen a decent trick before.

“Was that—” I start to ask, but Z cuts me off.

“Holy shit! Where the fuck have you been hiding that?” He punches my arm. “I mean, seriously. Where the fuck did that come from?”

I look at Ash for confirmation—he’s definitely the cool-headed one of us—but he’s all but jumping out of his skin.

“A 1620. A fucking 1620! How the hell did you fucking land a 1620?”

He’s incredulous, absolutely fucking gobsmacked, but I’m not insulted. Because this is way more about the trick than it is my inability to ride as well as my friends.

“Are you sure it was a 1620?” I demand. “I flipped four times, which is a 1440, but—”

“You did a half twist at the end,” Z breaks in, waving the camera in my face. “I know it’s a 1620, but I’ve got the camera right here if you want to check.”

My head is reeling. I’m trying to play it cool, but I can’t. How can I when I just landed a 1620? A fucking 1620? Only one other person on the planet has done that and though we’ve all been nipping at his heels—Z and Ash included—it never once occurred to me that I’d be the one to duplicate the feat.

A 1620? I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it until after I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes. And maybe not even then, because this is me. And snowboarding. And a trick almost no one else in the world can do. It doesn’t make sense.

But Luc and Ash are crazy excited. They’re whooping and hollering and already pressing replay for the footage on both their cameras, at the same time. I don’t know where to look—they’re both holding their vids up at the same time and yelling for me to watch. So I end up going back and forth between the two cameras, hands clenched and body tight as I count the rotations of my body.

One, two, three, four—with a twist at the end.

Holy fuck. Holy fuck. HOLY FUCK! I really did just do a 1620. A 1620. It wasn’t a Cork, was just an Underspin which doesn’t have as much style, but holy fuck! That doesn’t matter. Not right now.

“How the hell did you do that?” Z demands. “It’s nearly impossible. Like seriously nearly impossible.”

I don’t argue, because he’s right. It is nearly impossible. Z can’t do it. Neither can Ash. And—I realize reluctantly as we watch the footage a second then a third then a fourth time—neither can Cam.

Holy fuck!

“Can you do it again?” Ash demands. “The footage Z has is good, but I really want to get a better shot of it before I upload it to the website.”

“You’re not really going to upload it, are you?” I ask, because it’s not normally my stuff that gets spontaneously uploaded. Oh, there are plenty of videos of me on the website and online, but the uploads that happen when we’re boarding backcountry are almost all Z and Ash and Cam. Because they’re the talented ones. They’re the ones who can do the crazy sick tricks.

“Hell yeah, I’m uploading it. You just did the second 1620 in history—and it’s the first Switch Quadruple one like, ever! Once I get it up, it’s going to spread like wildfire. The whole world is going to know by tonight!”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I can do it again.”

My mind is blown, is boggling at the idea that I did this. I did this. Not Z. Not Luc. Not Josh fucking Greene. Me.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t think you could do it the first time, so get your ass up there and try,” Z tells me, half-walking, half-shoving me up the side of the mountain. “If you can’t, who gives a fuck? You did it once. But I want to see you do it again.”

“We both do!” Ash calls even as he moves back and forth, trying to find the right spot to record my second try.

“Yeah, all right,” I tell them, but I’m shaking my head as I finish the climb back up to the jump. “You know I’m going to end up falling flat on my face and making a total ass of myself like I usually do.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Z demands, punching me in the arm, hard. “One, you nail a hell of a lot more tricks than you fall on. Two, remind me of all these supposed times when you think you made an ass of yourself? And three—”

“You know I fall a lot.”

“We all fall a lot, bro. It’s the nature of the sport. I’ve broken thirteen bones through the years, you know that.” The look he gives me is half-incredulous, half-disgusted as he continues. “Besides, it’s just Ash and me out here. Who the hell are you going to make an ass of yourself in front of?”