Shattered (Extreme Risk 2)

That this time everyone thinks I’m the one who might freak out.

Not that I plan on doing that. No way, no how. I’ve got to stay in control, got to keep it together. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll shatter into so many pieces they’ll never put me back together again. It’s been a month since the accident and every day feels like the first one. Like the shock is brand new again and again and again.

It’s almost my turn. They’re herding me toward the deck and, for the first time ever, I’m not ready to go.

But it’s not like I have a choice. This is it. Ride now or lose the Olympics. Turn in the run of a lifetime or lose my dream forever.

The guy in front of me is good—really good—but not unbeatable. I watch him throw down a 1260, followed by an inverted back 1080. He ends with a triple cork. It’s a strong run, but I can beat it in my sleep. And Z, Z can annihilate it.

“You ready?” the organizer at the top asks me as I finish strapping on my board.

For some reason, the question hits me hard. I wasn’t ready for any of this. I wasn’t ready for my parents’ deaths. I wasn’t ready to be my brother’s guardian. And I sure as hell wasn’t ready to walk away from him. To leave him, in a hospital, alone.

“Ash?” he repeats. “You good to go?”

I nod, take a deep breath. Try to get my head where it needs to be. But as soon as I shove off, I know this isn’t going to work.

The commentators are talking, the crowd is cheering, I’m dropping in on the pipe—my favorite place to be—and the truth is, I just don’t feel anything. Not the cold, not the adrenaline that usually rips through me. Not the sharp prickle of awareness about how easily this can all go wrong. I’m numb, completely numb.

But it doesn’t matter because I’m down the pipe, building momentum, carving back up. It’s time for my first trick—a sick, inverted 1280. I need to go for it, need to hit just right to get the momentum so early in the run. I’m there. I can feel it in the slide of the board against the snow, in the angle of my body in the wind. And I just don’t give a damn.

I miss the trick, don’t even try for it.

I can hear the confused muttering of the crowd, the blankness in the announcer’s voice. But it’s like they’re talking about someone else. Someone whose future—and past—I just don’t give a shit about.

I come down the side of the pipe fast, then, like I’m supposed to. But instead of carving up the vert on the other side, I turn. Coast. Board a straight line down the center of the pipe. All around me, people are talking and calling things out. Maybe they’re booing. Whatever it is, doesn’t matter anyway.

I get to the end of the pipe, and Luc is waiting for me, face white and mouth tight. “What’s going on, man? You hurt?”

I shrug off his hand as I kick out of my board. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches me with wide, anxious eyes. I turn away, but I can still feel his eyes on me. Feel him staring at me, staring through me.

In the old days, this would be the time for me to shoot him a reassuring smile. The time for me to crack a joke or tell a story, maybe even throw a fake punch or two.

Because I’m the one who always keeps us on an even keel. Who makes sure everything is smooth and right and normal. But I can’t do that now. I can’t act like everything is fine when my whole world is anything but smooth, anything but normal.

As I straighten, I see Cam and Ophelia making their way through the throngs of spectators. Eyes wide, faces worried, they’re headed straight for me and I … I just can’t deal with any more concern right now. I feel like I can’t breathe, like their care is pressing down on me from every side. Smothering me. Drowning me.

“I gotta go,” I tell Luc.

He stiffens, eyes going wide in alarm. “Logan?”

Of course he’d think that. Of course he’d think something had happened to my little brother. Why else would I be walking away from this? From my dream?

I look around at the crowds, at the pipe that even now has another rider on it. At the snow that’s been as much a part of me as my blood for as long as I can remember. At my friends. At the Olympic coaches watching me from their booth at the top of the stands.

And I feel nothing.

“I gotta go,” I tell Luc again. This time, I toss my snowboard—my state-of-the-art Jones Aviator—at his feet.

He squawks in alarm, but I ignore it, ignore him—ignore everything—as I turn and walk away. Behind me Cam is calling my name, trying to weave her way through the crowds, but I just walk faster. I’m done. More than done.

Snowboarding is my past. And my future … yeah, well, right now I don’t feel like I have one.

Chapter 1

Ash

Nothing improves a shit day like fucking a snowbunny in the summertime. The fact that I never have to see her again makes it even better. At least that’s what I tell myself.