Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

I ghost into the kitchen, grab some orange juice and a couple Advil. I let myself out onto my patio to watch the show.

It’s fucking beautiful.

The streetlights give just enough illumination to make the snowflakes look like little drops of silver as they float slowly to the ground. Stepping outside the cover of my patio, I hold my arms out wide and tilt my face up to the sky. These snowflakes are big and misshapen, and they feel cold and wet against my cheeks, my arms, my eyelashes.

I love it, love every fucking snowflake and every fucking second that I’m out here with them, alone. I stick my tongue out, laughing a little as a few land there and I get my first taste of winter.

Thank God.

Thank God.

A sob rips through me then, harsh and painful and so totally unexpected that it nearly brings me to my knees. I let myself have this moment—this one beautiful, devastating moment—and then I fight it back, shove all the shit down deep inside of myself and lock it away for another few months.

The wind picks up, and now it’s whipping the snowflakes against my face. But I’m okay with that too. Hell, I’m okay with anything that will get me on my board—making it through these last three months without the release of snowboarding has been fucking brutal.

Not anymore, though. The snow is sticking, the ground beneath my bare feet already coated with a thin layer of powder. If this keeps up, I’ll be on my board in no time.

It’s cold out and the wind is fierce, but I don’t go back inside despite the fact that all I’m wearing is a thin T-shirt and a pair of sweats. I like the cold—like the bark and the bite of it.

I like the distraction of it.

I don’t know how long I stand out here, arms spread wide in worship and supplication as the snow continues to fall. Long enough for my shirt to grow damp from melting snowflakes. Long enough for the bottoms of my feet to begin to ache and burn with the cold. More than long enough for the need to board to grow from an itch into a necessity that I can’t walk away from.

As the sky slowly turns an inky kind of purple, I walk around the side of the building to the large storage unit where I keep my boarding equipment. I have a ton, so I store a bunch of it at my mom’s house, too, but my favorite boards and wax I keep here—along with a balance bar and some other stuff I practice on during the off-season.

I pull out a couple boards—including my favorite Burton—and some wax, then head inside to get my gear. I usually wax my board in my laundry room—less of a mess if the wax gets on the tiles in there—so I set it down on my waxing station. Then I pull out my iron and get it preheating while I rifle through my waxes. I’ve got six or seven different kinds in here, all meant for different conditions and different performances. Since I’m doing streetstyle today, I pick a bright green one that’s highly fluorinated to help me go fast.

When the iron’s hot, I press the bar of wax against it, then run it above my board so that the wax drips down onto the board. Once I’ve got enough wax on it, I set the bar aside and start ironing my board.

A lot of guys don’t like this part of boarding, but I always have. Because I hit the pow so much, I wax my board every few days, which I admit, can be a pain since it’s so messy. But on mornings like today, when it’s been a few months since I’ve been on the snow, it’s kind of nice. Especially since it lets me go over the tricks I want to do in my head, lets me kind of visualize them before I’m actually out in the fresh powder.

I get dressed while the wax is cooling down, pulling on a pair of black snowboarding pants, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and a hoodie. Normally I’d wear a jacket as well, but it’s not that cold yet and I won’t be out that long—people will be waking up to go to work in another couple hours or so—so I don’t bother.

Once my board is cool, I scrape the wax off, making sure to get all the excess. The last thing I want is a bunch of residue slowing my board down—or worse, catching on a rail and sending me spinning. I brush the board down twice, making sure it shines, then run a Scotch-Brite pad over it to make sure it’s perfectly buffed.

I finish up just as dawn is creeping across the sky, which is nice because I’m not suicidal enough to snowboard in the dark. At least not in an area that’s not on the mountain. And while I could go up to the resort Ophelia’s aunt and uncle run—it’s our home resort and they pay me, Ash, Z, and Cam to ride there—that’s not the kind of riding I want to do today.

So I leave my car keys on the counter, gather up my stuff, and head out through my parking lot and out onto the main street. I don’t have far to go to get where I want to be—there’s an old-timey looking strip mall a few blocks from my house, one that has low slanted roofs and high staircases and—if things haven’t changed, a dumpster in the perfect position for what I want to do.

The snowplows are already out, clearing the street of the eighteen inches of fresh pow that’s fallen overnight, stacking it up on the curbs I’m walking along. I love the look of the snow all piled up, the sound of my boots crunching through it. Hell, I even like the smell of the snow—all fresh and clean and pure—so different from how I feel right now.

When I get to the strip mall, I immediately head around to the side of the building—and the built-in ladder that runs up the edge of it. I swear, whoever owns this place has to be a boarder too. The setup is just way too perfect otherwise.

Before I climb, I check out the dumpster, make sure it’s where it’s always been. I run my hands along the rims, make sure they’re clean and unhindered. Then I run up and down a couple of the different sets of stairs, checking out the railings, making sure they’re good too.

I’d never do this on the mountain, but then I wouldn’t have to. There are people at the resorts whose only job is to make sure the courses are in tip-top shape. And when we’re boarding backcountry, the surprise is part of the thrill of tackling nature head-on. But in the city, boarding streetstyle, surprises can get you killed. I learned a long time ago to make sure I knew the course was in good shape before I tried to board it.

Adrenaline is pumping through me by the time I sling my bag over my shoulder and start the climb to the roof. I haven’t boarded since Chile and I can’t wait—cannot wait—to feel the pow under my board. It’s been too fucking long, man, and my head is too fucking messed up. I need to barge a few runs if I have any hope of clearing it.

When I make it to the top of the roof, I look out over the parking lot. The sky’s lightened up a little more and everything has an early morning haze around it, like all the harsh edges are just a little blurred. I love this time of the day, especially when there’s fresh powder on the ground. Everything is stark and beautiful and yet somehow less harsh than under the full light of day.

It’

s as if the imperfections in the world around me are softened somehow, less blatant and in your face. I think I like it because I hope it does the same thing to me—makes me look less like an untalented douche—and more like a guy who’s got something going for him. Wishful thinking, but there it is.

What is it about being all alone in the middle of new snow that turns me philosophical? Whatever it is, it needs to stop because time is running out—and there’s no way I’m going home until I jib a few rails.

I drop my bag on the apex of the roof, then carefully buckle into my board. When I’m all fastened in, I get myself balanced, take a deep breath. I bend my knees a little, hold my arms out, get the feel of the board underneath me for the first time in way too fucking long. It’s a long way down and the last thing I want to do is fall off this fucking roof before I even get a chance to barge a Salad or a Smith.