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  Sinking back to earth, I touch down, all fired up and ready for more. Back and forth from wall to wall like a pendulum. On my final hit, I spin hard and make the 540—just. My fingers shake as I unfasten my bindings. I love this board. I’m going to keep it forever—put it up on my wall so I can show my grandkids.

  Saskia’s walking up now because there’s a queue for the lift, so I trudge after her. The glare off the snow is dazzling, the whiteness of an Alpine winter so different from the gray of an urban one. My eyes are still adjusting.

  On her next run she does big back-to-back 540s on her last two hits. Fear swirls in my stomach. I always imagined that once I found sponsors, I could sit back and enjoy myself. How wrong I was. The pressure is tenfold now that I have an image to uphold. I can’t let my sponsors down.

  I picture the spins in my head as I strap in. I need to go big on the first one to get enough air time to make the second. Here goes.

  Crap. I just face-planted in front of all the people eating their lunch at the bottom. Spitting snow, I wipe my goggles and hurry back up. My knee throbs and I don’t even want to know if Saskia saw that.

  I have to do this. A top-three ranking is the difference between semipro and fully pro, and fully pro means you can train year-round. Unlike Saskia, I don’t come from a wealthy family, but I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

  I try again. Another wipeout. My right hand takes the impact and pain zings up my arm. I think I see Saskia smirking as I pick myself up. It takes me four more tries, then, somehow, I manage. And damn it if Saskia doesn’t pull a 720. Two complete rotations high above the ice.

  The sun blazes down on the half-pipe. Every time I nail something, Saskia raises the bar. I’m pushing it as hard as I dare. If I break something before the Le Rocher Open tomorrow, I’m screwed.

  By midafternoon, my water bottle is empty again. I’ve already trekked to the midstation once to refill it. I leave my board at the bottom of the pipe like last time, among the colorful array of others, and jog across the plateau.

  On my way back, I pass a family of skiers—mum, dad, and small child—in agitated debate on the cliff edge. When I peer over, I see why. A tiny blue glove lies on the snow below.

  My gaze returns to the family. Strapped to the man’s chest is a baby, all bundled up against the elements. Only his little pink cheeks are exposed. And one small bare hand. He must have dropped the glove from the rickety chairlift that rattles overhead. Le Rocher isn’t a family-friendly resort and it’s the first family I’ve seen here. They must be locals.

  I check either way along the cliff. I’ve jumped higher ones plenty of times. If it’s not over twenty foot, it’s not even a cliff, according to Whitelines magazine. But it will eat into my training time. I look over my shoulder at the pipe, where Saskia will be increasing her lead, then back at the baby and his poor bare hand. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stuck my water bottle into my sports bra and I’m running to the edge. The woman’s hand flies to her mouth as I leap.

  Midair, a realization hits me. I’ve only ever jumped cliffs with my snowboard on. This is going to hurt . . .

  I plummet through the air. Powder and rocks loom below. As my boots touch down, I tuck my shoulder in and roll, coming to a stop, plastered with snow. I raise my goggles and see the family’s shocked faces peering over the cliff at me. Now, where’s that glove?

  A twinge of pain from my knee as I scramble up. Old injury; it does that sometimes, and today’s wipeouts didn’t help. I hold up the glove and the parents clap. As hard as I can, I hurl it upward. The man snatches it and shouts out his thanks, and the family disappears from view. Now I need to figure out how to get back up.

  After a long sideways hike through deep powder, I’m finally back at the pipe, sweaty and breathless. And all that for a bloody baby glove.

  My thermal top is sticking to my armpits and I’ve drunk half my water already, but at least my snowboard is where I left it. Saskia sits nearby, tilting her face to the sun. She still hasn’t acknowledged me, but the moment I pick my board up, she grabs hers and races ahead to the tow lift. I hurry after her, trying to regain my focus.

  As we ascend, a figure in a mint jacket busts a huge spin. Shit—that’s a girl! You can usually tell female riders from the way they ride—less power, more cautiousness—but this one rides like a guy, fully committed to her moves. How can I compete with that? Hopefully she’s not a Brit.

  I pull myself together. For now, all I have to worry about is Saskia. She drops in as I fasten my bindings. Damn. She just did back-to-back 720s. I don’t think I can do that.

  Come on! Your sponsors would drop you if they knew what a chicken you are!

  I take a deep breath and plunge in, but my board is sluggish and unresponsive and I’m all over the place. The best I can manage on my last hit is one full rotation. A shaky 360.

  Out of control, I speed on down, catch the toe edge of my board, and fall into some poor guy’s lap, knocking him backward to the snow.

  Brilliant. I’ve just mown down Curtis Sparks, three-time British half-pipe champion. Saskia’s older brother. “I’m so sorry!”

  He helps me up. “No problem. You all right?”

  “Yeah, are you? I hit you pretty hard.”

  He seems amused. “I’ll live.”

  I’ve had a big-time crush on this guy for years. He’s not just gorgeous and mega-talented. When asked why he hadn’t qualified for the last Winter Olympics, he looked the interviewer in the eye and said: “Because I’m not good enough.” He didn’t mention having major surgery shortly before the qualifiers. No excuses. His own harshest critic. I loved him for that.

  I lift my goggles to see what’s up with my board.

  “Hey, I saw you in the Brits last year.”

  “Yeah, I saw you, too,” I tell him.

  Flustered by the way he’s looking at me, I examine my snowboard. “My binding came loose again. Have you got a screwdriver?”

  “Let’s have a look.” Curtis crouches over my board and grasps my binding with large hands. His hair is darker blond than his sister’s and really short, his skin golden, pale around his eyes from his goggles.

  “Hey, Sass!” he shouts.

  And there she is, watching us.

  “What did you do with my screwdriver?” he calls.

  She comes over with a large screwdriver with a purple plastic handle.

  I take it. “Thanks.”

  She raises her pink neon goggles to her helmet but doesn’t say anything. She has the most amazing eyes. I’ve seen them in photos, but they’re bluer in real life—even more so than her brother’s.

  I tighten my binding, putting all my strength into it because I don’t want it to come loose again. I had to borrow a screwdriver from some guy at the top earlier.

  “Want me to tighten that for you?” Curtis says.

  “Do I look like I have a problem with my arms?” It comes out before I can help it. Rude, I know, but would I seriously be up here if I can’t tighten my own bloody bindings?

  Fighting a smile, he looks me up and down. “I don’t see any problems at all.”

  My cheeks burn. I hand the screwdriver back. And notice a rip in his lower leg. “Oh God, I tore your trousers.”

  His smile widens. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t pay for them. You can fall on me anytime.”

  Is this guy a complete flirt or what? In front of his sister as well!

  “It’s weird,” I say. “Because that’s the second time my bindings came loose today.” He’s making me babble.

  His smile fades. “Really?” He turns to his sister.

  Why’s he looking at her like that?

  Saskia smooths her hair over her shoulders. “Must be the warmer weather. The holes in her base have expanded or something.”

  “You’re giving my sister a run for her money today,” Curtis tells me, still looking at her. “She’s pulling stuff I didn’t know she could do.”

  Saskia’s face darkens. Maybe I’m not as far behind her as I think.

  She shoves out her hand. “Hi. I’m Saskia.”

  “I’m Milla.”

  She breaks into a grin. “I know. Are you coming out tonight? Glow Bar’s running a pre-comp party.”

  I hesitate. “I don’t normally go out before a comp.”

  Saskia tilts her head. “Why? Are you scared?”

  I curse inwardly. “No. I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER 5

  PRESENT DAY

  In the freezing function room, we pass the “secrets” around. They’re all written in the same neat capitals.

  “What’s going on?” Curtis’s voice is dangerously quiet.

  A sea of puzzled faces. Dale clenches and unclenches his fists; Brent throttles the neck of his beer bottle. Heather’s eyes flit from corner to corner.

  Whoever was behind the game, I don’t think it was Curtis after all. Nobody could fake that simmering anger, surely, and he wouldn’t have said those things about his sister.

  He grabs the box and gives it a vicious shake. Wishing he could do the same to us, clearly. Shake us hard enough to get some answers.

  Something rattles inside the box. Curtis pushes his hand into the opening at the bottom. A tapping sound. “It’s got a false bottom.” He flips it back over and puts his eye to the long, narrow slot in the top. “Our envelopes are still in here.”

  A shocked silence. And we all crowd in to see.

  I take the box from Curtis. Halfway down, a layer of wood separates it into two compartments: the top section, where our envelopes are just visible, and the now-empty bottom section. The box hasn’t left the room. Could one of us have put the fake cards in without the others seeing, or was it done in advance?

  “Let’s have a look,” Brent says.

  I hand the box over. He stomps down hard on it and it splinters.

  “What’s the point of that?” Curtis mutters.

  He’s right. I bet the secrets we wrote to share have nothing on the ones Heather read.

  Heather snatches an envelope from the floor and opens it. “I faint when I see blood.”

  Nobody’s listening.

  Curtis’s eyes blaze. “Someone set this up. Who was it?”

  He gives each of us a long, hard look. We flinch in turn.

  I’m struggling to let go of the idea that he invited me here. Partly out of pride. I was flattered—thought it meant something. Hoped it meant something. And if Curtis didn’t organize this reunion, who did?

  Brent gets to his feet. “Screw this. I need a real drink.” The door slams behind him.

  Heather has little pink spots in her cheeks. I’ll get her alone later and ask her about Brent, because I have to know. If she slept with him, was it before or after she got together with Dale? And before or after Brent was sleeping with me?

  Dale steers her to the window and they stand there quietly conferring. Is he asking her about Brent? He must be.

  Heather strikes me as unlikely to have orchestrated this. The first three secrets seemed deliberately designed to embarrass her. Or is that just what I’m supposed to think? I sensed a lie earlier, when she told me about her invitation.

  I sip my beer, wishing for something stronger—and jump. Curtis is right behind me. Moves like a cat when he wants to, this guy.

  “This anything to do with you, Milla?”

  “No,” I say. “Of course not.”

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Tell me about your invite,” I say. “When did you get it?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “Same here.” It was pretty short notice, but I dropped everything. Because I thought it was from you. We may not have spoken these last ten years, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see him again.

  “Was it sent to your phone or your email?” I ask.

  “Email.”

  “What address was it sent from?” I should have checked earlier, when he and Brent showed me their invites.

  Curtis is looking across the room at Dale and Heather. “M Anderson, something like that. Gmail account.”

  “I don’t have a Gmail account. My invite was from C Sparks. Gmail, too.”

  I spent so long wording my reply. Should I mention Saskia? Should I offer condolences? I considered phoning him. There wasn’t a number on the invitation but there were several on his website. In the end I chickened out. Awkward conversations are easier in person.

  Great idea! I wrote. I’ll be there. So good to hear from you. What have you been up to?

  His reply pinged back. Glad you can come. See you soon.

  I was disappointed but put it down to his being busy. And male. What guy ever writes more than he has to?

  I drain my beer. Unlike Brent, Curtis has aged well. He’s clean-shaven, the cleft in his chin clearly visible, and he must have been overseas recently, because he has a faint tan. His dark blond hair is a little longer than it used to be, but it suits him. He wears a navy Sparks-brand jacket with white piping down the sleeves. Photos on social media show his whole family wears the brand these days.

  Or rather, what’s left of his family.

  “Did you keep in touch with any of these guys?” Curtis says.

  “No,” I say.

  “Not even Brent?”

  Is he asking out of curiosity or something more? “No.”

  There are so many things I want to ask him. How much time he gets on snow. Where he’s living. If he’s seeing anyone. I search his face for a trace of the old warmth, or even just a sign he doesn’t hate me.

  But Curtis is all business. “How about anyone else from that winter?”

  “No.” I ended up jumping in my car and driving off, leaving the storm behind me. I deleted them from my Facebook. My phone. My life. I feel bad about that now, but I wanted to clear the slate. “But I’m pretty visible online. I’m a personal trainer and I have a blog and a website.”

  If he’s looked me up, he doesn’t reveal it. “Right.”

  “I imagine it’s the same with you?”

  “Yep.”

  Curtis is apparently as talented in business as he was at snowboarding, because Sparks Snowboarding, the outerwear company he set up seven or eight years ago, has really taken off. And I love what he’s doing with it. Running freestyle snowboard camps in Switzerland every summer, coaching underprivileged kids alongside up-and-coming young stars, and campaigning about climate change, trying to safeguard the glaciers so that future generations can enjoy them.

  Across the room, Dale’s voice raises, though he lowers it when he sees us looking. Heather shakes her head, her body language defensive. I don’t like what I’m seeing. If he lays one finger on her, I’m going over there.

  Brent returns with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a stack of glasses.

  I reach for a glass. “Good call. Might warm me up.”

  Brent pours me a measure, hand shaky as he does so. I sip it and wince. God, that’s strong.

  Dale and Heather are still arguing. His voice is an angry rumble; hers is plaintive.

  “Want one, Curtis?” Brent says.

  “No, thanks. So what do you do for work these days?” Curtis asks.

  Brent pours himself a hefty measure and knocks it back. “Bricklayer.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

  “Family business.” Brent must have seen our faces.

  Now that he’s told us, I can see signs of it in the broadness of his shoulders, the roughness of his hands. The slight stoop of his back.

  I think of his Olympic dreams and something wrenches inside me.

  Fame is fleeting for most athletes, but especially so in sports as dangerous as ours. At the heady peak, you’re put on a pedestal and hailed as a hero, but one mistake is all it takes. Hitting the lip too fast or too slow; catching a rut left by the previous rider. One tiny error in judgment. Or sheer bad luck. The stakes are so high that if we thought about them we wouldn’t jump at all, unless we had a death wish.

  We all fall eventually, but somehow Brent’s fall seems farther than most. He was Burton’s golden boy, the face of Smash energy drinks. For years I scanned the rankings, hoping to see his name, but he disappeared clean off the scene, just like I did. I assumed he must have had a serious injury, but now I wonder. Is the reason he stopped competing anything to do with me? If it was, I don’t think I could bear it.

  Curtis recovers before I do. “And how is it?”

  “It’s a job.” Brent sounds defensive.

  “Have you got a website?” I say.

  “Yep.”

  Curtis and I share a look. So anyone could have found Brent’s email, too.

  Heather hurries from the room, head down. Should I go after her?

  No. She looked upset, and I couldn’t cope with the whole tearful-in-the-bathroom bit just now. I never know the right thing to say. When I’m upset, I keep it to myself. That was one good thing about Saskia. She would never do a tearful-in-the-bathroom on me.

  I saw Odette cry once, but if I’d received the news she had, I’d have cried, too.

  And never stopped.

  She will never walk again.

  I knock back the rest of my whiskey. I won’t think of that. I’ll catch Heather when she’s calmed down a bit.

  Dale stands at the window, bottle in hand. He shoots a look at Brent, then turns his back. What has Heather said?

  “How did you two travel out here?” Curtis says.

  “I flew in this morning,” Brent says.

  “Grenoble?”