Ride Page 4

  I’m close to giving up and packing my big lens away when someone hits a rail near me. Then another person hits it, their boards scraping in a coordinated slide over the metal. The sharp, bright sound snaps my head around, my breath catching in my chest as I see the men.

  They’re both in black, helmets and goggles and neck warmers covering most of their faces, but I still know who they are.

  It could be the sponsorship tags that tell me. Plastered in the center of each of their helmets is the glossy, primary-color logo of the aggressive energy drink they ride for—the same one that’s sponsored most of this park. As one of the men flicks off the end of the next rail, his board flips up behind him to reveal on its underside the stamp of the best snowboard manufacturer in the world.

  Customized gear. The logos that are only found on the very best-paid pros in the world. I can imagine how many zeros are in their contracts.

  But that’s not why I know.

  I know because when Chase Austin and JJ Schneider board, shivers thrill down my spine. They move like predators—wild, free, dangerous. Perfectly in control, all of that latent power leashed. I’ve seen good boarders, and they had nothing on these men. They move so perfectly that it takes me a few seconds to work out I’ve stopped breathing. Every lean of their body is casual as it counters the incredible force of their tight-cut turns, all those well-trained muscles making the work look effortless.

  Grace and power, flawlessly paired.

  I straighten up and without thinking lift my camera to my face as they come to a stop above the superpipe, great wings of snow fanning out from the cutting edges of their boards.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  When I take the camera from my face, I could swear that one of the men is watching me.

  It has to be him. Chase is too big for a boarder. Too muscled. Too heavy. His body radiates power and brute force, a threatening potential that tingles along my spine.

  There’s a reason he’s the world’s most famous extreme athlete. No one matches Chase Austin for power and aggression on the slopes.

  And then the men are gone. They dip down into the seven-meter superpipe, and I scramble to get back into my board’s bindings.

  There’s no guarantee they’re coming back. But I know how boarders work: there’s no way they’re hitting this superpipe just once today. I direct my board through lazy turns down to the top of the pipe, taking it easy since I have a few thousand dollars’ worth of camera hanging around my neck. Once I’m there I start to get ready.

  My fingers are frustratingly clumsy. I don’t know why. I never get nervous before a shoot. I’ve taken some good photos of some great athletes, and I’ve always been calm. But now I feel rushed, checking the light levels and trying to decide if this is the right lens. It’s not like I can rely on having time to get ready once they’re here.

  I have one chance to get these photos right. One chance to get the shots which will make them say, Yeah, sure, ride with us.

  I don’t have much time to think it over. It’s not long before I see Chase and JJ tramping up the other raised side of the pipe. I can just make out them laughing to each other about something, the deep masculine reverberations of their chuckling reaching across the huge space between us. Chase is the taller one, his board braced on top of his shoulders with his gloved hands dangling lazily above it. Even through his jacket I can make out the breadth of his shoulders.

  He was an ass in the bar last night. But looking at him now, it doesn’t matter. All I can think of is the way he moved over the snow, an animal in his element.

  “Hey,” I shout. “Do you mind?” I hold up my camera, as if they could miss it.

  It’s JJ who replies, waving a jaunty hand over the twenty-two-meter gap between us. “No problem.”

  Chase doesn’t say a thing, but I’m not asking again. There’ll be time for that later. Right now I’m grabbing the best opportunity I’ve ever gotten.

  I don’t have much time to appreciate it. As soon as the guys get to the drop-in point opposite me they’re bending to get into their bindings. I can’t hear their voices when they straighten again, but from the movements of their hands I can see them discussing where to hit the walls. I move into position, and then …

  In my wildest dreams, I didn’t imagine anything like this.

  The guys aren’t going at their hardest. This isn’t the run Chase did at the winter Games ten years ago when he was still a competition rider. It doesn’t matter. The superpipe is big enough to give even pros nerves, and yet Chase drops into it with no fear at all. He’s absolutely committed from his first, speed-building air, the leap into the sky which takes my breath away.

  The sound of his board making impact again is enough to remind me of how big these stakes are. Riders die on superpipes. They break their spines, they crack their skulls, they pulverize bones and rip tendons. They get injuries that mean they can never walk again.

  Chase rides like fear is for other people.

  As Chase does a lazy trick on the other side of the pipe, I get ready for him to cross back over in front of me. Unconsciously all the things I’ve learned get me into position—lights, composition, angle, focus …

  I’m expecting something good, not something great. Why would a pro snowboarder pull out all the stops for a low-level photographer at the beginning of her career? But Chase throws the biggest cab 1080 I’ve ever seen. He lunges like a panther from the lip of the pipe and then he’s flying, all that bulk hurtling through the air with perfect grace. Six foot of dense muscle exploding into the sky, tucking and twisting. He’s so close that the wind from his takeoff buffets me. So close that I can see myself reflected in the darkly rainbow glint of his sponsor’s goggles.

  I could swear he’s looking down at me from the apex of his flight, a slo-mo heartbeat as his huge body twists above mine, arched against the sky.

  Snap.

  “You motherfucker,” JJ shouts from the other side. He sounds absolutely delighted.

  Maybe it’s not the word I’d use. But I’m thinking it too.

  Why would Chase risk such a huge trick on a fun run?

  But he does it over and over, hitting those blood-chilling heights above me every time. If I didn’t know better I would think he’s showing off for me. But why would he? Even if he does recognize me, who am I to him? Nobody. Just another piece of ass.

  It must be he and JJ egging each other on. Each of them throws more ridiculous tricks every time they go down the pipe, shouting affectionate abuse at each other as they land more and more dangerous spins and flips.

  Not that it matters why they’re doing it. I’m making the most of it either way.

  Through my camera I focus on the powerhouse of Chase’s body.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  After about an hour I’ve pretty much convinced myself that of course they like showing off for a camera.

  Not just a camera, either. By the time JJ and Chase come to a stop at the end of the pipe, dozens of runs later, I’m not the only one watching. Word must have gotten around, those sponsor logos acting like a beacon for anyone nearby who has an interest in skill or million-dollar paychecks. I’ve got no chance of getting my board on and my gear shouldered before they’re surrounded by fans. Most of them are snowbunnies—you can tell by their flawlessly matching gear, the luster of their hair. They can’t have been doing real snowboarding, not without hats and helmets mucking up their curls.

  This time they don’t bother me. That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. My heart is thumping in my chest as I quickly pack my camera gear into its hard case before I turn my board down the mountain.

  The guys don’t take much notice of me as I pull to a stop near them and kick off my board. Chase has his helmet off, running his gloveless fingers through his hat-squashed hair and tilting a cool grin down at the girls he’s talking to.

  It’s JJ who notices me.

  “Hey—photo girl.”

  He’s a little shorter than Chase,
and handsome too—in a blonder, sun-kissed way. The grin revealed above the black neck warmer he’s pulled down is easy, and he’s not too distracted by the crowd around him to politely but forcefully push his way through it.

  “JJ,” he says with a smile, sticking out one hand. “You get what you wanted?”

  There’s something about him which puts me at ease. I smile back. “Yeah. Thanks for doing the pipe so many times.”

  “No problem,” JJ demurs with an easygoing shrug. “Wouldn’t have done it if we didn’t want to. You a pro?”

  Years in and the question still makes something flutter in my chest. “Yeah,” I say, checking Chase again. There couldn’t be more of a contrast between them—quiet, moody Chase and the bright, beaming JJ. It’s like an old spaghetti western, given JJ’s a blond and Chase has an almost-black tumble of half-curls. Like they’ve been color coded for my convenience.

  I snap myself back to attention. “It would be great if I could get a release signed from you guys. And if you wanted any shots for your social media profiles—for your sponsors …”

  “I would fucking lo—” JJ is interrupted by the sudden arrival of a kid who half barrels into him. “My younger fans,” he remarks with a grin to me. “Of course I do. Apparently I’m about to get dropped from the brand for being a social media recluse. The release—”

  “Sind Sie JJ Schneider?” the kid says in German.

  “Oh, god.” JJ laughs. “Listen, I’ve gotta get busy. You can find me on Instagram, right? And we’ll organize meeting up. I’ll bring that asshole.”

  Chase is laughing at something one of the girls is saying, pausing in signing her board. It must be because the sound’s so deep that I can feel it in my sternum.

  I can tell I’m fighting a losing battle against Swiss kids pulling out ski passes to be signed. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I must be grinning like a lunatic with how happy I am. How exhilarated, to have just spent an hour photographing the very best boarders in the world. “Yeah,” I say with a smile. “That’d be great. How about I give you my card?”

  It’s not JJ who takes it. He’s distracted by the pushy kid, leaning over to try something in German even I can tell is atrocious.

  Instead another hand reaches over my shoulder to take the card.

  “Brooke,” Chase says without looking at it.

  My heart makes up for the beat it skipped by hammering in my chest so hard that it’s painful. I work a swallow through my dry throat. How did he get here? Right here, suddenly so close that I have to crane my neck to see his face. Those lucid blue eyes are fixed on mine, as bewitching as they’re unreadable.

  For a moment we just stare at each other.

  JJ’s hand reaches to tug the card from Chase’s fingertips. “Brooke Larson,” he reads. “Sweet. I’ll get in touch.”

  Chase acts as if he hasn’t heard. He doesn’t look at JJ at all, his eyes fixed on me with the same relentless focus he gave to the superpipe before. A little shiver courses over my spine. It’s intimidating how big he is. Those huge shoulders. The sheer mass of his body. The way his breath is still heavy from his exertion.

  An animal.

  “We’ll sign it at the bar later,” Chase says. It isn’t a question. “You know the Faceplant?”

  I nod, tearing my eyes away to look between the two men. “Yeah. I have a friend …”

  Chase shrugs coolly. “She can come.”

  JJ’s grin is warm. “Sounds like a party. Catch you later, Brooke.”

  5

  The Faceplant is the spiritual ancestor of just about every snowboarder bar I’ve ever visited. Loud rock music booms from inside. A girl with dreads is clearing up empty glasses. Everything has an air of scuffed casualness, from the graffiti on the wooden doors to the posters slathered over the walls. Its deck opens out onto the snow where the lowest of Laax’s runs comes down into the village. The tables offer a great view of all the kids coming down from ski school, and it’s pretty damn convenient to be able to kick off your bindings and walk straight into the bar.

  It’s not the kind of place you’d expect to find two men with a combined net worth of hundreds of millions … but snowboarders aren’t exactly known for being prissy.

  “You look great.” Alex bats my hand away from where I fiddle with my hair, unfamiliar to me now it’s not tied back in a bun or braids. “He’ll still want to tap that. Stop worrying.”

  “I don’t want him to tap that,” I snap back. “I want him to like my photos. Them. I want them to like my photos.”

  My correction wasn’t quick enough. Alex’s grin spreads like the Cheshire cat’s. “Yeah. ‘Them.’ ” She holds her air quotes close to my nose.

  I’m about to protest when I catch sight of the boys. They’ve found a table in the sunshine and surrounded themselves with a mountain of discarded gear—obviously they didn’t stop to drop it off like we did ours. Opposite us is JJ, leaning so far back in his laughter that he’s almost falling into the decorative bush behind him. To his left a woman about his and Chase’s age is deep in a story, her voice loud and her hands gesticulating wildly over the table. She’s up to her neck in snowboard gear, her white-blonde hair streaked with neon pink.

  Hanne Lund.

  My heart takes a leap. If Hanne’s here, it seems like the whole of the False Kings crew really has chosen Laax as their meeting place this year. Even if they haven’t, the idea of sitting down for a beer with the top-ranked female snowboarder in the world makes my stomach flutter with excitement.

  I try not to look at Chase too long. Of course he’s claimed the entire right-side bench seat for himself. There’s something primal in the absolute confidence of his sprawl, demanding space and taking it. His legs splay wide before him, one arm slung with easy possession over the wood behind his shoulders. Unthinking dominance ripples off him, from the low thrum of his chuckle to the laziness of his smile.

  As we come to the edge of the table he raises his eyes to mine, his smile fading to leave something more intense and less readable behind.

  “Brooke.” JJ is grinning as he gets to his feet, the bump of his thighs sending beer spilling out over the table. “And you must be …”

  “Alex,” the woman herself provides with a beam. “I can’t believe we’re actually meeting you.” Somehow from her lips it’s honesty rather than ass-kissing.

  “Alex,” JJ repeats with a grin and a shake for Alex’s hand. “Welcome to the crew. This is Hanne, our foreign import.”

  “It’s only been two decades.” Hanne rolls her eyes, but her grin is wide. She squeezes our hands with enthusiastic force. “You can take the girl out of Norway … but apparently you can’t take Norway out of the girl. Even if she does move to the US when she’s thirteen.” As she speaks I catch a flash of her tongue stud. I recognize it from her publicity headshot: her tongue out, a wink flashing mischievous. The sparkle in her eyes is even more vibrant in real life than it is on film.

  JJ shrugs, giving his friend an affectionate jostle with his elbow as Alex and Hanne reach for each other’s hands. “And that’s Chase.”

  Chase raises his jaw, a slight smile given to Alex before his eyes slide over to me. It’s my gaze he holds as he speaks, a look that lasts a moment too long. “Hey.”

  I can’t work out what emotion is in those cool blue eyes.

  Alex’s beam is hurricane force. “Such a pleasure. Is this okay?” She doesn’t wait for permission, collapsing into one of the table’s spaces with a huff and getting her purse up onto the wood before her.

  Which would all be fine, except that the chair she takes is the one by Hanne.

  It’s not a special chair or anything. Just half of a bench. But the only space it leaves open is the one tucked under Chase’s arm and menaced by his sprawl.

  I could pull up another chair. But it would be weird, when there’s still a space at the table. Am I really going to let the cocky spread of Chase’s thighs scare me away from a perfectly large space on his bench?

&n
bsp; I’m not going to be afraid of some snowboarder just because he’s the best. I’m here to work. He’s not going to stop me.

  The rest of the world reaches me as shadows and murmuring. I can vaguely hear the others going through more detailed introductions: why Alex is here. How Chase and JJ and Hanne met as kids back in Breckenridge, Colorado. It’s all stuff I already know from those years when I’d read everything I could find about Chase, sitting on my bed beneath his poster and poring over magazine snapshots of three teenagers in baggy nineties pants and oversize tees.

  The difference between the grinning boy in those photos and the blank-faced man here couldn’t be bigger.

  Me resting my MacBook on the table should be Chase’s signal to give up the spare part of the bench. He doesn’t. He leaves his legs spread infuriatingly wide, so that as I slide in behind the table my knee brushes his thigh. Maybe my board pants from earlier would have protected me better. My jeans are so thin that I can feel the press of his muscle beneath all of that fabric.

  What does he expect me to do? Sit down on his lap?

  Chase’s gaze flicks up to meet mine. Without a word he removes his arm from the backrest and shifts his knees fractionally closer together. It’s still not anywhere near as much space as would be polite, but it’s something.

  It’s the second time in two days I’ve been pressed close to a man so famous I can hardly breathe around him.

  Alex knows it. She gives the table a beam. “We need drinks. My round. Hanne, would you help me carry them?”

  Chase doesn’t look at me while we drink, and yet I’m stupidly aware of his body beside mine. There’s no way to sit without pressing together, his closeness prickling over my skin and sparking along my spine. Thank god his snow gear is thick between us. Still though I can feel the press of his thigh, that densely-packed muscle solid against me. I feel tiny beside him, fragile beside the bulk of his torso.