“What happened to you?” Coach Fitzgerald stares at me slack-jawed.

“I don't know.” I run the race over in my head, staring at the timer in Coach Fitzgerald's hand.

“For the past week you've been taking corners wide, your times have been increasing and now you beat your record from qualifiers.” He shakes his red-haired head.

“I know I had a rough patch, but I am the best snowboard crosser out there.”

Coach laughs, his hand smoothing down his beard. “Glad to see that downturn didn't hurt your ego.”

I unclip from my board, looking back up at the course. “Maybe it's the course.”

He shrugs. “Yesterday you flopped. Same course.”

“Well, whatever it is, I'm crossing my fingers nothing changes.”

Coach smacks me on the back. “Okay, let's go again.”

I hop on the snowmobile with my board tucked into my lap as it roars up the slope. Once we reach the top, a few of the other snowboard cross guys are up there and since I’d rather size up the competition than fly down the track by myself, we all decide to do a trial run together.

Usually, we'd hear complaints from the coaches, but they're all at the bottom of the hill with timers in hand. They'll be pissed, but for me to know if I really have it back, I need to race with others.

We all clip into our boards, our hands on the handles, our boards up against the metal blocker, our hips already flexing back and forth.

“See you losers at the bottom,” I say in jest.

The other two guys laugh, the metal gates fall and like horses at a racetrack, we unleash all our force to be first out of the gate.

I'm not a music guy when I'm competing. I like to hear the sounds of my competitors gaining traction on me. I don't want music to drown out the noise of the snow and ice under my board. If someone is millimeters from running into me, I want to know it.

We fly up and down the mounds, catching small amounts of air as we rush to get back down on the track because we're faster on the snow than we are in the air. One guy gets close to me on the inside curve of the last twist, our boards almost touching.

Bobbing up and down, I get out in front of him and when we sail over the last ramp, I know it’ll be close at the finish line. The finish line in my sights, I'm first over the line, my arms raised up in the air.

Coach Fitzgerald a few others roll their eyes at us. “You could’ve injured one of yourselves,” he says, but shows me the timer.

You'd think I won gold from the smile on my face because, by some miracle, I'm back.

“Fuck yeah!” I fist pump, unclipping from my board and throwing it up in the air.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Coach holds his hands up in the air. “You need to take it easy. Go get something to eat and I'll see you in the gym this afternoon.”

I pick up my board and pull out my cell phone to text the guys. Celebratory salads for all. Dax Campbell isn't a loser bet anymore.

---

Beckett raises his hand to flag me over at the restaurant. It's been our go-to place to eat since we arrived in South Korea. They serve American food and although I want to head into Seoul and devour most of the local food, I'm waiting until I have the medal around my neck.

I slide into my seat. “What's up?”

“You’re the one who asked for this lunch date.” He sips his energy drink, his coat swung over the chair next to him.

“You have prelims tomorrow?” I ask him.

Poor Beckett, the Classics start immediately, so the only good thing for him is that he's done early. My guess is he'll stick around for Skylar’s events though.

“Yeah.”

“How's it going?”

He nods, taking another sip of his energy drink. He's less enthusiastic than he usually is. Hell, usually Beckett is a ‘don't sweat the small stuff’ type of guy. The one with a smile on his face and a joke ready, but not today.

“Does that mean good or bad? I can't read you.”

Our usual waitress, Soonil, comes by. No introduction, her pen poised to paper and her eyes fixated on me.

“Hey, Soonil,” I pronounce each syllable the way she likes. She doesn't have much patience for me, but I tend to wear people thin at times. It’s a gift. Not my fault if people don't have a sense of humor. “See, this is where you say, ‘Good afternoon, Dax, how was training this morning?’” Not even the corner of her lips twitch. “Well, Soonil, thanks for asking. I actually had a great morning. I happened to beat my time from qualifiers.”

Nothing.

“Oh, Dax, that's great. I'm so proud of you. How about a celebratory drink?”

Her face is stone cold like she’s had too many Botox injections and couldn’t move a muscle even if she wanted to.

“Well, thank you, Soonil, I'd love a water. My throat is kind of dry.” I rub my neck, the bristle of my scruff pricking my fingers.

She jots down something on her paper and walks away.

“She's going to throat punch you one day,” Beckett says. “She probably wrote down to poison the asshole's water.”

I feign innocence. “Who? Soonil? She loves me.”

Beckett shakes his head like he usually does around me. “She thinks you're a lunatic who has conversations with himself.”

“Probably, so let's get back to you. Did someone steal your lunch?”

He picks up his energy drink and places it to his lips. “Jackass, you know how I am when I compete.”

“Yeah, a fun suck.”

He tips his bottle my way. “So, you're out of your funk, huh?”

Soonil walks up at the same time, a bottle of water placed in front of me. I look up at her. Still no smile.

“Yes, I am.” I wink at Soonil. “Can I grab something to eat?”

She pulls her pad of paper out again, her pen poised just like before.

“Still not talking to me?” I ask.

She nods for me to go ahead.

“Okay.” I glance at Beckett briefly. “Turkey wrap, hold the mayo and can I have two boiled eggs.”

She nods.

“Boiled eggs?” Beckett asks.

“Protein man. You know what.” I snap my fingers. “Soonil?”

She turns, her veil of straight, black hair falling from over her shoulder. “Can you grab my buddy some eggs too?”

She nods.

“Thanks, Soo,” Beckett says, and she smiles. Actually shows all her teeth and smiles at him.

“What the fuck? Why does she like you?”

“Because I'm polite.”

“You shortened her name and she didn’t murder you with her eyes,” I say, suddenly very interested in the way she interacts with other customers.

“Are we going to talk about the server or the fact you're back at peak performance?”

The smile I haven't been able to get off my face since I finished training takes the place of my scowl. “I'm back, baby.” I raise up my palm and Beckett smacks it.

“Good to hear!” Beckett might get kind of worrisome before he competes, but he's always our biggest cheerleader, so he's genuinely happy that I'm not dragging ass down the hill.

“Hey, where's Grady?” I ask.

“He'll be here in a bit, but I think he's got people with him.”

“Like who?” I ask, taking a sip of my water.

“Like his girlfriend and her friend.”

“Demi?”

He shrugs. “Demi doesn't compete for a few days. They were at the gym.”

“Shit, I'm headed there next. I guess I'm solo.” I lean forward because if Rogue, aka Grady, hears what I'm about to say, he might kick my ass. “Is it just me or has Grady become a major buzzkill since the girlfriend?”

Beckett laughs, another roll of his eyes. “You're just pissed because he doesn't have time for your bullshit anymore.”

“They're always in her room.”

“You sound like a spoiled four-year-old.”

“This is the time it's supposed to be fun. All of us guys hanging out. He's pinned to Mia like a strap-on, you and Skylar are still living in that damn friendationship bubble—”

“A what?” he asks, but luckily Soonil interrupts us with our eggs.

“Thanks, Soonil,” I say, and she breezes right by to the next table where she...smiles. Fucking smiles at them.

“I'm just putting this out there…I will get that woman to smile at me before the Classics are over.”

“Good luck with that.” Beckett bites off half his egg and chews for a second. “Why do you think you're back? What did you do?”

Beckett is the most superstitious athlete you will ever meet. I could go through a whole list of things he's done when he's winning. We've had to endure the usual dirty socks, one time he had a seashell in his pocket that supposedly saved him when he got caught in a riptide back home. I've seen it a lot in athletes, but nobody is as bad as Beckett.

“I did nothing. I just got my game back.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“It's not because I sang that song last night. It's not what I ate for breakfast this morning. It's not that—”

“You slept with Demi last night?” Both of his eyebrows go up now.

“What? No! That was just a bonus.”

He sips his energy drink. “Do you remember the last Classics?”

“That I slept with her? Yes, I remember.” I chuckle. “That was the best part of last night…I knew how to get her off. Hence how we finished so quickly.”

He exaggerates a disgusted shake of his body. “I’m good without the details.” He pauses, probably for dramatic effect. “What did you win last classics?”

“Did I sign up for Psych 101?” I look around the room. “Nope, I'm in a restaurant.”

“Answer the question.”

I roll my eyes. “Gold. I won gold.”

He nods, his eyes widening. “You sure she's not your lucky charm?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” My voice lowers and Beckett smiles my way. Usually, I wouldn't remember shit from four years ago. I do remember almost being late to my finals when I’d been giving Demi a congratulatory orgasm with my mouth between her legs because she won silver. Then I came in first every race, ultimately claiming gold.

Fuck, maybe Beckett's right. I've been off my game since we arrived in Korea. And I have eaten most of the same food, done most of the same things. There's just one difference.

“Look, your lucky charm just walked in.” Beckett eyes the door.

I swivel in my chair, coming eye-to-eye with Demi Harrison. Out of all the lucky charms in the world, why couldn't I just have a rabbit's foot? Why does it have to be the girl who wants to kick me in the nuts?