The crisp air whirls around the illuminated halfpipe that's glowing like a beacon out of the surrounding darkness. My board slides down to the starting position and I drop in the halfpipe. Music pounds in my ears and the snow crunches under the weight of my body. All the nerves and anxiety coursing through my veins disappear and my body shifts to autopilot. Blasting off the edge, I gain more height than my earlier practices. Cameras flash and the crowd's roars softly mingle with Eminem's “‘Till I Collapse.” Hitting my landing, I slide up the other side, flipping and circling in the air until my board hits the landing and then I do it again.

The camera flashes and cheers from the crowd grow distant, as does the music in my ears until I achieve the state I’m always grasping for—the centered feeling of being in the moment and completely focused on my goal. Eventually, I hit the end of the halfpipe, and fist pump in the air as I carve out my stop. Sending a small thank you upstairs for not slamming, I lift my goggles and high five a few fans lingering around the oval edge.

Unclipping my boots from my board, I stand in the designated spot, my gaze locked on the screen posting the scores. Was my run hard enough to gain me that qualifier to the Winter Classics? The hill packed with spectators grows quiet and the more the seconds tick by, the more I second guess whether my run was as good as it felt. Finally, my score lights up on the screen and the crowd roars louder than my heart did at the top of the slope.

My buddies and fellow snowboarders, Dax and Beckett, run out from the sidelines, wrestling me with their congratulations until I fall back into the snow.

“You did it!” Dax shakes me and then grabs my jacket and pulls me back up to my feet.

With his arm around my neck and big grins on our faces, we leave the area, so the next rider can make his run, but we're stopped by a reporter as soon as we clear the inflatable gates. A microphone is jammed in my face, and Dax and Beckett laugh.

“You're officially on the roster to head to Korea, Grady, how does it feel?” Nik, the boarder turned reporter since the last Winter Classics almost four years ago, smiles.

I smile in return and Dax punches my arm before him and Beckett head off. Hopefully they're standing where I am tomorrow. “It feels good,” I say. “Luck was on my side.”

It’s the same questions every time for the past six years.

“I'm not sure many would call it luck. You rode flawlessly and you seem to top your tricks every run.”

“As you know, Nik, a lot of practice in the offseason.”

He pats my back. “Well, all those long hours paid off. Go rest up.”

“I'll be sticking around for the night.”

“No doubt to see how Matt Peterson does?” he asks with a raised brow.

Over the past year, reporters have loved to put the pressure on me over this new up-and-comer who just got off his mom's tit. He doesn't have the sponsors I do. A halfpipe wasn't carved out for him to practice on exclusively for the last year. Maybe next year will be his after I'm retired and out of the scene, but as long as I'm in it, he won't see center stage. Mark my words.

“Always have to check out my competitors.” I give a laugh I hope sounds somewhat genuine. “Can't fall behind.”

Nik laughs and shakes his head. “Don't forget the women are coming up in an hour. Curious about Mia Salter, she's being referred to as the woman version of you.”

My stomach churns. “She's a hard trainer, I would expect nothing else.”

“Many say she's here to defend her family name.”

My jaw clenches and my eyes bore into Nik's. What the hell is he trying to do?

“Every boarder has their own motivations, I suppose. Nice talking to you, Nik. See you around.”

I walk away, Dax and Beckett now scowling in Nik's direction. He was one of us. He was around when it all went down.

“There you have it ladies, the famous Grady Kale is the first to grab a spot on the Winter Classics team on the first qualifying event—the halfpipe. No one would argue that they didn't believe that was going to happen tonight. Now back to you, Barb.”

The camera falls off the shoulder of the man filming and Nik's boots are crunching the snow seconds before he appears at my side. “Hey Rogue,” he says, using my nickname. “You gotta know I have to make a spot for myself,” he says.

I inhale a deep breath, and nod.

“I mean after the last Winter Classics, and Mia being Brandon's sister…”

I nod.

“Fucking sell out,” Dax adds and Nik's attention turns to him.

“Stay out of it, Soups.” Nik’s gaze returns to mine. “I didn't mean to pick at any old wounds. The station wanted me to ask. You know it’ll be a big story this year with you and Mia on the same team.”

“Don't sweat it. It's no big deal.” I clap him on the shoulder and feign a smile.

He nods and joins his cameraman to set up their next shot while I head to the sidelines with my friends, and prepare to watch Matt Peterson try to steal my spot.

The crowd screams their encouragement and kids hold carved out pictures of Matt as he makes his way down to the starting point.

“He's got nothing on you,” Beckett says from where he stands next to me.

The fact that Dax and Beckett seem to always feel the need reassure me annoys the shit out of me. It implies that I need reassuring. The kid has guts and in this business, that's the difference between earning weight around your neck or not. But he's not seasoned. He's not ready yet.

Matt drops in the halfpipe and I don’t see him as a whole—a snowboarder soaring down the wall, I see every small movement of his body. How he leans, where he tucks, his shoulder placement, how he shifts his weight, the grip on his board, his landings. The kid is choppy, and I'm not saying that because he's been in my rearview mirror all season. He flies up the south wall and all the hands in the crowd are raised from the amount of air he grabs.

“Shit, what's the kid thinking?” Dax asks next to me. All three of us are poised to see if he'll ever stop spinning so he can actually land.

“Fuck!” Beckett says.

I wince, unable to watch as his limp body falls down to the center of the pipe. He lays down for what seems like a lifetime, but thankfully, he sits up after a few seconds. He grabs his helmet off his head and throws it. It spins like a top all the way down to the end of the pipe as trainers and medical staff run out to him. He shrugs off any assistance, unhooking himself from his board, he doesn't look to the crowd. Instead, his head is low and although I can't hear him, I guarantee the movement of his lips are him swearing at himself.

“The kid needs to try those tricks with a foam pit.” Beckett shakes his head.

“But if he lands it...” Dex raises his eyebrows in my direction.

I'll need to be using my own air pillow to master that trick and stay one ahead of him.

The scores come up and he doesn't even look. Sucks, but that's what separates him from me. Keep the crazy shit for practice and never do a trick unless you've mastered it and know for certain you can land it.

“I need a drink.” I grab my board and head through the crowd.

Fans and friends all stop to congratulate me. Dex and Beckett find their way to each of my sides.

“You’re buying.” Dex's hand lands on my shoulder.

“Aren’t I always?” I deadpan.

I don’t mind this time because with his competition tomorrow night, I know I'll be let off easy.

The announcer's voice crackles through the speakers, “Next up. Women’s snowboarding halfpipe. My money is on Mia Salter.”

“I think the whole place would agree with you on that one,” the second announcer agrees.

A picture of her flashes on the electronic board in front of me. I take a quick glance and then focus on the bar up ahead.

The queasy feeling in my stomach that sets in whenever I see or hear the Salter name makes its usual appearance. It’s familiar by now, more than four years later.

Where’s that damn drink?