A Matter of Trust(9)

“I leave all the hero stuff to you, Brooks.” Yeah, well, the last thing he needed was Tallie Kennedy, their local reporter, showing up with a microphone and a cameraman. Although it wasn’t so long ago he knew exactly how to schmooze a reporter into giving him air time or to strike a pose that might end up on the cover of Snowboarder magazine.

But that had been back when he’d been young and stupid and thought he could do something amazing with his life. Thought, really, that he was amazing. Gage “Watts” Watson, lightin’ it up on Verbier.

Echoes. He shook them out of his head.

Wind caught the snow lying in packed layers over the cornice of the bowl, dusted it into the air. He pulled on his goggles and slid off the lift, clicking his boot into the binding of his board. The patrols were calling in, making their last runs of the day.

Shadows covered the back of the bowl, and he stood, staring at the layers of white and gray, the dangers hidden under the frosted, creamy layers. They’d bomb again tomorrow morning and maybe by then get the last of the crust off, open it to powder hounds.

“Ski patrol, Watson. I’m skiing down the perimeter of Timber Bowl—”

His finger paused on the walkie as he spied a form moving down the bowl and into the shadows.

He pulled out his binoculars, found the skier. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Come again, Watson?” He recognized Ty’s voice on the other end.

“I’ve got a snowboarder outside the perimeter,” he said. “I’m after him.”

“Gage—”

But he cut off Ty’s voice and clipped the radio to his chest harness.

Pulled on his goggles.

And breathed in the last of the sunny day, letting it find his lungs, his pores, his bones.

Time to fly.

Gage pushed off and leaned back. The powder drifted up around him, whisper soft, fairy dust on his face as he held out his arms and floated through the snow. He scanned his route, remembering it well from the maps, eased up, and turned on his inner edge and shredded the hill. Powder flew out like a fan behind him. He leaned back and rode the white, catching the boys now in view.

Oh, they had nothing on Watts Watson, two-time freeride world tour champion, record setter, and gold-medal winner of the Xtreme Verbier, the biggest mountain event on the planet.

He edged down a narrow gully, soared over a cliff, catching big air, and while he was at it, added a flip during the forty-foot fall. He stomped it clean and sweet on the snowfield and could now see the T. rex in detail, its head bobbing wildly as the rider took a sweeping turn, caught air, and added a heli-move before landing in a puff of powder.

Gage would give the kid props—he could pick a line. Graceful and smooth, with a little bit of snow poetry as he picked an aggressive line, over cornices, down a nasty couloir, flying off cliff faces as if he had wings.

The kid rode like he’d been born on a board.

Not unlike himself, Gage supposed.

Gage excelled in picking the most creative route down the mountain; it was almost an art, with the powder his canvas. He would study the route, find the one that utilized the rolls, the ridges and drops, see it in his mind as he slashed and carved the mountain into his own masterpiece. He could handle any terrain, from fresh groom to half-pipe, but freeriding allowed him to let go and enjoy the God-given majesty of the mountains.

How he loved the hot sluice of blood in his veins, the scrape of frozen breath in his lungs. Even the clench of his chest when he scared himself and caught air off a hundred-foot drop, leaving his stomach in the heavens. Flying. Then he’d land on a pillow of white only to attack his next big cliff, all the way to the final snow field. His body sore, the wind chafing his ears. Every cell inside him bursting with life.

And he didn’t mind the roar of the crowd, either, on and off the slope.

He’d lost himself to it once, and now felt the tug of old habits as he chased down the T. rex.

Gage recognized where he was heading even before the kid hit the cliff.

He pulled up, not wanting to land on him, then saw him further down the hill and let himself go. He found the rock, sighted the fall line, sent himself over.

Let the wind take him.

And for a long second, Gage cut free of his legacy, the guy with tragedy in his wake.

Just clear blue sky ahead of him.

He landed in a puff and followed the trail down the mountain.

The chalet came into view, just over another rise. Gage watched T. rex and pal fly over it, catching easy air.

He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing an edge as he followed.

He nearly came down on top of them, but they weren’t looking back. He stayed in their blind spot until they hit the chalet.

They had their gear off and were fist bumping on their way inside when he rode up and showered them with snow.