We follow our guide to our first drop point, the anticipation building with each step. The hike up is tough, especially in the thin mountain air, but the view at the top is worth every labored breath.
"This is the money spot," Mack tells us, gesturing to the pristine slope below. "About a three-mile run down to our pickup point. We'll stay in the fall line. Watch for the markers, and remember what we discussed about tree wells."
"Let's get this party started," I say to Mack, adjusting my goggles over my eyes. The adrenaline rushing through my veins isn't just from the altitude orthe untouched powder beneath my skis—it's the way Bash looks at me, like I've given him something priceless.
Mack nods. "Whenever you two are ready. I'll take up the rear, keep an eye on things." He motions to the expanse of pristine snow stretching before us. "Ladies first?"
"Always," I reply, shooting Bash a competitive grin. "Hope you're ready to lose, Montgomery."
Bash raises his goggles to his forehead, those blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "We'll see about that, Shortcake. Don't get too comfortable with that head start."
I push off without warning, wanting to catch him off guard. The first turn sends a spray of powder flying behind me, and I hear Bash's surprised laugh followed by the distinctive sound of his board cutting into fresh snow.
The mountain opens up beneath me, and suddenly I'm flying. My skis cut through powder like butter, each turn kicking up a cloud of white. The rush is immediate and all-consuming—the cold air stinging my cheeks, the absolute silence broken only by the soft shush of my skis and my own exhilarated breathing.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and spot Bash gaining on me, carving deep, graceful turns through the snow. Even through the distance and his gear, I can see the easy confidence in his movements, the way his body works with the mountain rather than against it.
"Come on, Whitaker!" he calls out, voice carrying across the slope. "That all you got?"
I lean forward, picking up speed, focusing on the fall line Mack pointed out. The gradient steepens and my thighs burn with the effort of maintaining control. For a few minutes, I lose myself completely in the rhythm of it—turn,weight shift, powder spray, repeat.
Then Bash appears in my peripheral vision, slicing through the snow beside me. He flashes a wicked grin before executing a perfect jump off a natural hit, spinning 360 degrees and landing with infuriating grace.
"Show-off!" I yell over the wind.
He laughs, the sound as bright and clear as the mountain air. "Jealous?"
"You wish!"
I dig deeper, pushing my limits. The competitive fire I've always carried flares to life, and I take a more aggressive line down the mountain, finding a steeper section that will give me more speed. My form isn't as pretty as his but what I lack in style, I make up for in determination.
The race blurs into a rush of adrenaline and snow. My lungs burn with the cold mountain air, but I push harder, determined not to let Bash win. I might be in over my head—he's a former pro, after all—but I'll be damned if I don't make him work for it.
A patch of trees appears ahead, marking the narrowing of the run as we approach the end. Bash has edged slightly ahead, his form perfect as he carves through the powder. The competitive streak in me flares brighter.
"On your left!" I call out, taking a tighter line than I probably should.
I cut across his path just enough to make him adjust his line, buying myself precious seconds. The look of surprise on his face is worth the risk.
"Playing dirty, Whitaker?" he shouts, but I hear the smile in his voice.
"Just evening the odds!"
The final stretch opens up before us—a wide, gentle slope leading to our pickup point where the helicopter waits. We're neck and neck now, both of us pushing to the limit. My thighs continue to scream in protest, but the finish line is so close.
A bump in the terrain catches me off guard. I hit it at the wrong angle, and suddenly I'm airborne when I don't want to be. For one terrifying moment, I'm completely unmoored, skis flailing, arms windmilling.
"Charlie!" Bash's voice cuts through my panic.
I manage to land but can't recover my balance. My legs tangle and I tumble, snow filling my jacket collar, my glove, somehow even getting under my goggles. The world becomes a disorienting blur of white and blue and white again as I roll down the remainder of the slope.
When I finally stop, I'm sprawled on my back, staring up at the impossibly blue Colorado sky. Both skis have popped off and are nowhere to be seen. Snow is melting down my neck and into my thermal layers.
"Charlie!" Bash appears above me, his face tight with concern. He kneels beside me, snowboard still attached to one foot. "Are you okay? Does anything hurt?"
I take a mental inventory. Nothing feels broken, just bruised—mostly my pride. "Only my ego," I groan, lifting my goggles.
Relief floods his face, followed by the beginnings of a smile. "That was quite the yard sale."
