My attention shifts back to Asher. He rides toward a series of jumps that shouldn't link together. Making physics his bitch, he performs each trick like gravity's just a suggestion he's choosing to ignore.
He shifts toward the quarter pipe, hitting it hard, before inverting immediately. I think he called it a McTwist, where he performs one and a half rotations while flipping upside down. He lands clean. Already setting up for the next hit.
My pulse hammers against my ribs. I hate how good he is at this. Hate how my body responds to watching him own every inch of that course.
“Jesus,” Atlas breathes beside me. “He's actually going for it.”
The second hit launches him higher. My stomach drops as he throws a Double Cork—three and a half spins with two off-axis flips that shouldn't exist. He grabs Indy mid-rotation, yanking the board between his legs while his body rips through physics.
He lands it clean.
Of course he does.
I stop breathing for a moment, my fingers clenching in my palm. The next is a massive booter right after the pipe exit. Asher attacks it, throwing a Backside Triple Cork—four full rotations with three off-axis flips that turn him into a human corkscrew.
Time stops.
Everyone goes quiet. Even the announcer shuts up.
My body freezes.
He stomps it.
The crowd explodes. Camille shoots up, shrieking about “her man,” and I want to grab her throat and remind her whose namehe moaned last night. But I'm locked in place, watching him hit the street section. The down rail stretches sixty feet with a vicious kink at the end. Asher locks into a Backside Bluntslide. He holds it the full length, then pops off the kink into a 360 out.
Show off.
“How the fuck,” Jord mutters. “That's not even—”
Asher being the asshole that he is, doesn’t give us a minute of relief before he hits the rainbow rail—a metal wave curving up and over. Spinning one and a quarter rotations before locking into a noseslide, his weight shifts forward, board grinding while his body hangs over nothing. At the apex, he reverses, coming off switch.
If I squeeze my champagne flute any tighter, I’m snapping the stem.
Three massive jumps come up next. Each one bigger, more impossible than the last.
He hits the first easy with three full rotations riding opposite, grabbing melon, and tweaking until his board goes vertical before riding into the second. Frontside Double Cork with a tail grab. He inverts twice while spinning.
The last jump stops my lungs.
He approaches switch, building speed that pulls all muscles in my body tight.
Shit. What the fuck.
Leaving the lip and throwing a Cab Double Cork, he stops mid-rotation, grabs the nose of his board, and pulls into a Method that shouldn't exist at that speed. His back arches. Body stretched like something's trying to rip him apart.
“He's going to die,” Camille gasps.
For once, we agree. And if this trick doesn’t take him out, I fucking will.
He releases the grab, spotting his landing through the final rotation, and lands smoothly.
Clean.
The crowd goes nuclear. Announcers scream about history. My champagne sits abandoned while something hot and dangerous floods my chest. Pride? Relief?
100flashes over the screen up ahead. Perfect score.
Atlas grabs me by the face, screaming his praise. “Fuck yeah!”
