The Brink rushes up and then drops away beneath me like the world just opened a trapdoor. My skis chatter on the ice for one brutal heartbeat. I drive forward instead of leaning back, lock into the inspection line, and gravity grabs me by the ribs.
Right gate. Left. Compression.
My thighs scream. I love the scream.
Talon snaps up at me, a wall of terrain that wants to buck me into the safety netting. I roll the skis clean, no hesitation, and the G-forces stack through my torso like someone's sitting on my chest. The edges bite. Hold. Release.
I'm through.
Pete's Arena opens up, wide and deceptively smooth, inviting me to do something stupid.
I stay round. Patient. Snake before you strike.
Other guys went too direct here. I saw it on the monitor. They paid for it in the lower section, skittering wide, losing time they couldn't get back.
Not me.
I carve smooth, holding back the knife for when I need it.
Through Pump House the speed builds.
With every clean turn, the metallic fear from this morning dissolves. The skis stop hissing and start singing, a high, wild note only I can hear.
I'm not surviving Birds of Prey.
I'mowningit.
I stop skiing like someone replacing Thomas and start skiing like Nico—a little more direct here, a greedy early pressure there, a calculated brush of danger on the line into the next blind gate.
Edges cut deep. Air roars in my helmet. Cowbells clatter somewhere to my left, American voices shouting in bursts that rise and fade like a warped soundtrack two turns away, always out of reach.
The world shrinks to gates and speed and the burn in my quads that tastes like victory.
Golden Eagle jump.
The approach rolls under me faster than I remember from inspection. The lip rushes up.
One chance to choose who I am.
I commit to a tighter, straighter line than the safe guys took. If I stick it, it'll slingshot me into the lower section. If I don't—
I'm airborne.
Time goes thin and weightless. The mountain disappears. There's only sky and speed and the roar of wind and my heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
Then the Abyss slams back into me.
The landing compresses me nearly to my boots, joints screaming, but the skis bite exactly where I want them. I explode out of the compression, one savage surge of joy ripping through my chest.
Yes. Mine.
Through Harrier and Red Tail I stop thinking in words.
I explode across the finish line and throw myself into a skid.
Legs screaming. Lungs burning.
The crowd swells before I even see the time.
