“Love you more,” I tell him.
“Impossible,” he replies, finishing the ritual we started when we began training together this season. It’s a reminder that we agree to put each other first, and snowboarding second…even if Iamabout to crush his soul in this race.
As the second buzzer sounds, all four of us racers grab our handles and prepare to throw ourselves over the mountain.
When the third and final buzzer goes off, the gates open, and we’re catapulting forward. Connor and I are in the middle lanes and immediately try to knock each other out of the fall line. Connor has become a slightly more aggressive rider since training with me, and I’ve gotten slightly smarter, so we’re damn near on equal footing.
Except I’m racing on the new board I designed. The one I didn’t tell him about.
Ironically, I kept the stupid camber, but I changed it from a hybrid to a directional one. I need a strong edge hold so I don’t lose control in the turns, while also being able to maneuveraround other boarders. I also snapped in some swivel locks. It’s a sick design my dad and I came up with, where I can lock them in or allow the swivel by rotating a dial at my heel, allowing me to adjust for the course’s needs. Today, they’re locked in place because I need maximum energy transfer between my feet and my board.
We also shaved millimeters off the center of the board for less ground contact, and this board isflying.
Connor is still bigger than me. In fact, he’s bigger than he was a year ago, having put on ten more pounds of muscle mass because I told him I like how he makes me feel small.
That added weight is helping push him down this mountain.
Coming up on the first jump, Connor and I are neck and neck. We both squat low as our boards sail up the ramp, trying to use our mass to push us back toward the ground as quickly as possible. Once our boards have cleared the jump, we extend our legs, fighting to touch down first.
Of course, he beats me to the ground and is already entering the turn by the time I land.
Shit.
He rides the turn high, and I know he’s going to try to hit the next ramp early so he can come down faster and keep his lead. Using my new board design, I pop my hips to push the tail of my board out, and head for the low point of the turn.
This position puts me ahead of him slightly, but I know he’ll have more speed on the ramp.
Sure enough, he gets back in front of me, and so it goes the whole way down the slope.
When we’re on the final straightaway, I zero in on Connor’s hips. The most helpful trick he ever taught me was to anticipate his moves.
He wears slightly baggier snow pants when we compete in the same heat, so I can’t read him all that well, but I also know his body better than my own.
When his hips twist slightly to the left, and I see his board follow suit, I pump my legs for all I’m worth, aiming to rush him on the inside and take the victory.
In one of the closest calls in the history of our sport, I squeeze out a point-zero-four-second lead to win the event.
Connor wraps his arms around me and lifts me—and my board—off the ground.
“Guess your board mods worked,” he says so lowly that only I can hear him.
Setting me down, I gape at him, pulling my goggles off and unclipping from my board. “You knew?”
He fuckingwinksat me. “I know everything about you, hotshot. Every. Single. Inch of you.”
By now, Evan is joining us and hears the last part. He throws his arms up in the air and mutters, “Christ, they’restillgoing at it.”
My dad is also entering the fray, congratulating us both with pats on the back and a beaming smile.
“Helluva race, boys. You make me and all your sponsors proud,” he says.
Connor and I take our podium pictures and are finishing up our media interviews when a familiar voice rings out.
“Voxy! Way to go!”
“REN!” I jump down from the podium and hug my friend. “It’s so good to see you! Are you racing this weekend?”
“Yeah, I’m actually doing big air. I was always too slow to keep up with you guys, but as it turns out, I flip faster than I can go downhill,” he says, laughing.
