Page 32 of Landing Liam

I shift forward, feel the glide of my board under me, and suddenly, the world tilts. Everything slows, sharpens, focuses. There’s no room for fear now, only movement. Only instinct. And the only way out is down.

The moment I drop in, the world shrinks to just me, the board, and the mountain. The noise of the crowd and the buzz of the announcer dissolve into the crisp whistle of wind past my ears. My heart, pounding seconds ago, steadies into a calm, measured rhythm as I lock into the flow.

The first drop is steep, and the board edges bite into the snow, sending up a spray of powder as I carve my way toward the first jump. My legs absorb the jolts from the uneven terrain, every muscle coiled and ready. I keep my body low, my hands loose, finding the balance between control and speed.

The jump rushes toward me faster than it should, but I’m ready. At the lip, I crouch and spring upward, pulling my knees to my chest. For a moment, I’m weightless, suspended in a perfect arc against the icy blue sky. The board twists beneath me—a clean frontside 540—and I spot the landing just before gravity pulls me back down. My board kisses the snow like it was always meant to, and I ride away smoothly, a jolt of confidence firing through my veins.

The rails are next, and I set my edge, angling toward the first one. I shift my weight as I hop onto it, the board sliding along the polished metal with precision. My balance is perfect—shoulders aligned, knees bent. I dismount cleanly and pivot into the next approach, my movements fluid as I transition seamlessly to the next feature.

A sequence of smaller jumps follows, each one demanding a different trick—tweaked grabs, spins, and shifts that keep the energy high. The snow crunches beneath my board with every landing, a satisfying reminder that I’m nailing each section so far.

The rhythm of the run takes over, a steady push and pull between speed and control. The mountain is alive beneath me, every curve and crest something I’ve memorized and mastered over years of riding. I hit another jump, this time spinning into a corked 720, the rotation smooth and deliberate, the crowd roaring faintly in the distance as I stick the landing.

The final section looms ahead: a massive kicker. It’s the showstopper, the moment every rider knows can make or break their run. My legs burn as I power through the approach, crouching low to build speed. The kicker rises like a wall, but I don’t hesitate. I launch off the edge, and the world blurs as I pull into a double cork 1080. My body twists and inverts in the air, and for a second, time slows as I spot the landing and adjust my board’s angle.

The impact jars my knees, but the landing is solid. I ride out the final stretch, my chest heaving as I raise a fist instinctively, the exhilaration coursing through me. The crowd’s cheers break through the haze, and I let myself breathe—really breathe—for the first time all day.

Sliding to a stop at the base, I look back up at the mountain. I did it. Whatever happens next, whether I win or lose, this run was mine.

I tell myself not to, but my eyes betray me, scanning the sea of faces gathered at the base of the mountain. Beanies, sunglasses, scarves, and heavy coats blur together, a kaleidoscope of winter gear that makes it impossible to pick anyone out.

Still, I look. I can’t stop myself.

It’s ridiculous. Even if she’s here, she could be anywhere—tucked into the warmth of a lodge, perched on the edge of some viewing area, or standing somewhere in this mass of people. But there’s a part of me that hopes. Hopes for a glimpse of her. Hopes to see that stubborn chin tilted up, those bright blue eyes sharp and focused, watching me the way I couldn’t help but watch her.

I don’t even know why it matters. I’ve ridden in competitions with tens of thousands of eyes on me before and never cared. But now, I’m scanning a crowd for one person, one face. And with every second that passes without finding her, an ache builds in my chest.

My board digs into the snow as I shift my weight, pretending to adjust my stance so it doesn’t look like I’m desperately searching for someone. My breath fogs the air as I shake my head. Get it together, Liam.

But as the announcer booms my score and the crowd erupts into cheers, my head turns instinctively again, searching. Always searching.

Zach meets me at the bottom of the mountain, his grin splitting his face as he barrels toward me. Before I can brace myself, I’m caught in one of his signature bear hugs, my board still strapped to my feet.

“Great job, man!” he says, his voice filled with excitement.

I nod, still catching my breath, the adrenaline thrumming through my veins. “Thanks.”

“I mean, seriously,” he continues, practically vibrating with energy. “That was flawless. The spins, the landings—perfect! And your score? Dude, you’re going to win this thing!”

His enthusiasm is contagious, and I manage a small laugh as my trainer pulls me into another rib-crushing hug. “Easy, Zach,” I say, half-joking. “I still need to breathe.”

“Breathe later,” he teases, stepping back to look at me, his eyes practically glowing with pride. “This is your day, Liam. Soak it in.”

I should feel more than I do. Relief. Pride. A sense of triumph. But as I unstrap my board and glance back up the mountain, all I can think about is Maggie. Was she watching? Did she see me?

The crowd’s cheers swell again as the announcer calls out the next rider, but it barely registers. Zach’s talking a mile a minute beside me, rattling off something about how clean my cork 1080 was, how I’ve locked in a podium finish at the very least. But his words feel distant, muffled, like I’m hearing them through a layer of snow.

“Did you hear me?” Zach nudges my arm, snapping me back to the moment.

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a grin. “Thanks, man.”

But my mind is somewhere else entirely. With someone else entirely. And as the next rider barrels down the slope, I can’t stop myself from glancing toward the crowd again, searching for a hint of brown hair, or a flash of blue eyes.

What are you doing, Liam? You’re not going to find her in a crowd this big.

But even as I tell myself that, my chest tightens with the possibility that Maggie might have missed it. And for some reason, that feels more important than winning this whole damn competition.

As the next competitor crosses the finish line to a roaring cheer, I glance out at the crowd one last time, telling myself it’s pointless. The sea of bundled-up spectators is massive, faces obscured by scarves, sunglasses, and hats. There’s no way I’ll actually find her. No way.