Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel

“It’s quite a day here at the X Games in Aspen, Colorado. Most of America’s Olympic snowboarding team is here—along with those from other countries—and the conditions are excellent. Lots of powder, with light wind. It’s going to be an incredible night here at the Men’s Snowboarding SuperPipe Eliminations. And I, for one, can hardly wait to get started.”

“Me neither, Mike. There is so much talent in this competition that I don’t even know where to start trying to predict who’s going to make it through to the finals, let alone who’s going to take the top three seats at the end of the weekend.”

“I know what you mean. These guys are amazing. I’ve been a fan of snowboarding for over a decade and I’m telling you, I’ve never seen the sport as exciting as it is right now. This last year, these boarders have pushed themselves—pushed their bodies and the sport—until the results are spectacular. I expect to see tricks today that no one even thought possible a year ago. That’s how much this sport is changing every season, every day.”

“Absolutely, absolutely. Of course, there are a few favorites that we’ve got to root for here in the SuperPipe. Z Michaels has been shredding the snow this year and if I have to pick a favorite to take home the top prize, it’s going to be him.”

“I agree. But he’s not the only one to watch. Luc Jennings has a really good shot at making the top three, along with Ash Lewis.”

“I don’t know about that. If you’d talked to me a month ago I would have said Ash and Z would be duking it out for the top spot here at Aspen. But with the tragedy that’s recently befallen Ash … he’s shaken. I mean, anyone would be, losing his parents like that. And with his little brother still hospitalized, it’s just a mess. You hate to hear about this happening to anyone, anytime, but to Ash Lewis? Right as he started his quest for Olympic gold? It sucks, man. It just sucks.”

“It really does. He’s such a sick boarder and such a great guy. He’s been with his brother pretty much nonstop since the accident, even missed most of the Olympic trials to sit by his bedside. He made the team anyway—based on his performance at that first competition—and they’ve given him room to grieve. But from what I understand the coaches laid down the law. He needed to be here today or lose his spot on the Olympic team.”

“That’s harsh, but understandable. These games are huge, and it’s a shot for boarders from all over the world to go head-to-head before the Olympics. Still, I’m not sure how ready Ash is for the SuperPipe. The other competitors have been here for days, getting used to the pipe and the slopes, but Ash flew in just a couple of hours before the slopestyle competition this afternoon—”

“Come on, man.” My best friend Z grabs me by the upper arm, pulls me out of hearing range of the announcers. “We need to get going.”

I know he’s right. Just like I know the last thing I need to be doing right now is listening to what the announcers are saying about me. Especially when they’re talking in those sad voices, like they pity me. Like I’m the one who died or something.

I don’t need their pity. I don’t need anything. After all, I’m just fine. I’m healthy, strong, in one piece.

And alive.

Don’t forget I’m alive. Not like my parents who died in a car crash on the way to see me board at the Olympic trials. And sure as hell not like my little brother, Logan, who’s in a coma in the hospital back in Salt Lake, broken into a thousand different pieces.

I don’t say that to Z, though I know he’ll listen … and get it. In fact, I don’t say anything to him at all, even though he’s pretty much been the only thing keeping me sane these last few weeks. Well, him and Luc and Cam and Ophelia. They were there when the news came through about my parents and they’ve been there for me pretty much every minute since.

They dealt with the police and the hospital shit when I couldn’t think.

They took care of the funeral for me when I couldn’t cope.

And at least one of them has sat beside me every single day at Logan’s bedside, even when I can’t talk, can’t function, can’t breathe.

Especially then.

Z worked his magic on the Olympic coaches, getting them to give me unprecedented privileges these last few weeks as I’ve tried to wrap my head around the fact that my entire life has pretty much imploded. But even he couldn’t fast-talk them into letting me skip the X Games, and so I’m here, feeling totally unprepared and totally apathetic about all of it.

Neither is a feeling I’m used to. I’ve wanted to board pretty much from the time I learned to walk. My parents put me on a snowboard for the first time when I was four, and I swear, I’ve never looked back. From that moment on, all I’ve ever wanted to do was ride. Everywhere. All the time.

Until now.

“You doing okay?” Z asks as we start the steep climb to the waiting area for SuperPipe competitors.

“Fine,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a second, his eyes searching my face. I stare blankly back at him, refusing to acknowledge just how much he
does
empathize. How can he not after living through his own sister’s death all those years ago? And the last thing I want to do is mess with his head right now, when things are finally, finally going so freaking well for him.

He wants to say something else, I know he does, but I guess he’s as worried about messing with my head as I am about messing with his. I almost tell him not to worry. My brain’s so fucked up right now that there isn’t much that could make it worse. Except maybe another phone call, this one telling me that my brother is dead, too. It sounds morbid to even consider it, but the truth is that’s all I’ve been able to think about since I got to Aspen.

Logan, dying alone in that hospital room because I’m here, worried about the Olympics. Worried about making a perfect 1440. Worried about
boarding
.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. I’m watching the monitors, watching the others do their runs on the pipe. Usually, I’m analyzing every rider, studying what they do well—and what they don’t. That or keeping an eye on Z, trying to make sure that he’s doing okay. That his head is in the right space. It feels weird to stand here knowing that this time my friends are watching me. Worrying about me.

That this time everyone thinks I’m the one who might freak out.

Not that I plan on doing that. No way, no how. I’ve got to stay in control, got to keep it together. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll shatter into so many pieces they’ll never put me back together again. It’s been a month since the accident and every day feels like the first one. Like the shock is brand new again and again and again.

It’s almost my turn. They’re herding me toward the deck and, for the first time ever, I’m not ready to go.

But it’s not like I have a choice. This is it. Ride now or lose the Olympics. Turn in the run of a lifetime or lose my dream forever.

The guy in front of me is good—really good—but not unbeatable. I watch him throw down a 1260, followed by an inverted back 1080. He ends with a triple cork. It’s a strong run, but I can beat it in my sleep. And Z, Z can annihilate it.

“You ready?” the organizer at the top asks me as I finish strapping on my board.

For some reason, the question hits me hard. I wasn’t ready for any of this. I wasn’t ready for my parents’ deaths. I wasn’t ready to be my brother’s guardian. And I sure as hell wasn’t ready to walk away from him. To leave him, in a hospital, alone.

“Ash?” he repeats. “You good to go?”

I nod, take a deep breath. Try to get my head where it needs to be. But as soon as I shove off, I know this isn’t going to work.

The commentators are talking, the crowd is cheering, I’m dropping in on the pipe—my favorite place to be—and the truth is, I just don’t feel anything. Not the cold, not the adrenaline that usually rips through me. Not the sharp prickle of awareness about how easily this can all go wrong. I’m numb, completely numb.

But it doesn’t matter because I’m down the pipe, building momentum, carving back up.
It’s time for my first trick—a sick, inverted 1280. I need to go for it, need to hit just right to get the momentum so early in the run. I’m there. I can feel it in the slide of the board against the snow, in the angle of my body in the wind. And I just don’t give a damn.

I miss the trick, don’t even try for it.

I can hear the confused muttering of the crowd, the blankness in the announcer’s voice. But it’s like they’re talking about someone else. Someone whose future—and past—I just don’t give a shit about.

I come down the side of the pipe fast, then, like I’m supposed to. But instead of carving up the vert on the other side, I turn. Coast. Board a straight line down the center of the pipe. All around me, people are talking and calling things out. Maybe they’re booing. Whatever it is, doesn’t matter anyway.

I get to the end of the pipe, and Luc is waiting for me, face white and mouth tight. “What’s going on, man? You hurt?”

I shrug off his hand as I kick out of my board. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches me with wide, anxious eyes. I turn away, but I can still feel his eyes on me. Feel him staring at me, staring
through
me.

In the old days, this would be the time for me to shoot him a reassuring smile. The time for me to crack a joke or tell a story, maybe even throw a fake punch or two.

Because I’m the one who always keeps us on an even keel. Who makes sure everything is smooth and right and normal. But I can’t do that now. I can’t act like everything is fine when my whole world is anything but smooth, anything but normal.