Edge of Glory

by Rachel Spangler

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Previous Novels by Rachel Spangler

  Copyright

  About Bywater

  For Susie: This one goes to eleven, which of course is all your fault.

  Prologue

  March 16, 2016

  St. Moritz, Switzerland

  “The last skier of the day is our current World Cup leader, Elise Brandeis,” a male commentator said somewhere behind her. She couldn’t tell if someone had a TV or radio in one of the official tents, or if perhaps one of the techs was watching online.

  “It’s certainly her race to lose,” a female voice added. “The young American has been a force to be reckoned with all season long, and she owned this course in practice all week.”

  “She’s certainly been a cut above the rest all week, throwing down faster times with each run, but we’ve seen her blow a lead before.”

  Elise closed her eyes and pulled on her helmet. She didn’t need to hear any more. She didn’t need anyone to give voice to the refrain that haunted her every start, her every turn, her every crouch for years.

  “Conditions are growing worser,” Paolo said close to her ear, his thick Argentinean accent always more pronounced when he got amped up. “You saw the rut on Helga’s run.”

  She nodded solemnly. She’d seen the number five skier in the world take a back-cracking bounce out of turn four before she’d managed to right herself. Helga would likely spend some quality time with the Swiss team chiropractor in the week ahead, but she’d still managed to finish with a decent time.

  “Every person who hits that spot packs it down more harder,” Paolo said.

  She nodded again and rocked back and forth on her skis in the ruts the women before her had made while sliding up to the starting gate.

  “You go just a little around it and get the same time.”

  “To the inside,” she muttered.

  “No, Elise.” He drew out her name to sound like, Eeee-Lease. “Outside. You’re so far ahead in practice. Four inches in one turn won’t hurt you. You stay safe. You don’t bounce. You win.”

  “It’s getting softer,” she said, no longer referring to the spot he’d isolated, but the entire mountainside. The full afternoon sun made for the beautiful pictures that filled Austrian travel brochures, but it also slowed down the snow, and by extension her skis. Her stomach clenched. She’d rather ski a sheet of ice than slush. Competitors and teammates alike called her the ice queen for several reasons, and only a few of them had to do with her personality.

  “Outside, Elise,” Paolo reiterated. “One hair outside. Tiny.”

  The start referee motioned her forward, and she slid her skis between the starting posts. The only thing between her and the course now was a start wire that would snap back the moment she pressed against it. Placing her poles carefully over the line, she fixed her grip. The first of her three pulse warnings blared.

  Beep. Breathe in, breathe out, rock back.

  Beep. Breathe in, breathe out, crouch.

  Beep. Explode.

  She jumped, pushing off with her knees and poles as she angled forward as far as she could and let gravity catch hold. One pump, she pushed off again with her poles. Two pumps, she pushed with her right leg as the wind began to whistle. Three pumps, a push with the left leg, and she lowered her head. She’d been over this course so many times she could’ve seen the line she wanted even in the dark. Poles up now, she pushed once more with each leg before ducking into a tuck. Butt down, spine curved, chin up, she leaned into the first curve. Roaring around the bend, she took flight for several yards. She held her form, not moving so much as a finger while her skis cut through the air above the snow.

  Angling her body toward the second turn, she remained low and slid her right leg wide. She held steady, both skis slicing across the snow, until her sharp edges did their job and held her on a perfect pitch into turn two. She heard nothing but the whir of the wind and the rush of her own breath cresting through her head.

  Shifting her body weight out of the curve and onto the flat, she aligned herself for a small jump. She set her form as the snow dropped out from under her, and once again she shot through the air in a textbook tuck. Her poles molded along the curves of her crouch, and she felt as if the wind didn’t even recognize her presence as she flowed weightlessly over the course.

  Landing effortlessly, one flick of her eyes across the snow confirmed she’d set up exactly the way she wanted to for turn three, but her skis chattered through the flat as they cut across the ruts made by previous skiers. Her breath broke rhythm as she processed the development. One tenth of a second lost, she figured, as she smoothed back into her favored line for turn three, but the prime position couldn’t shake the whispers. Two tenths.

  Pulling her chest lower, she led with her chin, jaw set. She tried to hold her pose through the wide arc of the turn, but between the little drop-off on the outside and the softening snow, one of her skis bit off more than she wanted to chew, and her shoulder rolled back. Suddenly the wind was no longer her ally. The brunt of Old Man Winter’s wrath landed a lancing blow to her open chest. She had to rise a full inch or two out of her crouch to hold.

  Time. Precious seconds whirred past as she righted her body once more. How much time had she lost now? Half a second? More? The refrain beat like a drum. Two tenths. Zero point two. Each breath wheezed the painful reminder. She could’ve done more. She had to do more.

  At nearly seventy miles an hour now, she felt turn four coming even before she saw the flag. The mountain had a natural fall line, one she’d ridden to record-splitting times in practice, one she could no longer count on. Onto the straightaway, onto her angle, onto her edges as she leaned toward the turn. In the full sun, she caught the glint of the ridge Paolo’d warned of. She couldn’t hit it. She couldn’t afford another tenth of a second. She couldn’t afford the six inches on the outside.

  Two tenths.

  Zero point two.

  Bending her right knee all the way to her sternum, she cut hard against the snow, against the wind, against centrifugal force to the inside. Every muscle tightened as she tried to bend Earth and time to her will. The mountain moved beneath her as if tilting to accommodate her desire, and she cleared the ridge to the inside.

  Then, before the sigh of relief could kiss her lips, the snow gave way. A slight slip, a sliver of a second, and the sharp, silver edge bit into the bright red polycarbonate of the gate marking the edge of the course. The faintest of brushes, the lightest touch at seventy miles an hour, a nick was more than enough.

  Her left ski continued to hurtle forward as the right one caught. The combined effect sent her body spinning in a barrel roll. Vaguely aware of hurtling through the air, she didn’t grasp the full impact of her error until her body bounced. The first impact knocked all the air from her lungs. The second knocked her knee into a back bend.

  Her scream died along with her hopes of a world championship. Fighting desperately for air, she sucked in a gasp that ripped through her throat, bringing with it an icy inhale of snow. Still
she spun downward across the mountain. Choking on pain and cold, she hit the first fence. A blur of orange shrouded her progress but didn’t impinge on her momentum enough to keep her from skittering across on her back and into the second row of neon netting.

  The spinning stopped as the pulsing stabs of pain took over. The knife to her knee radiated anguish as the suffocating weight of fence and failure pressed down on her chest, making it impossible to breathe. Icy hands of panic gripped her throat. Voices cried out. Distant footsteps crunched across the snow. Bright light cut through shadows overhead. Her senses faltered as raw pain superseded them all. First the sounds faded. Then the cold gave way to numbness. Finally her vision tinged orange, then gray, then black, and she submitted to nothingness.

  Chapter 1

  July 7, 2017

  Lake Henry Olympic Training Center,

  Lake Henry, New York

  Corey laughed as she pumped the skateboard over the section of rollers and into Nate Walsh’s path. She cut him off and mounted the twelve-foot wall in front of her in one fluid arc before reversing course and bobbing back over the set of three small, rolling hills. She tucked a tight line around a high-banked corner in the track, then stayed low as she arced up another short wall. She had the lead, and she’d take it all the way to the top, but on the last run of the day she didn’t intend to stop there. Instead of kicking to a halt when she reached the peak, she clutched the middle of her board and exploded through her knees to send her whole body arching, not only over the wall, but also the safety rail. Tapping the metal with the tail of the board for style points, she then curled into a neat little ball and front flipped into a pit of blue foam blocks.

  As she lay sprawled on her back, chest rising and falling rapidly, she gave a mock salute to acknowledge the smattering of applause.

  “You’re such a show-off.” Nate leaned on the rail and smiled down at her.

  She smiled at the steel rafters above and relaxed back into the foam blocks, the scent of sweat and Lysol filling her nostrils. “It’s one of the many things you love about working out with me.”

  “Working out?” a female voice called from somewhere behind them. “Looked more like screwing off.”

  Corey flopped onto her stomach and crawled over the blocks to the edge of the pit. “I nailed the rollers. I worked my knees, my calves, and my quads.”

  “And the acrobatics? Last I checked, they don’t award style points for Boardercross.”

  Corey hauled herself onto the sidewall and hopped up to her feet. “It’s called ‘air awareness.’ It’s an essential skill in my line of work.”

  “Hi, Holly,” Nate called.

  “Hi, Nato.” Holly switched her tone to something more coy. “Did you miss me?”

  “Always.” He tipped his board back down the wall, but instead of running through the course, he turned hard and rolled onto the mats before hopping off next to them.

  “The LaCroix sisters are back together. Training season must be heating up.”

  “It’s July. A lot of things are heating up,” Corey said, a hint of frustration in her voice.

  “Overland training makes her grumpy,” Nate explained.

  “Why do you think I went out of town for four weeks?” Holly asked. “I should’ve stayed gone longer.”

  “No,” Corey said, coming out of her pout. “I’ll be in a good mood even when it’s hot. I missed you.”

  Holly smiled sweetly and wrapped her in a hug. “I missed you, too.”

  She rested her chin on her sister’s shoulder and sighed. The team was back together again in a place she loved. All was right with the world.

  The doors to the gym swung open, and a camera crew poured in. Long boom mics and bright lights extended overhead as a reporter tried to walk casually beside a young brunette in gray cargo shorts and a bright blue racerback tank.

  “We’re here at the Lake Henry Olympic Training Center with Nicole Prince to get a little peek inside the world of an Olympic snowboard hopeful. Can you tell us about this room?

  “This is one of my favorite rooms in the whole facility,” Nikki said as she began to walk them through the various stations.

  “Apparently the new blood has arrived as well,” Holly said dryly. “What’s she like without the cameras on her?”

  “Bouncy,” Nate said dryly.

  “What is she, like seventeen?” Holly asked.

  “Barely,” Nate said.

  Holly slapped him in the stomach. “Don’t sound so disappointed. You can use the year before she’s legal to work off your beer gut.”

  “Not even tempted,” Nate said. “She’s a poodle. I’m more of a golden retriever sort of guy.”

  Corey winced. Nate didn’t have much of a way with women, or words for that matter. Holly didn’t seem pleased with the comparison, so she jumped in before they could escalate. “You’re more the dog in this scenario, Nate. Besides, The Kid’s not bad.”

  They all turned to watch the teenager turn a few flips and twists on a massive trampoline as she explained her methods. “These exercises aren’t pure play. They help with air awareness.”

  “See?” Corey said. “Air awareness is a real thing.”

  “Hey, are you Corey LaCroix?” The man wore khakis and a red polo as if he’d escaped from a day job at Target.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I am.”

  “Would you mind giving us a few quotes on camera about Nikki? We’re featuring her as the future of the sport, and it’d be great to get some perspective from a veteran like you. Sort of a passing of the torch, you know.”

  Corey forced a smile. “Sure. Yeah. Happy to.”

  “Great, let me pull a camera over.” Mr. Target-polo ran off.

  Both Nate and Holly stared at her, embarrassment crossing their features. Nate spoke first. “Passing the torch, Core?”

  “You should’ve told him to shove the stupid feature and do one on a legit Olympian,” Holly piled on.

  “It’s no big deal. I don’t have to be a jackass to beat her. Besides, she can do all the interviews she wants. Interviews don’t get you points in the standings.”

  “They don’t hurt with sponsors,” Holly said.

  “I’m not concerned about those, either. This isn’t my sponsor season, or my interview season, or my torch-passing season.” The newly familiar urgency built in her chest. “I’m here to ride.”

  “Hey, Corey, stand here.” Mr. Target-uniform grabbed her bicep and spun her around so they could get Nikki continuing to bounce on the trampoline behind her. A white light shone hot on her face, and she had to squint until her eyes adjusted. It’d been awhile since she’d faced the cameras, and she felt a lot more rusty in this area than she did on a board.

  “What do you think of the new crop of American snowboarders coming up?”

  “The American prospects are amazing. Our boarders are faster, stronger, and younger than they’ve ever been.” Corey rolled her head back all the way until she caught sight of Nikki high above them. “They’re springy, too.”

  “And what do you make of their chances at the Olympics this winter?”

  “It’s an unpredictable sport, but we’ve put the world on notice.” She tried not to put too much emphasis on the “we.” “Boardercross has always been a North American stronghold, but we’re not resting on our keisters here. We’re working out year-round. I mean, look at Tigger up there. She’s like a regular Rocky Balboa in moon boots. Probably strikes fear into the hearts of the fiercest competitors.”

  The camera guy smirked, and she felt the little thrill that always accompanied positive reinforcement. “The sky’s the limit, or, well, in this case the ceiling is probably the limit, but you get my drift. The Kid is going up in the world. I expect her to set the bar high.”

  How much longer could she go on with her tongue planted firmly in her cheek? She could make big air puns all day long.

  “And what about you?” He cut her off before she even got halfway through her materi
al. “Ever consider coming out of retirement?”

  She tried not to let her jovial camera expression fade, but the muscles in her shoulders tightened. “Actually, I haven’t retired. Shocking, I know, at the ripe old age of thirty, but I’m still on the tour, Chad.”

  “I’m Mike,” the interviewer corrected with a twinge of irritation. Nate snickered in the background.

  “Sorry, Mike. Any more questions?”

  “Do you see this season as sort of your farewell tour?”

  This time her jaw did twitch. She felt it, and knew the camera probably caught it, too. The cameras caught everything, so she went ahead and took a second to compose herself. Staring past Target Mike and his lights and all the trappings of fickle fame, she noticed a woman slow to a stop outside the large plate glass windows dividing the gym from the lobby.

  She had long, blond hair falling down past her shoulders and eyes such an icy shade of blue they appeared almost translucent from a distance. Something about those eyes sent a chill down her spine. She felt as if she could see right through them, and even more as if they could see through her.

  “Uh, Corey?” Target Mike asked.

  “Yeah, sorry, what?” she asked, not looking away from the woman.

  “Who’s that?” he asked in his non-interview tone.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s Elise Brandeis,” the cameraman said almost reverently.

  “Oh.” Mike arched up on his toes as the excitement overtook him. “Let’s see if we can get an interview.”

  He headed for the door, and then almost as an afterthought called out, “Thanks, Corey.”

  “Wow.” Nate laughed. “Shows how you rate. Nice job with calling him the wrong name, though.”

  “And Tigger? I think you gave the poodle a new nickname,” Holly added.

  She heard them but didn’t respond. Instead she watched a shadow pass over the woman’s face as she saw the cameras coming. She wrinkled her brow, lifted her chin, and strode purposefully away. The view from the back wasn’t bad either. Her black yoga pants and thin gray T-shirt highlighted a highly honed physical form, but Corey had seen more than her share of athletic bodies. None of them ever came with a set of eyes like those belonging to Elise Brandeis.