Page 49 of First Echo

I stared at him, momentarily at a loss. Was he flirting with me? The realization was so unexpected I almost laughed. When was the last time someone had bothered to flirt with me? When was the last time I'd even noticed if they had?

He nodded toward the slope. "You racing later?"

"What race?"

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "You didn't hear? There's a student race after lunch. Nothing official, just for fun. You should totally enter."

I shook my head instinctively, the thought of crowds and attention making my skin crawl. "I don't do crowds."

Luca shrugged, an easy acceptance that somehow didn't feel dismissive. "Fair. But you'd probably smoke everyone out there." Another pause, his eyes meeting mine with unexpected directness. "Just saying… it'd be kinda fun to watch you win."

I didn't respond immediately. Part of me wanted to shut this down, to retreat back into the safe solitude I'd cultivated so carefully. But another part—a part I barely recognized—was tired of hiding, tired of being forgotten.

"Maybe," I heard myself say, the word hanging between us like a tentative bridge.

His smile widened, genuine and warm. "Yeah?"

I allowed myself a small smile in return, surprised by how natural it felt. "Don't get too excited. I said maybe."

"I'll take it," he replied, settling onto the bench beside me, leaving just enough space that it didn't feel intrusive.

The conversation flowed with unexpected ease, touching on snowboarding techniques, music preferences, the best places to ride. Luca was funny in an understated way, his humor dry and self-deprecating. He didn't push when I gave short answers, didn't seem bothered by my guardedness. It was... nice. Simple. Uncomplicated.

Everything that was happening with Madeline wasn't.

"So," he said eventually, checking his watch. "Race starts in thirty. Still a maybe?"

I looked out at the mountain, then back at him, at his easy smile and uncomplicated interest. Suddenly, the idea of racing—of doing something purely for myself, something that had nothing to do with Madeline Hayes or complicated feelings or the ache in my chest—seemed incredibly appealing.

"You know what?" I stood, reaching for my helmet. "I think I will."

His expression brightened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I strapped my board back on with newfound determination. "Might as well show everyone how it's done."

The starting area for the impromptu race was crowded with students, a mixture of skilled riders and novices all jostling for position. I hung back, observing the chaos with detached amusement. There was no official organization, just a general understanding that when the lift operator blew his whistle, everyone would charge down the designated run, racing for bragging rights and fleeting glory.

I spotted Julian among the competitors. But no Madeline. The realization brought a mixture of relief and disappointment that I immediately tried to squash.

"Thought you might bail," Luca said, appearing beside me with that same easy smile.

"Still might," I replied, but there was no real intention behind the words.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Nah. Something tells me you're not the type to back down from a challenge."

The assessment was surprisingly accurate, hitting closer to home than I wanted to admit. I adjusted my goggles, hiding whatever might have shown in my eyes. "We'll see."

As the starting time approached, more spectators gathered at the bottom of the run, small figures in the distance that would witness whatever happened next. I positioned myself toward the edge of the group, away from Julian, focusing on the path ahead rather than the people around me.

The lift operator's whistle cut through the crisp air, sharp and clear.

And then we were off, a wave of riders surging forward, boards cutting through snow with varying degrees of skill. I held back for just a moment, letting the initial chaos sort itself out before carving my own path through the powder.

The world narrowed to just this: the bite of cold air against what little skin was exposed, the burn in my legs as I pushed myself harder, the perfect harmony of body and board working as one. I wove through other riders with practiced precision, finding the fastest line down the mountain as if by instinct.

This was freedom. This was clarity. This was where I belonged.

I hit a section of fresh powder, using it to gain speed rather than slow down, feeling the exhilaration of perfectly executed turns. The finish line approached, marked by two ski poles stuck in the snow with a bandana strung between them.

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