Read Online Adrenaline: An Ode to Love and Heartbreak by Sunniva Dee, Clarise Tan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sunniva Dee, Clarise Tan
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that initially surprised him. He shouts with glee, no echo hitting him due to the padding created by the snow.
Of course we memorized the topography here before we arrived; no experienced snowboarder would hit this kind of untamed wilderness without an idea of what he might find. Still, there’s no telling what the glittering surface will reveal once we slice its innocence with the boards. At the speed we’re going, sixty-seventy miles per hour, a fall increases the odds of adding an unnatural twist to limbs and destroying ourselves.
I’m made of adrenaline that obliterates fear and reason. It saturates me with an absolute form of bliss. Nothing, ever, compares to this.
“Yeah!” I shout out as I whizz through the powder. My board scrapes ice underneath it, which speeds me up. The freezing air rasps my lungs. We’re kicking ass, and we’re already so low in altitude that a scrawny pine tree pops up before me. I barely dodge it. At my back, Dan lets out a muffled laugh at my almost-mishap. Low-altitude trees race toward us as we speed downward. We hit a steep part of the mountain again, but I’m too hyped to slow down.
“Fakie Ollie!” Marek yells, warning me to switch it up—I turn in time to fly past where he struggled a moment ago. I don’t enjoy Fakie Ollies, so I’m content a regular lift keeps me clear of the edge that nearly wiped him out.
“Fuck yeah!” I scream and am rewarded with Dan’s stone-age cheer behind me and Marek’s wolf howl at how he survived this time too. Lucky bastard. Nothing like being that close to staring Death down.
Then, everything happens fast. Marek shoots over a snow-camouflaged boulder, indicating to his left with a hand. I curve beyond him without slowing down. Hit a cliffhanger that catapults me out into open air.
I’m flying. I’m fucking flying , and so many thoughts race through my head. This is crazy, epic—I stare down and see the snow approaching way too quickly. I’m twenty feet up, praying the landing will be easy, and at the same time, I’m thinking—
Wingsuit.
Fucking wingsuit.
From my dwindling, seconds-long flight on the snowboard, I imagine wearing my wingsuit, clicking my board free, and soaring forever before deploying the parachute. Sure, we’ve all watched YouTube videos of base-jumping snowboarders—but now?
I fucking get it.
I hit the ground smoothly. Bend deep in my knees, so deep I tumble and stand, tumble and stand, my pace slow until I get my bearings and remain standing. Soon, we’re in thick woods, really fucking close to a cluster of houses and a road. So far so good—Ingela will be happy.
I take one last swing as the terrain smoothens out and slows us down. Dan’s got more speed than me. He dashes past, hits a last-minute rock—I literally see our ride on the road, there, waiting—and faceplants.
The wind is knocked out of him. I’m close enough behind for him to trip me. I slide through an unintentional handplant , which doesn’t help me at all, and the last thing I see is the underside of his board before it connects with my head.
“Um, Ingela?” Dan says. He’s the one calling. No idea why he makes it sound like a question.
“Ja?” she replies loudly on the other end. At least initially, the girl turns to Swedish whenever she’s surprised. “Who’s this? You’re calling from Cameron’s phone—what’s going on? Is he dead?”
I might be the only one with a concussion and a black eye, but Dan’s head hurts too. He’s holding the phone away from his face whispering, “Girl’s fucking loud.”
I snicker. Oh, that Inga. “Tell her I’m not dead. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
We’re back in the hotel room after a quick ER visit to verify neither of us are beyond repair. Marek’s chewing on a summer sausage. Straight out downing it with the skin peeled like a banana. “Why didn’t you call her yourself? Or text ‘er?” he asks.
I just point at my head and at the way Dan keeps the cell at
Of course we memorized the topography here before we arrived; no experienced snowboarder would hit this kind of untamed wilderness without an idea of what he might find. Still, there’s no telling what the glittering surface will reveal once we slice its innocence with the boards. At the speed we’re going, sixty-seventy miles per hour, a fall increases the odds of adding an unnatural twist to limbs and destroying ourselves.
I’m made of adrenaline that obliterates fear and reason. It saturates me with an absolute form of bliss. Nothing, ever, compares to this.
“Yeah!” I shout out as I whizz through the powder. My board scrapes ice underneath it, which speeds me up. The freezing air rasps my lungs. We’re kicking ass, and we’re already so low in altitude that a scrawny pine tree pops up before me. I barely dodge it. At my back, Dan lets out a muffled laugh at my almost-mishap. Low-altitude trees race toward us as we speed downward. We hit a steep part of the mountain again, but I’m too hyped to slow down.
“Fakie Ollie!” Marek yells, warning me to switch it up—I turn in time to fly past where he struggled a moment ago. I don’t enjoy Fakie Ollies, so I’m content a regular lift keeps me clear of the edge that nearly wiped him out.
“Fuck yeah!” I scream and am rewarded with Dan’s stone-age cheer behind me and Marek’s wolf howl at how he survived this time too. Lucky bastard. Nothing like being that close to staring Death down.
Then, everything happens fast. Marek shoots over a snow-camouflaged boulder, indicating to his left with a hand. I curve beyond him without slowing down. Hit a cliffhanger that catapults me out into open air.
I’m flying. I’m fucking flying , and so many thoughts race through my head. This is crazy, epic—I stare down and see the snow approaching way too quickly. I’m twenty feet up, praying the landing will be easy, and at the same time, I’m thinking—
Wingsuit.
Fucking wingsuit.
From my dwindling, seconds-long flight on the snowboard, I imagine wearing my wingsuit, clicking my board free, and soaring forever before deploying the parachute. Sure, we’ve all watched YouTube videos of base-jumping snowboarders—but now?
I fucking get it.
I hit the ground smoothly. Bend deep in my knees, so deep I tumble and stand, tumble and stand, my pace slow until I get my bearings and remain standing. Soon, we’re in thick woods, really fucking close to a cluster of houses and a road. So far so good—Ingela will be happy.
I take one last swing as the terrain smoothens out and slows us down. Dan’s got more speed than me. He dashes past, hits a last-minute rock—I literally see our ride on the road, there, waiting—and faceplants.
The wind is knocked out of him. I’m close enough behind for him to trip me. I slide through an unintentional handplant , which doesn’t help me at all, and the last thing I see is the underside of his board before it connects with my head.
“Um, Ingela?” Dan says. He’s the one calling. No idea why he makes it sound like a question.
“Ja?” she replies loudly on the other end. At least initially, the girl turns to Swedish whenever she’s surprised. “Who’s this? You’re calling from Cameron’s phone—what’s going on? Is he dead?”
I might be the only one with a concussion and a black eye, but Dan’s head hurts too. He’s holding the phone away from his face whispering, “Girl’s fucking loud.”
I snicker. Oh, that Inga. “Tell her I’m not dead. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
We’re back in the hotel room after a quick ER visit to verify neither of us are beyond repair. Marek’s chewing on a summer sausage. Straight out downing it with the skin peeled like a banana. “Why didn’t you call her yourself? Or text ‘er?” he asks.
I just point at my head and at the way Dan keeps the cell at
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