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not going to win this fight, and I knew it.
    â€œLook, Lex, no one’s expecting you to go out there and hit a double black diamond your first day back,” Dad told me as he sat down in the chair across from me, pushing the steaming mug into my hands. “But if you still want to chase this dream, you have to get right back on that horse. That’s what professional athletes do. They heal and move on. This is a new year. We’re starting fresh, and we’re not going to let some little, old, completely healed injury get in our way, now are we?”
    Don’t let him push you . Mom’s words echoed in my head.
    I stared down at my hot chocolate, no longer feeling like drinking it. I used to love how Dad would always say “we” when it came to my snowboarding career. Like the two of us were a team. That we were in this together—whatever might come our way. But now the implication only irritated me. We didn’t crash into a tree. We didn’t break our leg in two places. We didn’t suffer through months of painful physical therapy to get back to where we once were.
    You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone.
    â€œLook, honey, I’m not trying to downplay your accident,” he assured me. “It was a horrible thing, and I thank my lucky stars every day you came out of it in one piece. After all, I know firsthand what it’s like to deal with a serious injury on the slopes.”
    I stifled a groan, knowing exactly what was coming next. That legendary story about how he qualified for the Winter X Games while suffering from a broken collarbone.
    â€œDid I ever tell you about the time I qualified for the Winter X Games with a broken collarbone?”
    My dad was nothing if not predictable.
    I forced myself to slug down a mouthful of hot chocolate as he droned on, even though it tasted like mud. It was a story he’d told me a thousand times before. About him colliding with a fellow rider and ending up in the hospital. About evading the hospital staff and climbing out of a second-story window at first light—just so he could make it in time for the qualifying rounds of the event. About how, even in total agony, he managed to score his spot on the team.
    A professional athlete, he would finish, never let an injury rob them of their dreams.
    I wanted to mention that perhaps Swiss gold medalist Tanja Frieden might have disagreed, having had to retire from the sport in a wheelchair after tearing two Achilles tendons. But I knew Dad would just list ten other riders who had pushed through broken ribs, busted knees, and crippling concussions. Snowboard cross was the most dangerous sport in the Olympic Games, and I had always known it. But it was one thing to know you could get hurt. Quite another to actually feel the pain.
    You’re special, no matter what.
    Dad rubbed my head, messing up my hair, his eyes shining with affection. “I know it’s scary,” he told me. “But we’re going to get through this. I’ll be by your side the entire way. We’re going to have a terrific year. And by the end of this month, I guarantee you’re going to be saying ‘What accident?’ as we start winning races and racking up the points toward our nomination for Team USA.”
    I sighed. It was what I’d always wanted. The only thing I’d ever wanted. And Dad had done everything in his power to get me to this point. The hot chocolate churned in my stomach as I stole a glance at his hopeful face, begging me to agree with him. To say I’d keep going no matter what—so his sacrifices would not be in vain. Dad had given up everything to help me chase my Olympic dream. His job, his bank account, even his weekends—spent giving me extra one-on-one training instead of relaxing in front of the TV and watching football like other dads. And he’d never once complained about any of it.
    So how could I give up now? How could I let him down?