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He didn’t quit. How could I?
    â€œNow, finish your hot chocolate and get out there,” Dad commanded. “You’re meeting your trainer in half an hour over on Baby Bear.”
    I looked up, surprised, my heart beating wildly in my chest as I digested his words. “What?” I managed to squeak out. “Today?”
    â€œYes today. Why not?” Dad gave me a surprised look. As if he couldn’t fathom the idea of missing a single day out on the slopes. Which, of course, he couldn’t. “We need to get you back in the swing of things as soon as possible so you can eventually rejoin your classmates.” He paused, then added, “I told you this on the phone, remember?”
    â€œYeah, but I didn’t know I’d be starting today,” I protested, the prospect chilling me to the bone. I had figured I’d have at least a few days to settle in to life here before daring that first run down the mountain. I should have known better.
    â€œWould waiting till tomorrow make that first run any easier?” Dad asked pointedly. “It’s going to blow, no matter what, Lex. Better to get it over with.”
    I let out a long breath, knowing he was right. What good would waiting do? I’d probably only end up psyching myself out further the longer I stayed away. Maybe trial by fire was the best way to banish the fear from my head. And, like he said, it wasn’t as if I was going to go hit a double black D. Baby Bear was the easiest trail on the mountain. A four-year-old could master it.
    â€œFine,” I said, looking up. “I’ll grab my board and go meet her. Thanks.”
    â€œAwesome,” Dad pronounced as he rose from his seat. He shot me an affectionate grin. “You’re going to do great out there,” he assured me. “It’ll be like you never left.”
    He was right, I told myself as I said good-bye and headed out of the hut and into the crisp afternoon air. I was perfectly fine. Physically healed. There was nothing to hold me back from regaining my Mountain Academy crown. To prove to everyone that I still had what it took to be a star. Sure, this kind of setback might have stalled your average Olympic contender’s career. But I was Golden Girl. I was better than that.
    So how come I still felt such overwhelming dread the closer I got toward the mountain?

CHAPTER FIVE
    W hen people first hear “ski and snowboard school” they usually assume that all our classes take place outside and that we soar down the slopes from dawn till dusk without a care in the world for anything boring and educational. But, though most of us would probably prefer that kind of all-practice-all-the-time schedule, unfortunately the grand state of Vermont feels it’s important that we athletes still receive a well-rounded education. I suppose it makes sense, seeing as the average winter-sports career has a retirement age of about thirty (without any retirement plan to speak of). Sure, the more accomplished athletes usually end up as coaches, such as my dad, or working the circuit as announcers or the like. But the rest? If they didn’t manage to score enough sponsor seed money during their glory days, they needed a backup plan.
    That said, we still had to practice. A lot. So to maximize our time out on the slopes during the winter months, we’d spend off-season (from September to mid November and April to June) on an accelerated academic track—getting in as much regular instruction as possible before that first big snowfall. After that, our classroom time was cut in half, and we spent the majority of our days in training. Which, by the way, could mean an hour in the weight room or a round of soccer just as easily as a session in the half-pipe. At Mountain Academy they worked on sculpting the total athlete. After all, you couldn’t make those massive airs if you weren’t strong in many different kinds of ways.
    This year,