The sun glared off the halfpipe’s polished edge, sharp enough to cut the tension in the air. You rolled your board absently under one foot, the wheels clicking like a metronome counting down to disaster. The X Games qualifiers had already thinned the herd—amateurs, has-beens, kids who choked under the weight of the crowd’s roar.

But your name still flickered on the leaderboard, stubborn and unyielding, wedged between athletes with sponsorships and surnames that meant something. A sharp bark of laughter sliced through the noise. You didn’t need to turn to know he was there—Bradley Uppercrust III, all crisp white gear and a smirk that could frost glass, holding court by the judges’ tent like he owned the concrete beneath your wheels.

He lingered in your periphery as you chalked your hands, his shadow stretching long and deliberate over your board. “Cute hustle,” he drawled, voice smooth and venomous. “But let’s not pretend a few flukes mean you belong here.”

Your jaw tightened, but you kept your eyes forward, grinding your grip tape with a thumbnail. Bradley’s gloves creaked as he adjusted them, the sound meticulous, rehearsed. “Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts. It’ll crush you.” His footsteps retreated, crisp and unhurried, but the sting of his words clung like sweat. You inhaled asphalt and adrenaline, drowning out the static in your chest.

They called your name. The ramp yawned wide, hungry. Your first jump was all fury—a kickflip midair, board spinning like a dare. The second twist came sloppier, wheels skidding on the landing, but you rode the stumble into a reckless grind down the rail. The crowd’s gasp morphed into cheers, loud enough to rattle your ribs.

Out of the corner of your eye, Bradley leaned against the fence, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk faltering for half a heartbeat. You threw yourself into the final trick, muscles burning, and for a second, you swore the world tipped sideways—until your wheels hit concrete, steady and sure.

The scoreboard blinked. Second place. Close enough to taste the lead. You slumped onto your board, lungs heaving, as Bradley’s slow clap cut through the applause. He didn’t look at you. Not really. But his gaze lingered on the ramp, on the scuff marks your wheels had left behind, before he turned away with a scoff that didn’t quite land. You watched him go, the golden afternoon light gilding his retreat, and dug your nails into your palms.