Page 31 of Landing Liam

“He wouldn’t even tell Iz anything,” Mia adds. “And she’s his best friend. If he’s not spilling to her, it’s serious.”

I wrack my brain, trying to piece together who “Iz” might be in their family lineup. My mind races, replaying every scrap of information I’ve learned about Liam and his family. If they’re talking about me—and I’m not even sure they are—I’m in deeper than I ever intended to be.

Iz must be Izzy, I think, piecing it together—Liam’s cousin who’s married to the tech billionaire and, as my research revealed, the owner of the fancy lodge hosting the competition this weekend. The web of connections between Liam’s family and this mountain grows tighter the more I learn.

“Let him be,” Jenny gently admonishes Mia. “After the last six months, he deserves some happiness.”

Six months? The phrase hooks me like a fish on a line. What happened over the last six months?

Jenny straightens, brushing imaginary lint from her coat. She turns toward the door but pauses, her eyes finding mine again. “It was nice to meet you, Margaret!” she calls warmly. “I hope you enjoy Windwood for however long you’re here.”

I give her my best reporter smile, the one that hides how much my mind is spinning. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Jenny waves a final goodbye before disappearing out the door. As the sound of it clicking shut echoes through The Gallery, I exhale a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Turning back to the artwork, I wander through the space, taking in more details about the Thompsons. The place feels like a time capsule of their lives—stories and memories framed in gilt edges and stretched across canvases. One section in particular catches my attention: a collection of photographs taken by Kyle Thompson, Liam’s father. His style is raw yet polished, capturing not just moments but emotions, lives in motion.

One image draws me closer. A girl in a polka-dot bathing suit sitting in the sand with a beach behind her, a wide-brimmed floppy hat pulled low over her ears. The scene is simple but evocative, and when I notice the plaque beneath it, my heart tugs.

The stars and the moon, the comets and asteroids, the milky way. The whole freaking galaxy.

I run my fingertips lightly along the edge of the frame, struck by the sentiment. The words feel intimate, a love letter to someone treasured. I wonder who she is, what her story might be, and whether it ties into the six-month mystery looming over Liam’s family.

The sharp ache of longing twists in my chest, unearthing feelings I haven’t let surface in years. For all the warmth radiating from the Thompsons’ world, it shines a glaring light on everything my family wasn’t. There’s a sense of loss and yearning buried in me, and being here, surrounded by this proof of love and connection, brings it to the surface.

I pull myself away, shaking my head. Focus, Maggie. This isn’t about my past. It’s about uncovering Liam’s story.

But even as I try to ground myself in my purpose, I can’t stop wondering what exactly the last six months have cost Liam—and why his family seems so determined to shield him from more pain.

Chapter Thirteen

Liam

The air is so cold it bites my lungs as I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The rhythmic scrape of boards being waxed, the chatter of the crowd, and the occasional sharp clink of bindings being adjusted fill the starting area. It’s a symphony of nerves and focus. I’ve heard it a thousand times, but today it feels different. Heavier.

I tighten the strap on my helmet, my fingers working automatically, even as my mind buzzes. My board rests against my leg, the familiar weight of it grounding me like it always has. But my heart is racing, not from adrenaline—not yet—but from the creeping fear that I might screw this up.

What if this is the last time I ever stand here?

The thought needles at me, even as I shake it off. I’ve done this run more times than I can count. My body knows every move, every jump, every twist in the course. Muscle memory is supposed to take over. But right now, my legs feel stiff, my knees locked tighter than they should be.

“Thompson!” The starter calls out my name, and I glance up to see Lon, my coach, giving me a thumbs-up from the edge of the course. His confidence in me is unshakable, and I want to feed off it. Instead, it feels like it’s all just... pressure.

I drop my board to the snow, letting it settle. My boots click into the bindings, the sound loud and final in my head. This moment, the seconds before the first run, is the hardest part. The waiting. The wondering. The mental battle of blocking out everything but the mountain in front of me.

I shift my weight side to side, testing the responsiveness of the board beneath me. The edge catches just right, a good sign. But I can’t shake the way my hands are sweating inside my gloves, despite the frigid chill in the air.

The announcer’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers, calling out my name and listing my accolades. I barely hear it. My focus narrows to the top of the slope, to the first drop that kicks off the run. My run.

Just another ride. I repeat it like a mantra, though my chest tightens with doubt. My gut twists with nerves, the way it always does before a big competition. But this time, there’s something extra sitting there—a weight I can’t quite shake.

My goggles fog briefly as my breath quickens, and I adjust them, sucking in the icy air to clear my head. I look down at the mountain—at the winding curves and sharp turns, at the jumps and rails waiting for me to hit them perfectly. It’s familiar and daunting all at once, like facing an old friend you haven’t seen in years.

I close my eyes for a beat and let everything else fall away. The crowd noise fades. The chatter disappears. It’s just me and the mountain now.

You’ve done this a thousand times. You’re ready. You’ve got this.

The starter counts me down. Three. Two. One.