The lodge sat at the end of a long gravel drive, tucked into a fold of the mountains with the kind of rustic, weathered charm that photographed better than it probably deserved — timber beams, a wide stone fireplace visible through the front windows, a sign reading PINE RIDGE LODGE hanging slightly crooked from its post, swaying in a wind that had picked up considerably over the last hour of driving.
Ivy climbed out of the van stiff from four hours of highway, gear bag over one shoulder, and immediately understood why Coach Orlova had spent the last twenty minutes of the drive frowning at her phone.
"Storm warning just upgraded," Coach Orlova announced, once both vans had emptied and the team stood clustered in the gravel lot, breath fogging in air that had gone noticeably colder than it
