“Not gonna lie,” he says as he reaches his own mug. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all decked out.”
“The fuck for?” I ask, sounding puzzled.
Brandt shrugs. “I don’t know, last time we went skiing, you looked kinda badass with your goggles and overalls.”
His little grin looks salacious. Fuck me. I’m gonna be crawling on my ass like a toddler through the snow, not burning wind behind me as I race down the mountain like some pro skier.
Thanks for not putting any pressure on me, Brandt.
With great reluctance and a deep sigh, I sit up and reach for my crutches, hopping my way to the bathroom for that shower. Brandt calls out, “Want me to sign you up for the beginners class? We could stick to the bunny slope.”
“I hate you,” I call back.
His laughter filters through the closed door. “You love me,” he shouts.
Suiting up
Turns out the rental shop is hell.
I’m sweating through my base layer while some dude with a chinstrap beard keeps trying to adjust the straps on my left boot like it’s gonna matter. I finally snap, “Unless you’ve got one in titanium, we’re wasting each other’s time.”
Chinstrap blinks. “Dude, that’s wild. Is that, like, carbon fiber?”
I give him a look that should legally classify as a minor assault. “Nope. It’s Lego and spite.”
Brandt snorts from where he’s adjusting his own gear. He’s already got his helmet on, goggles resting on top, looking way too hot for a man whose pants swish when he walks.
By the time I’m finally geared up, I look like the Michelin Man’s depressed cousin. The prosthetic clicks into the modified binding with ease, and I’m able to let out my first small breath.
Outside, the snow’s bright enough to stab me in the soul. Brandt throws an arm around my shoulders. “Ready to conquer the bunny slope?”
“Ready to be mocked by toddlers.”
“That’s the spirit,” he grins.
We shuffle toward the lift line. Brandt’s holding my poles, my pride, and probably my insurance info. A six-year-old in a pink helmet skates past and does a perfect hockey stop right in front of me. I want to trip her on principle.
We make it to the lift without any major catastrophes. Brandt slides on first, then me. The seat scoops under us easily. The ride up is quiet, except for the buzz of the cable and my rising blood pressure.
“Hey,” Brandt says after a minute. “You’re doing good.”
“We’re sitting, Reaper.”
“Yeah, and look how graceful you are.”
I elbow him in the ribs.
At the top, it gets worse. Brandt glides off the lift like a snowboarding sex god. I, on the other hand, flail like a drunk cat and basically fall off the side, straight into a pile of human children and rental poles.
The snow is cold, but my dignity’s colder.
From above, I hear Brandt laughing. “You stuck the landing, babe. Ten outta ten!”
“Die.” But after the fifth fall, something weird happens. I get back up… and I don’t hate it.
The motion starts to make sense. Prosthetic in place. Balance shaky, but there. I coast. I even turn. Brandt throws his hands up like I just cured cancer and skis backward in front of me like a show-off.
“You look good,” he says.
