It’s the least I could do.
***
The next morning, I’m up early, even though it’s my day off. Raul messaged me last night, asking if I wanted to train. Like I’d ever say no. Who knows how much longer he’ll keep doing this? I’m going to take every chance I get while he’s still willing.
I know he’s not old or anything but I can sense his health declining. Owning a business is a lot of stress on one single person and he takes all of the weight himself. I try to help as much as I can but I get pretty exhausted myself. But the resort has been doing much better within the last year that I think Raul can start looking into hiring a few more employees so he can take some of the weight off himself.
Raul’s one of the only people who’s ever pushed me because he believes in me, not because he wants something out of me.
I go through my usual morning routine—change, brush, eat—then head out the door.
Outside, the air is sharp and fresh, carrying the crisp scent of pine and snow. The sky is a pale shade of blue, streaked with soft pink as the sun creeps over the peaks. The resort is still quiet, the slopes mostly untouched, except for the early risers carving through the powder.
This is my favorite time of day—when the mountain feels like it belongs to me.
I spot Raul already waiting by the ski lifts, one foot strapped in, like he’s been here forever. No wasted time, no hesitation. That’s just how he is. His board is dusted with fresh powder and he gives me a nod, the kind that says,Let’s get to work.
“Come on, slacker. I’ve been waiting over ten minutes,” he calls out as I walk toward him.
“No one told you to be on time,” I shoot back. Raul is fun to mess with—one of the few people who can take it just as well as he dishes it out.
I strap my left boot in and together we hop our way to the lift’s entrance. The world is quiet except for the hum of the lift cables and the occasional distant whoosh of a skier passing by. We’re first in line and when the lift swings around, we drop onto the seat, the metal cold beneath us.
The safety bar lowers over our heads and Raul kicks off the morning like he always does—with his usual banter.
“Morning sleeping beauty. Did you get enough beauty rest last night?”
“You’re just jealous of my skin since you’ve got wrinkles like an old man,” I fire back.
He smirks, the creases around his eyes deepening. “Touché.”
The lift carries us up in no time, the wind whipping past as we ascend. Below us, the slopes stretch wide and empty, the untouched snow glistening under the early morning sun. As soon as we reach the top, we hop off smoothly, stepping into our boards and locking in as fast as we can.
This is how we always start—our unspoken tradition. A race down the first run to wake up our legs, shake off any stiffness, and get the adrenaline pumping before we dive into the real training.
The second my bindings are secure, I push off. Raul is right beside me, carving clean and fast, but I don’t look his way. My focus is on the slope ahead, on the crisp edges of my board slicing throughfresh powder, on the way down, the mountain seems to tilt just enough to make me feel weightless.
The bottom rushes closer. Too fast.
I feel my board wobble beneath me, the edge catching awkwardly. My balance shifts and for a split second, I think I’m going down. I force my weight back, fighting for control. The ground is a blur and I’m barely able to stop before I hit the base.
That was a close one.
I make it down the mountain first today. Last time, Raul beat me. We’re always neck and neck, pushing each other, trading wins. But it wasn’t always like this. When I first started training with him, I was slow—so slow that beating him wasn’t even a possibility.
“Nice job. You finally beat me, sissy,” Raul says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I laugh, shaking my head. We unstrap our right boots and hop our way back toward the lift. The motions are second nature by now—glide forward, wait for the chair, settle in as the cable hums above us. The lift swings us back up the mountain, giving us a moment to catch our breath.
“Nice job,” Raul says again, his tone shifting to something more serious. “I noticed you using some technique to gain speed, but it didn’t look like you had much control. You started to wobble near the end.”
I scratch the back of my neck, exhaling. “Yeah, I felt it,” I admit.
“Good, at least you recognize it,” Raul says, his eyes narrowing as he assesses my form. “Today we’re going to work on edge control and carving. That way, you can master your turns and really own your board.”
“Sounds good to me,” I reply eager to improve, to get better, to prove to myself that I can do this.
The chairlift creaks as it pulls us to the top. We hop off in sync and without wasting a second, we start working. The cold air bites at my cheeks, but my focus is razor-sharp.
