“With all due respect, the purpose of this program is to assist the guests that come here, not the instructors. My focus needs to be on them, not Ryder.” My heart is beating a mile a minute, yet somehow, I avoid the urge to fidget under Carter’s stoic gaze.
“I don’t think there needs to be a distinction between who we serve.”
“You’re saying I should knowingly pair a guest with someone that may or may not be coherent enough to instruct them?” I can’t stop my jaw from falling open. “That’s not what they’re paying for.”
“I’m saying healing goes both ways, and Ryder won’t heal unless he’s on the mountain. We have to find a way to get him there.”
I’m not expecting Carter to be so adamant given the solid business argument I just made, which has me confused.
Ryder and I may do our best to avoid each other, but yes, even I can see there’s something broken inside him. On more than one occasion I’ve questioned whether I’m being fair to regard him with such contempt when there’s clearly something deeper than just a bad attitude at play. Then I get a whiff of his prior evening’s activities, and—given the suffering of the people we help here—I find myself getting pissed at the callous way he flaunts his addictions. Still, I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t compelled to fix his perpetually distant look. It’s my career, after all, and I’d like to think I’m good at it. But the people I typically work withwantto make a change, and I don’tget the impression Ryder does. That means Carter’s ask is futile. So why is he so determined to see it through?
“Putting him on the mountain in his current state is a big risk. Why is it so important to you that we make it happen?”
The line between Carter’s brows fades as one on his forehead replaces it, his gaze drifting to his lap. “If he remembers he loves to ride that just might save his life.”
That’s a far more dire reason than I could’ve imagined, and while it strikes me as a little dramatic, the undeniable worry in Carter’s tone has me almost ready to concede.Almost.
“I can’t do that unless he shows up ready to work. It’s not fair to the guests, the other instructors, or the program as a whole. I hope saying that doesn’t cost me this job, but until he takes this seriously, I can’t do what you’re asking.”
The frown returns as Carter brings his eyes to mine. “I’m not in the habit of firing people who are making sound decisions. Ryder doesn’t belong on the mountain unless he’s sober, and I’ll sort him out so he’s ready. But itisimportant that we get him riding, so if he’s not meeting expectations you need to loop me in sooner.”
A wave of guilt washes over me as Carter’s words hit my ears. Despite our difference of opinion on Ryder’s presence here, he’s still my boss, so he deserves to be kept informed. And as I now know, I didn’t have any reason to be secretive since he agrees with me about needing Ryder to be alcohol free to work with the guests. I’m skeptical about whether he can do that, but that doesn’t give me license to deliberately withhold information.
“I will.” My voice is softer than usual after that subtle reprimand, but if Carter notices he doesn’t comment.
Chapter seven
Ryder
The steady hum of the bus’s engine is usually soothing, but today it’s just another reminder of the shitshow that’s become my life.
Fuckin’ Carter, threatening to have the judge revoke my community service option and give me jail time if I don’t stop acting like a janitor. It was his idea for me to be an instructor, not mine, and now he’s ready to punish me for not doing the job I never wanted? If I didn’t have to worry about what it’d do to my mom to see me in jail, I’d tell the judge to find me a cell. At least that way maybe everyone would leave me the fuck alone.
That’s why the janitor thing works. I don’t have to talk to anyone—hell, I don’t even have to see anyone if I time it right—and then I’m on my way. Sure, sweeping the floor and cleaning toilets sucks ass, but it’s better than giving lip service when making nice is the last thing I want to do.
I always hated that part of being a professional snowboarder. Reporters crowding you for comment after a race, pretending they know what to ask when most of them have never been on a board before. There’s nothing more stupid than two strangers talking shop when one of them is just a mouthpiece. Yet, the sponsors want that shiton camera and force us to answer mundane questions like “what was going through your mind on that run?” or “how does it feel to make the podium?” Like we don’t all know it feels great to win and like shit to lose.
I mean, God forbid they ask something intelligent like how the camber of my board affects my ability to turn, or what kind of wax I’m using. But no, they stick to generic questions that require zero knowledge of the sport, and I’m expected to act like they’re being insightful when they could ask literally the same thing of any athlete on the planet.
Those dumb conversations were bad enough when they focused on riding, but if I go back on the circuit, they won’t be limited to what I do on the mountain. They’ll bleed into how I’m doing without Chase. What it’s like to ride without my brother there to cheer me on. His death is a boundary they won’t respect, and I won’t willingly invite them to cross it, which is what’ll happen if I start competing again.
And Carter thinks I should welcome that into my life.
My whole body is taught with a fury I can’t unleash as I get off the bus at the resort. I try stomping through the snow to relieve some of my tension, but it’s a poor substitute for smashing things with my fist. Popping a toothpick in my mouth—the only safe outlet for my anger right now—I yank open the door to the lobby and find my de facto jailer waiting for me with a glare to rival mine in those bottomless brown eyes.Bring it.
“Is that the face you welcome the guests with Frosty? No wonder this place isn’t busier.”
“Are you hungover right now?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, standing his ground as I stalk toward him with a devious grin.
I’m not, but one of the only things that gives me pleasure besides drinking away my feelings is pissing Hayden off, so I lean into mynew role as resident asshole. “No more than usual.” I gnash on my toothpick.Damn, seeing him fume makes me smile.
He looks me over warily. “I know Carter wants you on the mountain, but I need you sober before that happens. You can work the rental counter.” His chocolatey hair seems to lift with the force of his spin as he stalks away, sending a whiff of cedar and…cherriesup my nose. I hate that it smells kinda good, and that I can picture gripping those silky strands in my fist to make him whimper.
In pain.
Obviously.
There’s no other reason to want to touch him.
