“I didn’t want to.”
His mouth parts slightly—I guess he wasn’t expecting honesty—and apparently even that can rile him if he’s not prepared for it. It makes the pounding between my ears slightly less bothersome.
“Even if you aren’t hungover, you can’t ride with Max in this condition.”
“What condition?”
“Looking like shit.” His skeptical eyes track over me.
“I’m walking, aren’t I?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Hayden’s voice rises in pitch, telling me it’s taking a lot of restraint not to lose his shit. That makes my headache even lighter.
“I ride better than I walk, and looking like shit won’t change that. I’m going to get my gear on. Tell Max to meet me by the Evergreen chair.” I spin toward the locker room before he can protest, though I don’t miss the way his mouth falls open as I go. This time, I do smirk.It’s the little things.
My almost-good mood sours as soon as I step into the changing area. The temperature in here is balmy, but a cool shiver travels up my spine as I pull on the snowboard pants I haven’t worn since closing day last year. The last day I rode with Chase.
He didn’t turn pro like me, but he was still one of my favorite people to ride with. Fast. Fearless. A giddy smile on his face.
I sink onto the bench before my knees buckle. The cereal I ate for breakfast threatens to make another appearance as my stomach lurches.
Chase is in the ground, and I’m getting ready to go play on the mountain.This is so wrong.
Closing my eyes, I take a shaky breath, willing my gut to settle down as I try to pull air into my constricted lungs.It’s just a few hours, and it’ll make the kid’s day.
A few more deep breaths and the nausea starts to recede enough that I can lace up my boots. Gritting my teeth, I pull Max’s image from my memory, focusing on his lopsided grin, then grab my gear and head outside.
The crisp air has a calming effect, and my lungs expand fully as I take a measured breath. So far so good. I keep my gaze down as I head toward the lift, avoiding all eye contact. The last thing I need is for people to make a big deal about seeing me on the snow, especially since I’m not doing this for me.
By some miracle I get to the chair without anyone stopping me, and I only have to wait a few minutes before I spot Max’s uneven gait, which is overshadowed by the biggest fucking smile I’ve ever seen. And even though my stomach still hasn’t decided not to riot, I find my lips tugging up in response.
“Hey Max.” I hold out my gloved fist, and he bumps it in return. “Ready to get going?”
“Yeah!”
I steer him toward the lift line before his parents can pepper me with questions or small talk—I’m barely stringing words together for the kid—and we strap on our boards as we wait our turn. Max needs alittle help pushing along as the line moves, which is easy enough, but it’s not until we’re at the front it occurs to me that he might not know how to get on, or even be capable of it with his fake leg thing, and my heart starts to race in my chest.
“You need help with the lift?”Damn, I hope I don’t sound panicked.
“No. I got on okay, yesterday.”
“Sweet.”Sweet? I haven’t said that since I was like ten. Oh God, this is gonna be a disaster. How the fuck do I do this?
I’m on autopilot as we get on the chair, a fucking statue as we ride up the hill. I need to talk, but I have no idea what to say or where to start. Despite all my layers, a chill courses through me, only it doesn’t leave. It lingers, seizing my limbs as it clouds my mind, keeping me frozen in place while my heart threatens to explode.
I close my eyes, trying to focus, but my body won’t listen to my brain, and my hands start to shake. I’m not in control. I can’t break through the fog.What the fuck have I done?And then my name echoes in my ear.
“Mr. Ryder?” My head swivels toward Max, seemingly free of its constraint. “I asked how old you were when you started riding.”
“Uh, three. I was three. How old were you?” It takes a second for me to realize those words are mine. They came from my mouth, even though I don’t remember trying to speak them.
“Five. I only went a few times but then I had to stop until yesterday because of my leg. I’m eight now.”
My heartbeat throbs in my ears as it starts to return to normal. “How old were you when…” This time I know I’m speaking, I just can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. I point at his leg instead.
“Six.”
“Does it hurt?” I’m horrified by my question the second it passes my lips, but I can’t take it back.
