“Not like it used to.”
We reach the top of the lift, and though he wobbles a bit, Max manages to get off the chair without falling. That’s pretty impressive considering people with both their legs can screw that up. Watching him do what I would’ve thought impossible gives me the motivation to put my own shit on the back burner, at least for the next few hours.
“So,” I venture as I strap his back foot into the binding for him, “what did you do, yesterday?”
“Mostly just slid down on my back edge. Mr. Todd said to get comfortable with that so I could stop if I needed to.”
“Makes sense,” I agree. “Most people find it easier to stop on their heels than their toes, at least to start. Want to try turning today?”
“Um, yeah. But I’m kind of worried about that since my back leg is the one with the prosthetic.”
I finish strapping my foot in and stand up to get a good look at his setup. Everything seems normal—his body is centered and his feet are the right distance apart—which means he shouldn’t have any trouble. Then I have a thought.
“You skateboard?”
“I have. I mean I did.” He has to tip his head back to see me under the bulky helmet and goggles, though it goes so far back I almost wonder if he’ll topple over. I brace my hands on my knees and lean down to get closer to his level.
“You’re thinking like a skateboarder. This is a snowboard.” I point to the board strapped to his feet.
“What’s the difference?” I can just barely make out a confused look through the tint of his goggles.
“On a skateboard, you use your back leg to steer. On a snowboard, you use your front leg.” I stand up and shift my weight so I start drifting forward, doing an exaggerated turn to demonstrate. When hedoesn’t move I see-saw my weight over my legs to “walk” back upslope, and hold out my hands. “Shift your weight to your front leg.” My gloved hands close around his as we start to move.
We stand face-to-face as we slide down the mountain, and with me as his anchor we experiment with what it feels like to lean forward, lean back, and even turn. Like most people, his first instinct is to lean back when he wants to stop instead of leaning forward, but once he starts to overcome that, he starts to grasp that he has more control when his weight is over his front leg.
I’ve been riding so long I don’t have to think about what I’m doing on a board—my body just knows how to react—and without consciously thinking about it, I steer us over the snow with ease, offering tips and pointers along the way. I’m so focused on Max, I forget I’m on a board myself, doing what I swore I wouldn’t. Concentrating on him keeps me from going down the rabbit hole in my mind, making the whole experience less painful than I anticipated. Fun almost, since it’s hard not to appreciate the kid’s enthusiasm. But it’s not all rainbows and roses.
Max squeals and laughs the whole way down the mountain, just like Chase did as a kid. Sometimes that makes me smile, but other times it sparks a memory so vivid I catch myself holding my breath to keep the tears from spilling from my eyes.
Logically, I know Max isn’t Chase. Aside from the fact they look nothing alike, Max’s prosthetic means his riding style is nothing like Chase’s. But the sheer joy on his face… in his laugher… That’s eerily familiar, making me feel twitchy and hot, and there’s nothing worse than feeling overheated on the snow. Your heartbeat accelerates, your head becomes foggy, and you end up frantically stripping off layers in search of cool air because the alternative is passing out. I only hit that point once with Max, forcing him to take a break while I panted and clawed at the gear that felt like it was drowning me, though I held it at bay at least two other times. So, yeah, it was a hard day. But not a miserable one.
I’m not sure what to think about that. I don’t deserve to be happy—haven’t felt anything close to that in a while—yet a few times I wanted to. I smiled or laughed with Max, which was familiar and foreign at the same time. I didn’t hate it. That leaves my chest feeling both full and hollow, and my head just as screwed up as it’s been for months.
Chapter ten
Hayden
Bundled in my black puffy coat, a matching beanie with the resort logo, thick down mittens and sunglasses, I hope I’m virtually unrecognizable. That way Ryder won’t know I’m secretly watching him come down the bottom half of the run with Max.
I don’t usually spy on people when they work with our guests, but I’m not entirely convinced Ryder is up for this today since he looked like absolute shit. Pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and pupils that seemed slightly unfocused. Of course, the disheveled hair poking out from under his snow hat and that lean physique were as tantalizing as usual, and I have a sneaking suspicion that with a pair of sunglasses you’d never suspect his face to be anything less than perfect. But since I saw him without glasses, I know the truth, and whether he rides better than he walks or not, most people who look that bad aren’t even standing on two feet, which makes me nervous that I didn’t stop him from taking Max on the mountain.
I suppose it’s possible heisjust short on sleep instead of in the middle of a bender. Though his tired eyes were bloodshot, he didn’t smell like he took a bath in a bottle. But exhaustion can be just as dangerous as drunkenness, so if he’s merely exhausted and not hungover, I’mnot sure that’s any better. Especially if your mind is already battling demons.
Ryder didn’t volunteer anything about his brother last night, but it’s clear he hasn’t recovered from his brother’s death. Between his unresolved trauma from that, and my deliberate attempt to make him feel guilty about drinking and driving, I’m sure there’s a lot going on inside his head, none of which has anything to do with Max. And if his focus isn’t on Max, well, let’s just say if I’m going to need to do damage control I want as much notice as possible.
So, here I am, incognito and spying on the guy I’ve been forced to work with, wondering in equal measure what will happen to Max, and me, if Ryder screws this up.I hope Carter is the kind of guy to share responsibility for any fallout since this was his idea.
Making my way to the ski racks where guests stash gear to eat lunch, which might camouflage me even more than my winter clothes, I position myself so I have a clear view of the run between sets of skis. After about five minutes, I spot the army green and black coat Ryder wears, and the bright blue one that belongs to Max.
They’re facing each other as they come down the mountain, holding hands I think, as Ryder subtly shifts his body to steer them in different directions, making an elongated ‘S’ curve as they slide down the hill. The way he effortlessly drifts over the snow is elegant, hypnotic even. Like ballet dancers. Or figure skaters. He’d probably be mortified to know I’m making that comparison, but I don’t know any other activity where you can be using so much strength while giving the appearance that you’re floating.
Bastard was right, he does ride better than he walks. Although his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ saunter is mesmerizing in its own way. Not that I’d ever admit to thinking either of those thoughts.
I don’t know if racing would look as dignified as just coasting down the slope, but I’m suddenly very curious to see that. To compare what he’s doing now with how he makes his living and find out whether it’d be just as hard to look away from him barreling downhill as it is to watch him descend with effortless grace.
Regardless, I’m now convinced that the man really does belong on a board, and that I don’t have to worry about Max’s safety, or my job.
Spinning away before I can be seen, I head back to my office to build out the schedule for the next week, slotting Ryder as Max’s instructor. We may not have talked about him doing more than just the one day, but after witnessing his fluid beauty on the hill, and the smile on Max’s face as they neared the bottom of the run, I’m damn sure not going to put him back on clean-up duty. Well, no more than anyone else, since we should all be sharing in that chore.
