Now that our dynamic is back to normal—him finding fault with pretty much everything I say or do—I’m in a better headspace. “Shift your weight forward. Don’t lean, just carry your weight on your front leg.”
“How do I do that without leaning?”
“Pretend like you’re standing on one leg.”
“Both legs are literally strapped to a board. It's impossible to only stand on one of them.” He speaks through gritted teeth with both eyes shut.
“I didn’t say to stand on one leg, I saidpretendlike you’re standing on one. The front one, so your weight will guide you in the direction you want to go.”
“PretendI’m not five and logically know I can’t stand on one leg if they’re both attached to the board.”
I inhale as deeply as possible and count to three, so I don’t just aim him down the mountain and shove. “Imagineyour back leg is hovering off the ground. You can’t lift it, obviously, but you can hold your weight off center just enough that youcouldlift your back foot up an inch.”
I can actually feel the eye roll that’s hidden by his goggles, but at least Hayden does what I ask, and we start to drift forward. “Oh my gosh, we’re moving. That’s it? That didn’t seem so hard.”
“Calm down, Frosty, this is just gravity. The hard part is turning.”
“How do we do that?” His voice has a tinge of anxiety as we reach a slight decline and start to pick up speed.
“Without shifting your weight forward or back, try to lift your toes. Don’t rock back on your heels, just put more pressure on them thanyour toes.” I do the opposite, “lifting” my heels, which steers us to Hayden’s right, bringing us to a stop with his toes pointing down the mountain.
“That wasn’t so bad either.”
“That’s because leaning on your heels is a natural braking motion. Now, let's try turning in the other direction. Shift your weight forward so we start moving, and this time try to lift your heels.” I help us by angling downhill, then lean on my heels to force us to turn in the opposite direction. The action causes us to point straight down the mountain, just for a fraction of a second, but—predictably—Hayden starts to physically lean away from the slope, putting his weight on his back leg, which makes us pick up speed. I have to really dig my heels in to complete the turn.
When we come to a stop with his toes pointing up the mountain, I drop his hands. “Still easy?” I know it wasn’t, but I’m gonna make him say it.
“Not as easy as the first turn.” He swivels his head, tracking the path we made through the snow. “It felt like it took longer to come around.”
Perceptive. I was expecting him to bitch instead of analyze, and I damn sure didn’t expect him to come to the right conclusion.
“It did take a little longer. That’s because you put your weight on your back leg, but it’s your front leg that does the steering, remember?”
He holds his hands out with a determined nod. “Yep. Let’s go again.”
We make our way downhill like that, facing each other, so I can take over if he runs into trouble. He’s a little wobbly—having both feet strapped onto a board takes some getting used to—though he never fully loses his balance, his concentration never wavering.
I don’t know why I expected anything less—Frosty is nothing if not serious—but the fact he diligently follows each and every pointer I givehas me a little off balance. Metaphorically, of course. I’m too stable on a board to get physically tripped up over someone’s unexpected attitude, but I definitely went into this looking forward to giving him a hard time, and it’s hard to be the asshole when he’s making a sincere effort.
When it comes to riding, I respect hard work, so if Frosty is genuinely willing to learn, I can be genuinely willing to teach him.
Once we reach the bottom, Hayden mimics me as I unstrap my back foot and push toward the chair to take another run. He’s less graceful of course, pushing forward in small increments rather than coasting along, but at least he didn’t try to carry the board this time around.
“Is this how you learned? Someone held your hand and guided you through the motions?” He breaks the silence on the chair.
I shake my head back and forth. “This isn’t exactly a standard way of teaching, it just seems to work well when you’re one on one. And it shortens the learning curve if you understand what it feels like to turn before doing it on your own.”
“Do you teach a lot of people?”
“Not anymore.” I can tell he’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t want to talk about it because it reminds me of how Chase liked working as an instructor.
“How long have you been riding?” He tries again, and I gnaw on my lip to bite back a heavy sigh.
I fucking hate small talk. I’ve never been a fan, though I hate it even more now that it always has an undertone to it. Most of the time that’s pity or concern—people aren’t as subtle as they think when they try to get me to open up about Chase—and literally every conversation invokes him or his memory despite the fact his name is rarely mentioned. Frosty’s attempt to avoid the silence is no different, he just doesn’trealize it since he doesn’t know me. And since he doesn’t intend for his questions to have an ulterior meaning, I figure I should answer.
“Since I was three.”
His lips morph into a frustrated line, but hey, I answered, and without the nickname to boot. Bonus, my failure to elaborate means those lips hold that little pout, and they look even fuller and pinker when he pushes them together.I may hate what comes out of them most of the time, but the guy’s got nice lips.
