The bunny hill is, blessedly, much less terrifying up close.
Still snowy, still sloped, still objectively a bad place to strap planks to my feet and hope for the best. But it's at least less likely to end in me taking out a family of four.
Grayson stops beside me and plants his poles. “All right. First thing, you need to learn how to stand without looking like you’re being held hostage.”
I glare at him. “I knew Sweet Grayson was too good to last.”
His mouth twitches. “Bend your knees a little.”
“Like this?”
“No. Less corpse, more athlete.”
“Wow. You should teach preschoolers. You’re very encouraging.”
“Thanks, I taught Pen. She's four and can ski down a green circle easily.”
He steps closer before I can decipher if he's mocking me or telling the truth, reaches out, and puts his hands on my hips.I briefly forget how to breathe.
“Like this,” he says, voice lower now.
He shifts me gently, adjusting my stance until my weight settles differently over the skis. His gloves are thick, the contact muted by layers, and it still hits me like a live wire.
“There,” he says.
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Pizza to slow down.” His ski nudges mine, angling the tips of my skis inward. “French fries to go faster.”
I look down. “Who named these?”
“Does it matter? Pen can remember it, so can you.”
He walks me through it piece by piece after that. How to balance. How to shift my weight. How to stop without panicking and flinging a pole into the distance. It should probably be embarrassing how quickly I go from dreading this to… not having a terrible time.
It's mostly because he’s being weirdly patient in the same way I've seen him be patient with Penny.And every now and then, when I do something right, there’s this flicker in his expressionthat almost looks like pride. It's ridiculous. I am not a child, I'm not a golden retriever learning to sit.
Even if I do want his approval in a way that is probably psychologically concerning.
“All right,” he says after a few practice starts and stops. “Try gliding down a little farther.”
I eye the slope. “Define farther.”
“Ten feet.”
“That feels... slightly manageable.”
“It is manageable.”
“You're saying that to someone who was bad at being a goalie.”
He huffs out a laugh and pulls his face mask down beneath his chin. “Go.”
I push off.
For a few glorious seconds, it feels right, like I'm flying, gliding across the snow.I’m moving. I’m balanced. I’mdoingit.
“Oh my God,” I say, half laughing already. “I’m doing it, Gray! I’m actually?—”
