Chapter 9 Ryder #2
“Scout's honor.” I hold up three fingers. “I told you I’m not an alcoholic. I can stop anytime.”
“Then why haven’t you?” His fingertips drum a steady rhythm on his forearm.
“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 a little 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.
“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 he doesn’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.