Chapter 11 Ryder
Chapter eleven
Ryder
The last time Carter’s name flashed on my screen I got an ultimatum—get on the mountain or have my probation revoked. It makes me leery of answering his call now, though I suppose he knows where to find me if I don’t. Probably better to rip the Band Aid off then.
“What trouble am I in now?”
“You think I only call when you’ve done something wrong?”
Why the fuck does he sound amused?
“That’s been my experience so far.”
“Noted,” he chuckles. “So, I was just speaking with Hayden…”
“And he complained about what I said to the kid,” I finish for him.
Figures the ice prick would run straight to Daddy Carter and tattle on me.
“Message received, I overstepped. I’ll let you guys tell Max I’m not his teacher anymore then.
And just so you know, I’m right. Hayden would know that if he knew how to ride which, by the way, it’s messed up that he doesn’t. ”
“The program he’s building includes lots of activities, winter and summer. He can’t be expected to master them all.”
“Then he shouldn’t contradict the person who knows what he doesn’t.
” I have no idea why I’m trying to defend myself—it’s not like I want to be a damn instructor—I’d actually prefer to go back to janitor duty since that means I can get through my hours without talking to anyone.
I just need to be right about what Max can do. More right than Hayden is.
Take that, Frosty.
“I agree. That’s why I think you should teach Hayden what he doesn’t know.”
The smug smile I almost cracked disappears before it can settle on my face. “Excuse me?”
“I’d like you to give him a lesson. Tomorrow, after you’re done with Max.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all. I think you’re onto something about the director needing some basic knowledge of all the options, and who better to teach him than one of his own instructors?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose to fend off the growing headache. “Is this another threat against my probation? Teach him or else?”
“No, it’s a request for your help to make the program and the people involved with it even better.”
“He’s a grown-ass man—he’s not going to be as easy to teach as a little kid.
” I’ve never taught an adult to ride, but I’ve seen other people attempt it, and it’s not pretty.
When tall people go down, they go down hard, and even though Frosty drives me crazy most of the time, I don’t want to see him get hurt.
Especially since he’d probably accuse me of trying to hurt him on purpose.
Don’t even get me started on the fact I’ll most likely have to touch him to get him in the right position, and I don’t need that mind fuck.
It’s bad enough there are times I’ve caught myself looking at him without contempt, even enjoying some of our verbal sparring.
The one thing I’ve yet to do is actually touch the guy, after I accidentally brushed up against him behind the rental counter, which my cock still remembers all too well.
I’ve very deliberately avoided all physical contact ever since then, so my dick has remained predictably limp.
My theory is it'll stay that way as long as I don’t touch Frosty again, and I’d rather not test that theory in full view of everyone else on the hill, where the only thing that might spare me an awkward revelation is the frigid temperatures.
“I’m not expecting you to make him a pro, just show him what it’s about. Help him understand the mechanics so he follows the reasoning behind the statements you make.”
Carter can’t see the deep breaths I’m taking and fills the silence when I don’t speak. “Just one lesson. You probably won’t have time for more than that before your hours are completed.”
That little glimmer of light takes some of the tension off my shoulders. “One lesson,” I agree. Then I end the call.
***
“Put these on, Frosty.” I thrust the spandex shorts at him when I come to get him for our lesson.
Pinching them hesitantly between his thumb and forefinger, he holds them away from his body, crinkling his nose. It’s cute—not sexy—so I’m not sure why that makes my cock stir. I keep the scowl on my face so he can’t tell that part of me is entertained.
“Bike shorts?” His brows pull together as he looks at me.
“Padded bike shorts. So your icy little ass won't break when it hits the hill. They'll cushion the blow."
“These are… yours?” He grimaces, looking at the tag that’s clearly not his size. “You wear these?”
“Don’t worry, they’re clean.” Maybe it’s the idea of him wearing something that’s been flush against my skin that has my junk coming to life. Didn’t realize I had that kink, but whatever. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s go.”
I turn around while Hayden dresses, ignoring the tiny grunts that pass through his lips as he tries to pull the snug-fitting shorts into place.
The noises aren’t meant to be sexual, but my dick doesn’t get that memo, which has my mind conjuring all sorts of images about how it could force those grunts from his throat.
On top of that, the shorts I lent him make his ass look round and full in his fitted snow pants, which has the undesired effect of making mine feel a little tight.
This is not how, or where, or with who, I wanted to definitively answer the question of whether my cock would ever work again. The fact it does work should make me happy, but… Frosty?
My body gives an involuntary shiver, which I’m attributing to the cold and not arousal as I try to push the mental images of his pert, round ass out of my mind and focus on the task at hand.
“Strap your front foot in here,” I instruct, dropping my board to the ground and lining my foot up to the binding.
“Which is that?” He watches, making no move to mimic my actions.
“The one that goes in front.” I bend over to strap in so he can’t see my eye roll.
“Obviously.” He sighs, “But how do I know which one goes in front?”
Jesus help me. With a deep breath I unclip from the board and rise back to my full height. “Do you trust me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” I take the board from his hands and set it on the ground, then position him in front of me with his back to my front. Making no effort to hide the grin he can’t see, I give him a firm shove. His right foot darts out to stop him from face-planting on the snow.
“What the hell was that?” He reels around, arms flying in the air. “You ask me to trust you then push? What kind of…”
“Right foot goes in front,” I cut him off before he can finish his rant.
“What?”
“You stopped your fall with your right foot. That’s your lead leg. Strap it into the binding.” I point to his board.
“Before I get on the chair?”
“That’s sorta how this works, Frosty.” I strap my own foot in.
“How do I get off, then?”
“Put your back foot on the board in between the bindings and let gravity do the work.”
“No. No way.” He starts backing up as he rambles. “I’ll slip and fall or end up doing the splits if one foot is out—no. I’ll just carry the board on the chair.”
My shoulders slump from the weight of his absurdity. “You can’t carry the board, it’ll drag on the ground before we’re up in the air.”
“I’ll rest it on my lap then.”
“It’s five feet tall. It’ll take the whole width of the chair, including my lap.”
“Then it takes up your lap, too. I don’t care. I’m not putting it on until I’m at the top.” His lips press into a defiant line.
Damn stubborn popsicle. If my hair wasn’t trapped under my helmet, I’d be pulling it out right now. “Fine.” I snatch the board from his hand and nudge him toward the chair. The lift operator raises his brows and opens his mouth to object but snaps it shut when he sees the curt shake of my head.
The chair comes around behind us and we both sit, and I drape his board over our legs with one arm as I pull the safety guard down with the other.
We ride in silence, Frosty swinging his head back and forth to admire the view while I rant in my head about how ridiculous it is to carry the board on the chair.
When we reach the top, I push off and glide down the exit ramp with his board in hand, circling around to a stop in time to see him shuffling toward me, arms waving to the side to keep his balance on the decline.
It’s awkward as fuck, but with his big doe eyes and tiny red nose peeking out from under the oppressive helmet, it’s also kind of cute.
Cute? Kill me now.
Once he finally makes it to me, he’s so close he has to tip his chin up to see me from under the helmet. “Ready.” He smiles like nothing’s wrong.
“Goggles.”
He obediently moves them from their perch on his helmet to cover his eyes.
I point to the ground and grunt, “Sit.”
He plops down and I kneel in front of him, strapping both feet into the bindings.
Then I strap in my own and stand up, waiting for him to do the same.
He puts his hands behind him and tries, unsuccessfully, to push himself up.
Looking left, then right, he tries again, rocking his weight forward to get some momentum behind the effort.
It gets him about an inch off the ground before he falls back on his butt with a little, “oomph.” Bet he loves my bike shorts right about now.
“Here.” I shove my hand toward him. He takes it and I pull him forward, lifting him a few inches, but with the bindings holding his legs in place he can’t move his ankles freely, which basically makes him dead weight. Before I know it, he’s back on his ass and taking me down with him.
“Fuck,” I mutter as my weight pitches forward.
He drops my hand and squeals, bringing both arms over his face as if that’ll stop the impact.
I lurch left in a sloppy somersault, saving his chest from getting crushed and my shins from getting sliced on his board, and come to rest sprawled on my back next to him.