CHAPTER SIXTEEN ALARA
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ALARA
I usually don’t take requests for individual lessons because I don’t have much time on my hands, but when the lodge begged for my help, I found myself making an exception – just this once.
Here’s my New Year’s resolution: stop saying yes when my body is screaming no.
The upside of today’s class is that I’m teaching a seventeen-year-old how to snowboard – which is a nice change from all the skiing lessons I’ve been giving. The downside? It’s supposed to begin at 7 a.m., and whoever said it was a good idea to start lessons this early must have been drunk.
Because I want to warm up before my student gets here, I’m already at the resort. The good thing about arriving at six-thirty is that the place is almost empty, giving me all the space and time to practice in peace.
Walking to the snow park with my board tucked under my arm, I lift my gaze to the first blush of the day, where the rising sun casts out a pink hue amongst tendrils of navy and orange – the promise of a beautiful, sunny morning.
My steps falter as a blur of black catches my attention. Squinting my eyes, I notice it’s someone lying in the flat bottom of the halfpipe, unmoving.
What happened?
Dropping my board in the snow, I jog toward the person.
I recognize those baggy black snow pants.
That black jacket.
That snowboard with neon stripes on its underside.
Panic rises inside me and wraps its sharpness around my lungs, my eyes widening in terror as I rush to Diego.
Oh, no, no, no. What did he do?
I sink to my knees beside his immobile body. He’s lying on his side, facing the opposite way. I can’t see his face, can’t see if he’s breathing, can’t—
I tear the gloves from my trembling hands, my pounding heart ready to lodge inside my throat. “Diego?”
As I hover over him, I scan his body for injuries, and, thankfully, there’s none – at least none I can see. My fingers reach for the side of his neck, in search of a pulse. When I find it, I exhale in relief.
“Diego, baby, what happened?” I blink back my tears, gently rolling him on his back.
I cup his face, a brief rush of peace washing over me when I notice his body is still warm. He must have gotten here shortly after texting me. I didn’t think he would be here, didn’t think he’d take the risk, didn’t—
Why can’t I breathe?
He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.
No, he’s not even remotely close to being okay. He’s probably hurt himself and I don’t know what to do.
I pull his goggles up and rest them atop his helmet, gulping at the sight of his closed eyes.
“Diego.” My thumb caresses his cheekbone just as his eyelids start fluttering. “Can you hear me? Can you look at me?”
He stirs, a groan rising in his throat. His face contorts in an expression that signals he’s in pain, and that doesn’t soothe my spiking nerves a bit.
“That’s it,” I whisper through the emotion. “Give me your eyes.”
Slowly, so slowly, he starts to blink. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust, with my trembling hands cupping his face, and when a smug smile spreads across his lips, I know that he’s alright.
“Are you an angel? Have I died and gone to heaven?” he croaks out.
He’s stupid. And he’s going to make me cry. My shoulders slump with the long exhale I finally release, my head shaking in slight disbelief. “Is that your pickup line?”
He grins lazily. “Is it working?”
“Not at all.”
“Liar. I know that you like it when I flirt with you.”
“Whatever makes you happy, superstar.” I gently graze my knuckles over his stubble and sigh. He’s lying in the freaking snow, most definitely hurting somewhere, and he’s attempting to make me smile. “Can you move?”
His brows tug together in confusion, then he props himself on his elbows, his gaze falling to his strapped feet and the snowboard. I lay a gentle hand between his shoulder blades and help him into a seated position. He tries to suppress his grunt, but his face twists with obvious discomfort.
“Are you hurt?”
His throat works up and down, his silence lengthy enough to answer my question. He looks around, completely distraught. My heart breaks at the sight as his chest starts heaving. He frowns, reaching for my hand. “Why do you look so scared?”
Because I thought I’d lost you for a second. And I haven’t even had you yet.
I swallow the heavy lump in my throat. “Seeing you lying lifeless wasn’t the most comforting sight.”
“Lifeless,” he echoes. “I was just unconscious for a few minutes.”
I don’t ask questions. Not now. I need to get him inside first. Moving to take my phone out of my breast pocket, I use my free hand to unstrap his bindings.
“Wait,” he says. Panic and worry paint his handsome face. “No medics. Please.”
I shake my head. “I’m just calling the lodge to see if they can find someone to replace me. I have a lesson in twenty minutes, and then we have a class later, but there’s no way I’m showing up today.”
Diego nods, relieved. I suppose he doesn’t want me to call for help because he doesn’t want anyone to know about this. And I get it – he broke a rule after all. “I’m sorry, Alara.”
After unstrapping his board, I cup his face again.
He leans into my touch, that deep line between his brows a reflection of the pain he carries so secretively.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Did you bring a bag with you?
” He nods, and I scan the area until I spot a blur of dark all the way up on the pitch.
“I’m going to go and fetch it, and make the call, okay?
Don’t move. We’ll go inside when I’m back. ”
We find an empty changing room at the lodge.
Despite leaning his weight on me with an arm wrapped around my shoulders, Diego limped all the way to here, occasional hisses escaping from between his gritted teeth. Seeing him like this breaks my heart, but I’m going to do everything I can to help him.
I lower him down on a bench against a row of lockers and unzip his coat.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper.
He nods and proceeds to take off his helmet, his movements filled with pent-up frustration.
When I come back five minutes later with a cup of tea and bottled water, his head is tipped back on the lockers, his coat and fleece sweater draped over the bench, leaving him in a white base-layer that stretches taut around his muscled chest.
He peers at me, his jaw tensing. Accepting the bottle I hand him, he brushes his cold fingers to mine and whispers, “Thank you.”
He gulps half the water down, then reaches for the cup of tea. As I take a seat next to him, making sure to leave enough space between us even though I want to comfort him, I observe the way he cradles the cup to let its warmth seep through his skin.
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to push him. I give him space, time, to reflect on what he’s done and decide if he wants to share his thoughts with me. He knows, though, that I’m here – no matter what.
Diego stares absently at the tiled floor, a heavy sigh flying through his nose. “I fucked up, Alara.” His voice cracks on the last syllable of my name, mirroring the way my heart splinters at the sight of his torment. “I fucked up so bad.”
“What happened?” I ask softly.
The motion of me moving to unzip my ski suit has him turning to look me in the eyes. It’s painful to see him angry and disappointed at himself.
“Yesterday” – he quickly pauses to clear his throat – “Dr Ellis didn’t tell me no.”
I tilt my head to the side, trying to recall what he’s told me about his physiotherapy session, but aside from telling me he would be gone in a few weeks, he hadn’t said much.
Seeing my confusion, he continues. “I asked him if there was any way I could start riding again. Maybe an easy trail at the resort, and his answer was that we’d see how things go next week. I’ve been feeling confident lately, and I thought that maybe – if I could – if I just proved—”
“Take your time.” I take the cup away from his shaking hands and set it aside. “Breathe for me.”
He nods, inhaling through his nose and expelling through his mouth, before settling his attention on the wall across from him. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was ready to ride again.”
“But are you?” I shift to rest my shoulder against the locker so that I can face his profile. The lack of answer makes me ask another question. “Have you been lying about your pain?”
Swallowing thickly, he nods, then passes his fingers through his hair frustratedly.
“Why?” I ask him, when he doesn’t say more. I knew he’d been keeping the truth to himself, but at what expense?
With his head still tipped back, he slowly turns to meet my eyes.
Chagrin. Desperation. Anguish. Flickers of sadness.
I hate seeing him like this. “Because I’m tired,” he answers, his voice breaking again.
“I hate that I’ve failed Coach. I hate to think he could replace me and that I might not compete in the Nationals or, worse, the Olympics.
My career could be over in the blink of an eye.
I can’t let that happen. Snowboarding has been my main focus my whole life, and it’s my fault that I’m here.
But it’s been easier to pretend and lie to everyone because I thought that it would make me get back to training faster. ”
I’ve always been able to see beneath his mask, but this is the most vulnerability he’s shown since we became friends, and it means so much. It means so much that he’s letting me in.
He reaches for my hand as if he can’t combat the urge to touch me, and I brush the back of his with the pad of my thumb. He continues, quietly, “I thought that Dr Ellis would give me the green light if I continued to lie to him.”
“But what if you’d worsened your injuries once back at training?”
“I don’t know. I just miss it. I don’t want anything else other than riding.”
But why do I feel as though he’s hiding something else?