Chapter Six #3
He wants to hide on a mountain? Then I'll meet him on the mountain. Even if I have to learn to ski to do it.
My gaze shifts from the busy lift line to the building on the far side of the plaza. The ski rental shop. Bright red sign, racks of equipment visible through the windows.
I hate the snow. I hate the cold. I've been skiing exactly once in my life, on a seventh-grade field trip to a hill in Washington that barely qualified as a bump, and I spent most of the day face-down in slush.
But Luka Popovich has left me no other choice.
He thinks he can outlast me. Outrun me. Out-stubborn me. He's about to find out how wrong he is.
I adjust my grip on the shopping bags and start walking. Across the plaza, past the clusters of tourists taking photos, past the café where people sip hot chocolate like they don't have a care in the world, and straight toward the rental shop.
This could be the worst idea I’ve ever had, but I’m running out of any good ones at this point. Luka can ski with whomever he wants. He can smile and laugh and pretend I don't exist, but I'm not going anywhere. Not until I finish this job.
The rental shop door chimes as I push it open. I step inside, let the bags drop at my feet, and meet the clerk's curious gaze.
"I need to learn to ski," I say.
Even if it kills me.
Walking in ski boots is like walking in cement blocks. I clump across the cobblestones outside the rental shop, skis balanced on one shoulder, poles clutched in my other hand, moving with all the grace of a baby fawn on ice skates.
A child, maybe seven, walks past me effortlessly, skis over his shoulder, barely noticing the weight as if the universe is mocking me.
The lift looms ahead, and my palms and armpits begin to stress sweat.
The chairs swing up the mountain in an endless rotation that suddenly seems a lot faster and a lot higher than it did from the safety of the village.
Skiers glide into the loading zone with confidence in the machinery that I don’t dare to share in.
They get scooped up by chairs and disappear up the slope.
I can do this, I tell myself.
I have negotiated with angry owners who wanted blood and career-ending headlines, with sponsors threatening lawsuits before breakfast, with boards who needed a scapegoat and didn’t care whose career they burned to get one.
I have stood in rooms where men twice my age tried to talk over me, intimidate me, or dismiss me, and walked out with the agreement I came for, anyway. I can handle a chairlift.
I clomp my way towards the lift to assume my spot in line.
The line moves forward. My heart is doing something in my chair that I should probably see a cardiologist about. A rapid flutter that feels less like anticipation and more like my body's attempt to warn me that this is, objectively, insane.
I swore I’d never ski again after my humiliating attempt in middle school, but quitting isn't an option.
Quitting means going back to Phoenix empty-handed.
Quitting means the assessment meeting where Carey looks at me with that particular blend of disappointment and inevitability and says, ‘We're going to have to let you go’.
Quitting means my father was right to leave when I was two years old—that I'm not indispensable enough to keep around.
So I won’t quit. Not without a fight.
I shuffle forward into the loading zone, skis scraping, boots locked in their awkward stance. The lift operator, a guy who looks about nineteen and deeply uninterested in my survival, waves me forward with the enthusiasm of someone working a summer job in January.
The chair swung around behind me. I try to sit, but I miss.
The edge of the chair catches me behind the knees, my skis tangle, and I stumble forward, while the chair keeps moving because of course it does, and suddenly I'm half-seated, half-sprawled, one ski still on the ground, the other lifted into the air at a physics-defying angle.
I scramble fully onto the chair. My poles clatter against the metal, and before I know it, I'm airborne.
The thing about ski lifts that nobody tells you, or maybe they do and I wasn't listening, is that they are high. Unreasonably high. High enough that falling would be a legitimately bad idea, the kind that ends in helicopter evacuations and phone calls to next of kin.
I grip the safety bar with both hands, knuckles probably white inside my new gloves.
Below me, skiers carve down the mountain as if they came out of the womb like that. I watch one woman navigate a series of tight turns through what looks like a moderately vertical death trap, her form perfect, her speed death-defying in my inexperienced opinion.
I am going to die on this mountain, and I’ll never even get to tell Carey, "I told you so."
The wind picks up, and the chair sways. My stomach launches into my throat as a horrifying thought hits me—Luka is going to be thrilled when he finds out I fell to my death trying to prove a point.
Don’t look down, I ordered myself.
But, of course, I look down.
I try to take my mind off the height and remember what the bored rental shop girl said about getting off.
Something about... standing? Skiing forward?
There was definitely a motion involved, some kind of coordinated dismount that seemed simple when demonstrated but now, suspended forty feet in the air with the exit ramp approaching, seems wildly optimistic.
A sign appears: PREPARE TO UNLOAD.
My pulse spikes. Oh God, no.
I watch the couple ahead of me. They lift the safety bar, adjust their poles, and as the chair crests the top of the hill, they simply stand and glide off. That’s easy enough… just do what they did. The chair swings away empty and loops back down the mountain.
I can do that.
I lift the safety bar. It swings up with a clang that feels far too final. The exit ramp is approaching.
I adjust my poles. Try to remember which foot goes first. Try to angle my skis forward.
Try not to think about the fact that I'm about to attempt a maneuver I've never practiced while moving on a chair that will not stop, will not wait, will simply continue its rotation and leave me to either succeed or become a cautionary tale.
The ramp is right there.
I push myself forward, my skis hit the snow. For one glorious second, I think I've done it.
Then my right ski catches on something, maybe the left ski, maybe the ground, maybe the universe's general disapproval, and I pitch forward, poles flying, skis crossing, gravity winning like the asshole she is.
I go down hard, sprawling across the exit ramp in a tangle of limbs and equipment. Behind me, I hear the next chair approaching.
Oh no.
I try to scramble up, but my skis are locked together, my poles are somewhere behind me, and the snow is slippery and I can't get purchase and the chair is getting closer—
A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me to the side.
I'm hauled out of the path of the oncoming chair, dragged through the snow to the side of the ramp, and deposited in a heap just as the next set of skiers glides off with perfect, effortless grace.
I lie there for a second, panting, staring up at the stormy grey sky.
"Are you okay?"
The voice is warm, American, touched with amusement but not unkind.
I turn my head.
The man crouching beside me is maybe late twenties, with dark hair escaping from under a beanie, brown eyes crinkled with concern, and dimples that appear when he smiles.
He's wearing an instructor's jacket—red with the resort logo—and the kind of tan that suggests he spends most of his life outdoors.
I read his name tag. "Zack."
He nods. "Look at that… she can read," he teases. "And your name?"
He's also objectively annoyingly attractive. Not that it matters. I’m not here for that. I’m here to force my stubborn client into letting me save his career… even if I die doing it, evident from my near-death experience just now.
"Natalia."
"Are you alright, Natalia? That was an epic spill."
"I'm fine," I say, which is obviously a lie, given that I'm currently sprawled in the snow having just nearly been mowed down by a ski lift. "Just... taking a moment."
His smile widens. "First time?"
I huff out a laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"Well." He glances at my skis, which are still twisted together in a configuration that probably violates several laws of physics. "The dismount was a clue."
He offers his hand. I take it, and he pulls me upright with easy strength, then kneels to untangle my skis as if he’s done it a thousand times before.
"There you go." He handed me my poles. "You here with anyone? Taking a lesson, I mean?"
"No," I say. "I'm... self-taught."
"I can see that." He says, his smile widening. "Do you know how to stop?"
I think about the minimal instruction I got at the rental shop. Now I wish I would have paid more attention. "Snowplow?"
"Do you know what that means?"
"...nope."
He laughs—a genuine, surprised sound. "Okay. Honest answer. I respect that." He glances at the slope behind me, which from this angle looks less like a ski run and more like a vertical wall of death. "Are you planning to go down in this weather?"
"That's generally how skiing works, right? Up, then down?"
He nods. "Sure, except this is a blue run. Intermediate. And you—no offense—are not intermediate."
"None taken. I’m more of a dry land in Arizona, or sandy beach kind of girl."
He laughs. "Well, you’re a long way from Arizona… or a sandy beach, for that matter. What are you doing all the way out here?"
"Work…" I say. Not wanting to divulge any more than that.
He tilts his head, considering me. "Tell you what. I'm an instructor here. My schedule is booked up tomorrow after ten a.m. but my first slot is open if you’re interested. I could meet you at eight-thirty, give you an hour on the bunny slope. We can go through the basics at least, so you don’t hurt yourself. Free of charge."
I should say no. I should figure this out myself. I should not accept help from a stranger just because he has dimples, and nice smile, and pulled me out of the path of an oncoming ski lift.
But I'm also not an idiot, and I need the help if I’m going to chase down Luka, limiting his options to avoid me.
"Why free?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Because if you try to go down this mountain right now, I'll have to fill out an incident report, and I hate paperwork. Consider it preventive care. Plus, I grew up in Arizona too. Flagstaff… we have to take care of each other."
"Scottsdale," I tell him.
"I figured as much since you don’t like the cold."
"I’m practically a lizard."
He smirks. "So, what do you say?"
"Okay," I say. "Eight-thirty tomorrow. Where?"
"Base of the bunny slope. You'll see the sign. It has a cartoon rabbit." He grins. "You can't miss it. It's designed for children and beginners."
"Perfect," I say dryly. "Exactly my speed."
He laughs again, then glances past me at the lift, where more skiers are unloading, without taking in a mouthful of snow. "You need help to get down from here? I can ski with you and talk you through it. I have to meet my next lesson back at the lodge, anyway. I can get you back there."
I glance down the slope. Then back at Zack. Then back at the slope again.
Pride versus survival.
Survival wins. Especially since trying to chase Luka all around this village is going to be pretty damn tough if I end up in a full body cast.
"Yes," I admit. "I absolutely need help."
"Cool. Let's get you down in one piece."