19. Lisa
Lisa
In the time it takes for me to wiggle into all of my ski gear and stagger out of the rental shop, nursing a hangover – thanks, altitude – I’ve decided I may, in fact, not be a mountain person.
And by the time I hobble my way to the gondola line in the tight ski boots, juggling the heavy skis and poles in my arms, I’ve decided I am most certainly not meant for this sport.
I throw my skis on the snow with a groan. “People actually enjoy this?”
Andi laughs as she clicks into her skis, making the movement look enviously natural. “Enough to make it into several Olympic sports, at least.”
“I’m already sweating,” I complain.
She tosses me a sympathetic look. Before she can reply, the guys show up, carrying their skis and snowboards like they weigh no more than a tree twig.
They look entirely at home in their snow gear, and – no surprise – they’re all wearing some variation of a hockey jersey over their sweaters.
None of them wear their Leopards jerseys, though, and a sense of relief washes over me.
The last thing I want is for them to be a giant, light-blue beacon saying “Look over here!” while I’m busy looking like a baby deer trying to stand for the first time.
Even without any indication that they’re professional athletes, their height and builds attract attention.
I see a few gazes travel over from the lift line, scanning their fit bodies.
More than one gaze snags on their backsides, and I can’t blame them.
These hockey players know how to fill out snowboard pants.
There’s a lot of cheering and jostling, and somehow, we make our way through the gondola line.
As we go up, shooters appear from various pockets, and the boys lunge forward to snag their favorites.
When one is passed to me, I decline, instead rubbing my hands together nervously.
“What if I run into a tree?” I ask. “Wait. Oh my god. What if I run into someone else?”
“Relax,” Jordie says as he waves the shooter in front of Ryan, yanking it back before he can grab it. “There are barely any runs open this early in the season, so there aren’t many people. A lot of them will be beginners, just like you.”
I force a smile. I know he means well, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. In my mind, I’m just visualizing a bunch of us running into each other and unable to control where we go.
Jordie finally tosses Ryan the shooter, and everyone else clinks them together before tossing them back. There’s a moment of silence, and then the coughs start, interspersed with more whooping.
Andi crinkles her nose and passes the empty shooter back to Grant, who pockets it. “Just take it slow, and you’ll be okay,” she assures me. “We’ll be sure to wait for you. You’re in good company.”
At that, my smile is genuine. “You’re right. Just take it slow. Okay.”
As it turns out, slow is an understatement. I barely get going down the slope before I whip myself to the side, slamming on the brakes. I’m sure I look a bit like a caterpillar, inching its way down the snowy mountainside.
By the time I make it down the first run, my back aches from hunching over, and I’m grateful for the rest going back up the lift will allow, even if it’s only for five minutes.
The second run goes about as well as the first, and I apologize each time I catch up to the group, all huddled against the side of the run, waiting patiently and staring at my solo journey down.
By our third run, I am thoroughly embarrassed and more than a little frustrated.
I attempt to focus on the path I’m carving in the snow – nope, nope, too fast – when a kid who can’t be more than six flies past me on his skis, his dinosaur helmet covered with red spikes standing out against the snow.
I’m so startled by his appearance that I try whipping to my side to stop. Instead, I go flailing forward, ending up face-first in the snow. My legs bend at an awkward angle, the strange, massive contraptions attached to them making it impossible to get back in a normal position.
“Are you kidding me?” I groan. I attempt to flip over three times before I’m successful. Then, panting, I just lay there, summoning the courage to attempt actually standing up. It’s entirely too much work.
I gaze up at the evergreens above me, contemplating if I can just stay here for the remainder of the day. It’s actually pretty peaceful.
There’s a whoosh as snow goes skidding next to me. “Need some help up?”
I shift as much as I can and crane my neck to look up at Benji, towering over me on his snowboard.
A helmet and goggles cover most of his face, but all it seems to do is accentuate his full lips and shapely jawline.
He clearly hasn’t shaved in a day or two, and the five o’clock shadow almost hides his dimples as he smirks down at me. Almost.
That smirk fuels my frustration, and I attempt to get up on my own, but it just makes me start to ski down the mountain while still on my ass. In a panic, I flail myself to the side, tumbling to a stop.
My eyes find Benji once more, who has patiently scooted down the mountain to where I just crash landed again. He bends over and extends a gloved hand to me. I eye it cautiously. “Won’t I just drag you down here with me?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Try me.”
I do, and he pulls me back to my feet with surprising ease, not letting go until he’s certain I’ve readjusted my poles and have my skis firmly under me. His grip is powerful, but gentle. I’m startled to find that it doesn’t scare me. Instead, I feel protected, supported.
He lets go as soon as I’m steady, standing back to give me space, but close enough to catch me in case I fall back into the snowy abyss. “Ready?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.” I bite my lip. “Every time I start to speed up, I get scared and jerk to a stop. I’m scared I’m going to hit someone, or fall hard.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “Do you want advice?”
He’s asking permission to give me advice? Who is this guy?
“Please,” I say, and he gives me a smile.
“Your turns are really jerky right now, which makes sense, since you’re nervous.” His understanding words soften the critique. “If you make bigger, sweeping turns, it’ll help you control your speed without stopping. It’ll also be easier on your legs. Picture making a giant C in the snow.”
“And if I get going too fast?” I ask.
“Then stop. Going fast comes with time. But if you want to go faster, just keep your eyes further ahead of where you want to go. That will help.”
“And if I fall?”
He smiles again. “Then I’ll be there to pick you up.”
The nerves eating away at me disappear at the thought of someone going down the slope with me, rather than leaving me behind.
I glance down the mountain, to the small dots that make up the rest of the group, waiting at the lift line.
They seem to be chucking snowballs at one another.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go join them? You don’t have to wait for me.”
“You’re worth the wait.”
I pause at his comment, delivered with a note of seriousness, but he doesn’t allow me any kind of response. Instead, he scoots backward down the hill, still facing me expectantly. He motions with his gloved hands for me to follow.
I take a deep breath, repeat his advice in my head, and take off.
It’s slow-going, and I’m still shaky, but the change is instant.
Benji shouts out sporadic praises, inspiring me to keep working at it.
By the time we reach the group at the bottom, I’ve fallen twice more, but I feel slightly more confident, and Andi is cheering for me.
“That looked so good, girl!” she exclaims. “You’ll be a pro by the end of the day!”
I smile, but grimace at the thought of several more hours of this. “I don’t know that I have a full day left in me. Maybe a few more runs, but that’s it.”
She nods in understanding. “And I hate to say it, but you’ll probably be sore tomorrow.”
“You’ll have muscles complaining that you didn’t even know you had,” Highcloud says, picking up a pine cone and chucking it at Grant.
Grant yelps. “Can you fuck off with the tree poop?” He fakes chucking the pine cone back at Highcloud, but fires it off at Ryan instead, who ducks it at the last second. “But yeah, she’s right. The hot tub will be your best friend today.”
I’m tempted to call it quits right then and there at the prospect of a hot tub, ready and waiting for me at the base of the mountain.
But then I think of Benji’s encouragement on the last run, and the urge to continue improving outweighs the comfort.
“Well then, let’s make these last runs the best ones. ”
I’m back in my apartment, showered, stomach full of a delicious dinner – who knew hockey players could cook?
– and facing down what to do for the remainder of the night.
Though Andi slept in our townhome the first night, she and Grant had been all over each other after dinner, and I don’t expect her to be back tonight.
Which leaves me with a giant ski lodge to myself and limited options for what to do.
I alternate between the idea of staying inside by the fire and removing my cozy pajamas to brave the hot tub on the patio. I think back to the others’ warnings about how sore I’ll be and decide on the latter. I’m already starting to feel my muscles tighten.
I only brought one simple red two-piece swimsuit with me, and I eye the falling snow outside as I consider what it will feel like getting out of the hot tub afterward. They don’t expect people to just wander in the snow in their bathing suits, do they? Do I have to wear my ski jacket out there?