Chapter 3 Pike
Pike
Ignorant parents of kids who ski or snowboard are a pain in my ass.
Half my job is wasted explaining why winter sports have value.
But I’d rather deal with them than the people who recognize me.
Element Ridge has been packed all week with both types of customers thanks to New Year’s sales, and I’m spent.
The latest parent, a white man in a North Face fleece, fiddles with the skis I’ve told him to buy, like handling them long enough will magically make him understand what he’s looking at.
It won’t. “You’re sure these are good skis?
I don’t want my son to be a Joey.” He waggles his eyebrows at me like we’re in a secret club.
He’s obviously googled ski slang, which I never encourage anyone to do. But that means he’s trying, which is better than many parents, so I suppress an eye roll.
“They’re all-mountain skis, so he’ll be good for groomed and powder trails. Even moguls.” I move on to a wooden rack still decorated with holiday lights. “Get these.” I point to the Salomon boots. “Best of the season, marked down thirty percent.”
“How do you know about this stuff anyway?” He gestures at my cane.
I smile with rehearsed pleasantry. I get this shit a lot. Back when my injuries were new, I wanted to throw my fame in their faces. Now it’s the presumption that gets me. Dude with a cane can’t ski, sure, sure. No such thing as adaptive sports.
“Been snowboarding since I was two.”
I don’t add that I have multiple X Games medals. Or two Olympic gold medals. Or that two years ago, I was once again the top contender for men’s halfpipe at the Winter Olympics before I got injured. If his kid’s as into freestyle as his dad says, he’s probably heard of me.
“Huh.” He clears his throat. “Did you have a bad fall or something?”
A fucking yard sale, sir. How’s that for slang? “Let’s focus on making sure your kid doesn’t have one. You’ll want a helmet.”
I hand him the least expensive of the two we feature. I can’t bring myself to promote the other brand. They pulled their sponsorship less than twenty-four hours after my accident. Only place their shit is going during my shift is in the trash.
“He thinks helmets aren’t cool.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “Concussions are pretty uncool too. Go see Jada for some hats when he’s not on the slopes. She knows what teens like.”
He trots over there, hands full, and Jada makes a funny face at me behind his back as she models hats over her shoulder-length box braids. Once he’s at checkout, she comes over to me, her expression growing shyer. Like most boarding enthusiasts, she freaked out when I started working here.
“Hey, Pike,” she says. “I finally nailed my frontside one-eighty.”
“Yeah? That’s awesome.”
“You were right, I needed to focus more on landing with both feet at the same time to absorb the impact better.”
“And the pop off your tail?”
“Working on it.” She fiddles with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Do you think I could show you the recording sometime this week? It’s not that good, obviously, but I really appreciate your tips.”
“Sure,” I say. “Don’t worry so much about skill level. Everyone starts somewhere, and learning tricks is a whole new beast.”
She beams. “Thanks!”
I sit on a fitting bench and check my phone. Three messages from Mom. I swipe them away without replying. Some weeks I can be the dutiful son, but this week, it’s not happening.
Dad sent me a message too. Happy New Year, kiddo. How are those legs doing? Could really use your support on this new venture I’ve developed. Different from the other stuff. I’ll send you a brochure.
Nope. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to no longer be his piggy bank. Despite my better judgment, I’ve been bailing him out for most of my adult life.
An email tells me I still haven’t responded to an invite for this year’s Shred Awards. That’s gotta be the third reminder already, and the season has barely started. This year it’ll be in Whistler. My old home. Delete.
There’s also a message from my best friend, Jax, who I’ve been avoiding almost as much as my dad. Crew’s all headed to Mammoth next week. Wanna come?
Grace, another crew member, sent the same question right after Jax, but I don’t know what to say to her either. I’d rather shatter my pelvis again seems melodramatic.
The last notification reads 12:00 on Saturday for lunch?
I sit up straighter. So. After dodging my initial attempts to meet up, the elusive Skylar King is finally available.
I click on her profile picture, which says it all: black lashes that go on for days, loose red curls piled over one shoulder, and a smile like she knows she’s got you by the balls just looking at her. I’ve stared at her picture so much, she might as well be my screen saver.
What kind of person pulls something like that? And with my mom. I joined a chronic pain support group, not a dating app, for fuck’s sake.
Is Skylar a stalker? A snow bunny waiting for an in? I thought things had calmed down since I started ghosting media requests, but a fan did pretend to be my sister just so she could get into rehab to meet me. Pretending to be my girlfriend fits the pattern.
I scroll up through our messages, but my eyes keep returning to her picture. She’d look hot in board gear. And with that diamond septum piercing, she’d fit right in.
But Skylar did thwart my mother. She didn’t mention my fame. She seems remorseful.
I may have reached a new level of desperation in agreeing to meet her. But she has Mom’s info. She could say anything to get to me through her if that’s her ultimate goal.
If I had the balls, I’d tell Mom the truth. Then demand she stay the hell out of my support group. Instead, I’ll smooth this over like a blanket of fresh powder. I can’t handle Mom sad anymore.
Brandon, if you don’t answer your phone in the next five minutes, I’m going to call the police.
Sometimes I think she’s waiting for me to kill myself. I’m learning that’s what a lot of people would do if they became disabled, maybe even her. Strangers have actually said as much to my face: You poor thing. I’d rather be dead.
I go to swipe my bangs out of my eyes and stop. I can’t kick the habit even though I cut them off a few months ago. Too many randos recognized me with my signature brown mop.
My hair’s grown out a little, but I still keep it short. With a side view of my brush cut and a five-o’clock shadow in my profile pic, how did Skylar still recognize me?
She’s in for a hell of a surprise if she’s expecting Brandon Pike.
Brandon Pike is gone. Inside and out.