Chapter 15 Pike
Pike
I open up a private chat with Skylar. Hey, you up?
She responds immediately. You did not just send me a booty call??
Oh, shit. I waited until it got late to message her because she was hosting a virtual craft event. No, sorry!
I’m joking, Pike. What’s up?
I start typing but get distracted by a notification. Skylar King replied to a post.
My stomach drops to the ground. Then I remember Skylar can’t see that I’ve flagged notifications about her activity. She replied to a woman who’s being treated horribly by her partner because of her pain.
Skylar King: I’m sorry he turned out to be a piece of shit. So much for “in sickness and in health.” If he doesn’t love all of you, leave him. You deserve better.
One thing I’m learning from this group? Men are trash.
I go back to our chat, but Skylar replies to another post.
Skylar King: Dismissing women as “anxious” or “depressed” is the new medical “hysteria.” Don’t let him push you around.
Before I’m even done reading the rest of the thread, Skylar’s posted her own question in the forum.
Skylar King: Does anyone recommend a good endocrinologist? I need one for empty sella and abnormal levels of free testosterone.
I’m amazed she can keep so many conversations going at once. Even though I’ve been thinking about what I want to say for a few days now, I’m still having trouble getting it out of my brain. But once I finally do, I can take my oxy, get some sleep, and stop thinking about this.
You know what you asked me? I write. About all the women? About my rep?
With how long you were typing, I thought you were drafting an essay admitting your secret clown fetish.
I stare at my phone.
Yes, I remember, she says.
I wanted to clarify some things.
You don’t have to excuse an enthusiasm for sex.
I know, I say. But if you read those articles about me, you probably think I’m a player.
The thing is, I was always busy with my sport.
That was 100% my focus. I enjoyed sex and didn’t have any trouble getting it.
That probably makes me sound even more like a player.
But Skylar’s one of the few people in my life I’m not lying to, so I don’t want to mince words.
A relationship was unthinkable. I traveled around a lot, and you know how that is, right? The strain that puts on a relationship?
I don’t do relationships either, so I don’t know. I’m also not a pro athlete.
She doesn’t do relationships? Not the answer I was expecting, and now I have my own questions. But I continue: It wasn’t every night like they wrote, but it was a big part: ride with my crew, party at night.
And then you had your accident.
Exactly. And here’s where I don’t really know how to word what I want to tell her.
I mean, yeah, sex is great, but maybe I don’t want it with just anyone anymore.
It’s something I wasn’t able to articulate before now, even though the major lack of sex in my life should’ve been my first clue.
I’m not sure anymore if people actually want to be with me, Brandon, or if it’s the famous snowboarder thing, or if it’s just a pity fuck. I didn’t care before but now I do.
Pike. Go look in the mirror. I doubt anyone would consider you a pity fuck.
The last woman told me she was going to be my “rehab.”
Skylar sends an upside-down smiley. Hopefully you got your ass out of bed before it went any further.
Actually, I stopped halfway through because of all the comments she kept making, but no way I’m telling Skylar that. Not my best moment.
After my accident, it was like everything I thought was good and important didn’t matter anymore. Life became meaningless. Same with the sex. Not that it had much meaning before. But it was an easy way to relax after a long day.
Your life isn’t meaningless, Pike.
I know. But…purposeless, I correct. All my goals, gone.
I scrub a hand over my mouth. How do I explain this?
After my accident, I started overthinking everything, even sex.
Is she going to make annoying comments about my scars?
Is she going to say I’m hot “despite” my disabilities?
There’s pain in my back, should I stop? What if I can’t leave after, because I’m too tired?
Will she read into it? Am I even enjoying myself or am I going through the motions because this is what I’ve always done?
I used to use sex to disconnect, and now my brain won’t shut off. I hate it.
When I click send, my palms are sweating. I reread my message. Why the hell is there no delete button? This is too much. Too personal.
It can be hard to adjust to a new normal. This is why we have the group.
I linger for too long on the heart she sent.
It’s not just the platform—it’s her. Since she already knows my truth, I don’t have to bullshit.
It’s easier telling you than an entire group, I say.
While she initially freaked me out, she now puts me at ease.
There’s an assurance in her responses that I haven’t felt in a long time.
There’s no judgment here, she says. But I’m glad you shared. Up until now, I thought you were disturbingly well-adjusted for a newly disabled person.
There’s no point dwelling on something I can’t change.
But like…you’re not grieving your old life? Nothing? (Besides the sex)
I lie back in bed. My therapist talked about this. The stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Which stage do you think you’re in? I always bullshitted to end the session quickly. The stage I was in was thinking about how to get better. So, denial.
I’m weary, I admit. So over everything. I should be grateful to be alive. I am. But I’m tired of being grateful for scraps, like all that’s expected of me now is to be happy I’m not dead.
My ringtone blares, and I drop my phone on my nose.
It’s Skylar. Requesting a video call.
“Hey?”
She’s lying on her side, cheek scrunched against the pillow, and for a moment, I’m fixated on the way her pretty curls fall over one eye. Damn, she’s adorable.
“Why do you sound breathless?” She squints. “Are you naked?”
I glance down at my bare chest. “I’m wearing boxers. What are you doing, calling me?”
“You gave me a real answer. I thought it deserved more than a text.”
I swallow the sudden surge of affection I feel toward her. “Don’t your eyes hurt with moving screens?”
“So don’t move.”
I nod, realize I’m moving, and attempt to speak through closed lips. “Okay.”
She lets out a cute snort. The hazel of her eyes is tinged with more shades of blue tonight. “I get what you’re saying about the ‘being grateful’ thing. Mom’s always telling me I’m not grateful enough. As if being grateful will make everything better.”
“Being overly grateful is probably the sixth stage of the cycle of grief.”
She laughs. Fuck, I love that laugh.
“You look cute,” I say.
My phone alerts me to another call, and I start. It’s Jax. I never texted him back about Mammoth. Every time I’ve tried to reach out to my crew lately, I’ve drafted and deleted each message multiple times before finally giving up.
“Hey, can you give me a minute? My buddy, Jax, is calling. I used to board with him.”
“It’s fine. Go ahead and talk to him.”
“No, don’t go anywhere. I want to keep talking to you.”
I reach for the stress ball Ranielle gave me. “Jax,” I say.
“Pike! What the fuck is up?” He laughs like I told the best joke, and I sit back with a smile. Even after all this time, he’s still happy to talk to me.
“I’ve got a girl waiting on the other line. Everything good?”
He whistles. “Won’t keep you. Just checking if you’re coming for the awards.”
“Don’t think I’m going to make it.”
“Aw, come on. We miss you.”
“How about I call you tomorrow?”
“Will you really?” His tone is friendly, but his words still make me feel like shit.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep it light. “I need to hear if Trevor’s going to propose already.”
“I wish. We broke up a month ago. I’m already on my rebound, but it’s hard. She’s not Trevor. No one is.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, man, that’s rough. You’ll have to tell me what happened tomorrow.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Now don’t keep your girl up too late.” He laughs again. “Or maybe do. Wouldn’t want to hear about your rep suffering.”
Skylar’s squinting at the screen when I click our video.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“Oh. Hi. I’m looking Jax up. ‘Jacques “Jax” Rochat,’” she reads, “‘is a twenty-six-year-old Swiss Canadian snowboarder with two X Games bronze medals,’ blah blah blah, okay, there’s his picture. Ooh.” She grins. “Hello, Jax Rochat. Is everyone in your crew hot?”
I smirk. “You tell me.”
“Couldn’t say. You’re the focus of the videos I’ve watched.”
Something warm lodges itself in my sternum. She’s been watching me.
“So what did Jax want?”
I shrug. “The Shred Awards for snowboarding are in Whistler in a few weeks. He wanted to see if I’m going. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a lot, you know? Seeing everyone but not boarding. Explaining my situation a million times. Not being negative. Facing the press. All of it.”
“That makes sense.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to see my friends. But the idea of going this year when I’ve just started rebuilding my life makes me want to throw up.”
“Don’t go if you’re not ready. You can’t force that.”
“I won’t.” I drag a hand down my face. “There’s something else I wanted to share earlier. About how my perspective’s changed.”
Skylar waits.
“It’s not just about disability when it comes to sex,” I say. “I had a lot of time to reflect while I was in rehab. I did some doomscrolling and read articles about my past with women.”
“Hard to resist a good doomscroll when you’re already wallowing, I imagine.”
“Right?” I laugh, then quickly look away.
Even Jax brought up my rep. “There are women who got hurt because of me. They thought they had a chance long term when I thought it was obviously a one-night stand. I didn’t think twice about whether they’d be heartbroken after.
But looking back, reading all that stuff from a different perspective…
it gave me clarity on what can happen when you’re careless about who you sleep with. ”
“Hmm,” Skylar says. “Maybe it’s less about carelessness and more about making sure both people are on the same page. When I hook up with someone, I tell them right away it’s not going anywhere.”
“I intend to be more direct about that going forward.” I rake my fingers back through my hair. “You said you don’t do relationships?”
“Nope. I prefer being alone.” Doesn’t sound like the full story, but Skylar says, “Oh! You’ll never guess what happened at work today. I got in trouble because my skirt was too short.”
I angle the camera closer. “I’ll need to see this skirt to get a complete picture of the situation.”
“I’ll wear it for our next date. See if your mom objects.”
“Trust me, she wouldn’t care. So, what happened?”
I get comfortable. I don’t care what we talk about. I’m just flattered she’s choosing to spend her evening with me.