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 simplycontinue 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 andyankedme 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?"
