I carve left, then right, weaving between slower skiers who hug the center of the run. Someone shouts something—probably cursing me for cutting too close—but the words dissolve in the wind before they reach me.
The slope levels out near the bottom, and I slow, letting momentum bleed away as the run ends. My thighs are screaming now, lactic acid building the way it does after a hard practice. I welcome the burn because it means I did something right.
I glide to a stop near the edge of the slope, breathing hard, and for maybe thirty seconds, there's silence in my head.
Then I see her.
At first, it's just a figure in brand-new ski gear. That particular stiffness that marks someone who's never worn the equipment before. Expensive jacket in navy blue, matching pants, everything crisp and unused. She's standing near the base lodge, talking to a guy in an instructor's jacket.
My brain processes who it is… Natalia.
Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. The delicate curves of her body that I already know are there, despite the bulky gear.The way she gestures with her hands when she talks, even in ski gloves.
My jaw tightens before I understand why. She said she hates the cold, and she should be back in the chalet calling the airport until it opens. So why the hell is she talking to a ski instructor if she hates the snow?
I watch them for another moment. The instructor is probably early-twenties, with the kind of easy smile that Americans seem to perfect in childhood. He's leaning in slightly, body language open and friendly, saying something that makes her laugh.
Her laugh echoes around me, and it hits hard against my ribs, but I don’t understand why, nor do I want to stand still long enough to come to a conclusion.
The snow crunches under my boots, my skis tucked under my armpit. They don't notice me at first—too engaged in whatever conversation they're having. I catch the tail end of the instructor's words as I get close enough to hear.
"... a little accident getting off the lift, but no harm done. You did great for your first time."
First time?
Of course. She bought all that gear this morning and went straight up the mountain with zero experience. Brilliant… absolutely brilliant. That’s how you get yourself killed.
"Luka? Luka Popovich, right?" The instructor noticed me first, his smile widening with recognition. "Hey, man. Huge fan. Caught your game against Vancouver last month—that third-period assist was insane."
I nod once, not quite acknowledging the compliment, and shift my attention to Natalia.
She's watching me with that same steady gaze. No apology for ignoring the fact that I don’t want her here. That my sticky note told her not to wander. Just calm assessment, as if she's waiting to see what I'll do next.
"You told me that you don’t ski," I say.
"Turns out that I just needed a reason to learn." She says, as if challenging me.
"And that would be because…?"
"Because we need to talk."
I caught the instructor's name on his jacket as he glanced between us—Zack. His smile falters slightly as he picks up on the tension. "Right, well. I should head to my next lesson. Natalia, remember what I said about keeping your weight forward. And if you want that free morning session, just text me."
He pulls out a card with the resort’s logo on it and hands it to her. She takes it with a polite smile that has me biting the inside of my lip. She slides the card into her pocket, and I don’t know why that pisses me off.
Zack gives me another starstruck grin. "Great to meet you, Luka. Maybe I'll see you around the resort?"
"Maybe." I say, with no intention of seeing him anywhere.
He takes the hint and leaves, glancing back once before disappearing toward the lift.
Then it's just us.
Natalia crosses her arms. I mirrored the gesture without thinking.
"Can’t you be nice to anyone besides women who want to sleep with you?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, she just shakes her head as if I’m playing games. "Oh, you mean him?"
