"On three," he repeats, firmer. "One... two..."
On three, his arm slides around my waist, solid and sure, and his other hand catches mine. I push up with my good leg, and the moment I try to put even the slightest pressure on my left foot, pain flares white-hot through my ankle.
I gasp, and Zack's arm tightens immediately, taking more of my weight.
"I've got you. I've got you."
Then the patrol team takes the sled, and they are gone in seconds, skis already on, pushing off toward the lift with the smooth urgency of people who do this every day.
I'm pressed against his side now, my arm draped over his shoulders, his hand splayed warm and steady against my ribs.I can smell the cold air clinging to his jacket, something piney and clean, and beneath that the faint scent of his detergent. He's warm despite the temperature, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
"Okay," I say, breathless. "I can walk."
"You're not walking anywhere." His voice is gentle but unyielding. He starts steering me carefully toward the lodge entrance. "You're sitting down. Right now."
He navigates us through the door and directly to the large leather couch in the lobby. The warmth of the lodge hits me immediately, almost overwhelming after the cold.
He set me down on a large couch in the lobby.
I sink into the cushions, and he's already lifting my injured leg with the ice pack attached, propping it carefully on the coffee table with a pillow he's grabbed from an adjacent chair. His movements are methodical, competent, checking the angle, making sure my foot is higher than my heart.
When he's satisfied, he straightens, and I catch him checking his watch. His jaw tightens.
"You have a lesson you’re missing, don’t you?" I ask.
"It’s fine. It’s not a problem. They’re trying to find someone else to fill it for me," he says, but I know he takes his job seriously, and no matter what Luka says, I still think that Zack is great as an instructor.
"Zack… when is the lesson?"
"In fifteen minutes," he says, and the reluctance in his voice is obvious. His eyes flick to me, then away, then back.
"I’ll be fine. I swear. I can work on my phone while I ice it."
I can see the concern in his eyes. I can tell that he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t want to let anyone down.
"Just go. I'm not going anywhere," I say, gesturing helplessly at my ankle.
He doesn't smile. "You’re sure?"
I nod, "Yes."
"I'll be back as soon as the lesson is over, and I’ll send the medic to look at you when she gets a minute, okay?"
"That sounds great, now go."
"I have at least ten minutes. Ice pack. Drink. Don’t move."
Before I can object to him doing anything extra for me, he’s gone.
When he returns, he’s carrying half the lodge.
Three ice packs, a thick wool blanket, and a tray loaded with a turkey sandwich, grape juice, chocolate pudding—and a mug of hot cocoa.
"Spiked," he adds with a wink. "Kahlúa."
I laugh despite myself. "That was above the call of duty."
"The bartender hooked it up."
