Where are you, racer girl? Wind is killing our vibe. Planai is shut, we’re back at the bottom chalet.
Come drink with us before they kick us onto the bus.
Of course, they’re already in a hut. Of course.
I thumb back a quick reply.
On my way. Had to ski down. Need to change boots first or I’ll kill someone.
I slide my phone away, hook my skis into the rack with a clack, and dig my boot bag out from under a row of other anonymous backpacks. The little changing corner by the rental shop is packed with kids, parents, and one guy trying to balance on one foot while ripping his boots off like they’re on fire. I squeeze into a strip of bench, flick my buckles open properly, and immediately regret every life choice that led me to buying ski boots several flexes stiffer than an ordinary woman would even consider.
Getting them off is a fresh new hell. The plastic is stiff from the cold; my calves are already swollen from skiing and—from other activities. I brace my hands on the back of the bench and pull, heel stuck, shin screaming. A low, involuntary groan escapes me.
“Come on,” I mutter through my teeth. “You let me ski like a racer girl; you can let go now.”
One boot finally pops free with shooting fresh pain through my foot that was threatening to cramp. I almost punch myself in the face with the effort. My socked foot hits the rubber mat andI could weep with relief. The other leg still feels like it’s encased in concrete. I lean forward, forehead briefly resting on my knee, and for a second I’m not in the noisy boot room at all.
I’m back in the gondola. His arm around my back. My hand on his chest. His voice in my ear:Be greedy. The way my body answered like it had just been waiting for someone to say that.
Heat floods my cheeks; I’m very glad my face is currently hidden by helmet and buff and the general chaos. I drag my focus back to the boot and attack the second one. It takes two full-body heaves, another strangled noise I hope nobody hears, and then it gives. I yank my feet free and stuff them straight into the soft, forgiving normal boots like they’re a life raft.
I sit there a moment longer, bent over my laces, heart doing that stupid jumpy thing again.
What the hell just happened?
Mountain. Storm. Sad, hot Austrian. My hand. His. My god.
The tannoy crackles again about closing lifts and last runs; someone’s kid is crying because they dropped their glove; a group of Dutch guys is already singing Schlager off-key outside—normal resort chaos. I wiggle my toes in the blessed space of my regular boots, square my shoulders, and stand up.
Okay. Race boots off. A wilder version of myself shoved as far down as she’ll go, at least for the walk across the snow. Time to find my girls, pretend I’m a sane person, and see how much of this I’m actually brave enough to say out loud.
***
The chalet at the bottom is already fogged up, every window a blur of breath and wet gear. I push the door open, and a wave of heat, fryer smell, and cheerfully stupid après-ski music rolls over me.
Eva spots me first. She’s at a high table near the window, jacket half off, hair escaping from under her hat, cheeks pink from whatever she’s drinking. She lifts her glass like a flare.
“There she is!” she shouts over the noise. “Our abandoned racehorse!”
Anna turns too, softer wave, a smile that says she’s already clocked I’m not entirely okay, even if I’m upright.
I stomp over, shuffle my way into the corner of the table, and only then do they look down.
“Wait,” Anna says, eyes dropping to my feet. “Are those… actual shoes?”
I glance down at my blessed, ugly snow boots. “Shocking, I know.”
Eva taps her own still-buckled rental boots on the footrest with a clang. “Traitor. Real racers die in their shells.”
“If my boots were as loose as yours, I’d still be in them,” I say, half-joking, half-deadly serious. “Mine are currently listed as a weapon of war after two hours in a freezing gondola. And if I’m going to get drunk, I’d like to retain circulation below the knee.”
“Fair,” Anna concedes. “You look like you could use a drink.”
The waiter appears as if summoned. Eva gestures grandly at me. “Our champion needs something strong. She just survived The Windpocalypse.”
“Half the lifts are shut,” Anna adds. “We thought they’d have to rappel you out of a chair.”
“I got down,” I say, which is technically true. “Mostly in one piece.”
