Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It’s the answer I’ve got.”

I lean my hip against the bench. “Can I tell you something?”

“Probably can’t stop you.”

“I’m going to be a ski instructor.”

He looks up from the board.

“I got my PSIA Level One certification last winter,” I say. “I’ve been skiing since I was four. Raced in high school, taught my college roommate on a weekend trip to Breckenridge, and realized I liked the teaching more than the racing. I’m waiting for snow season to go for Level Two. The outfitter job is just off-season. Keeps me connected to the mountain, keeps me around gear, keeps me learning. But teaching skiing is what I actually want to do.”

I wait for it. The response I always get. The slight smile, the polite nod, the “oh, that sounds fun” that really means “that’s not a real job.” My mom does it. My college roommate did it. The last guy I went on a date with literally said “so, like, a vacation job?” and then asked if I wanted to split the check.

Beck sets the soldering iron in the stand and looks at me straight on. “What’s your specialty?”

I blink. “What?”

“Your teaching specialty. Moguls, park, racing, adaptive? Level One is general but most instructors start leaning toward a discipline by the time they’re going for Two.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nobody has ever asked me that. Not one person in the entire year since I got certified has asked me a follow-up question that assumes I know what I’m talking about.

“All-mountain,” I say. “Specifically intermediate progression. Getting people from pizza wedge to parallel, building confidence on steeper terrain. That transition where people either fall in love with skiing or give up. I want to be the reason they fall in love with it.”

He nods slowly, like he’s actually processing what I’ve said. “Intermediate progression is where most instructors burn out. Beginners are easy. Advanced skiers already know what they’re doing. The middle is where the real teaching happens.”

“How do you know that?”

“I grew up in a ski town. Half the guys I went to high school with taught lessons.” He picks the soldering iron back up. “Skiing’s not a vacation. It’s a sport. It requires skill.”

My throat goes tight. Not from sadness. From the relief of someone saying the thing I’ve needed to hear for so long that I’ve stopped expecting it. He says it like it’s obvious. Like it isn’t even worth debating. Said it the same way he told me the MOSFET blew. Just a fact.

I don’t trust my voice for a second, so I watch him finish the solder joint. Clean, precise, no excess. He reconnects the motor housing and seats the battery and presses the power button. The display lights up, green and alive.

“Fixed,” he says.

“Fixed,” I repeat.

He stands the bike upright and holds it by the handlebars, and when I reach for it, our fingers overlap on the grip. His hand is rough and warm and he doesn’t pull back. Neither do I. The contact lasts maybe two seconds. Maybe three.

My pulse is doing something reckless.

“What do I owe you?” I ask. My voice sounds almost normal.

“Tell Kendall it’s handled. She sends enough business my way.”

“You know Kendall?”

“Everyone knows Kendall.”

I roll the bike toward the door, then stop. Turn back.

He’s watching me. Still at the bench, rag in his hands, that furrow between his brows a little softer than it was ten minutes ago. He looks like a man who’s been caught off guard and is trying to pretend he hasn’t been.

“Beck.”

“Yeah.”