Page 75 of Well Played

“No, you aren’t,” I soothed.

“I can’t make this plainer. I. Am. Fucked. I can’t ski, can’t walk. Unlike you, Miss Perfect, skiing is all I know how to do. If I can’t ski, I can’t race, and I can’t coach. I will lose my job here. No one wants a broken coach.”

“Surely it isn’t that bad,” I urged, ignoring his insults. This was distress talking. “Rest. I will come back tomorrow.”

Each day I visited before work and after, but after the first few days, Owen refused to engage with me. Sometimes he snapped at me, telling me to leave, other times he blatantly ignored me until I left the hospital in tears.

By the third week, I dreaded visiting. Owen wasn’t the man I loved anymore. He was snappy and terse, often leaving me in tears. I knew it was the frustration of being stuck in a bed, let out only for physical therapy, and not even able to go to the bathroom unaided. After several surgeries myself, I had some idea of what this must feel like. Only I could go home. He was stuck here with hospital food and a cold hard bed, the view of his beloved mountain in the distance taunting him.

“I want you gone,” he announced without preamble as I entered the room.

“Can I stay a few minutes?” I asked, in as lighthearted a tone as I could. “I only just arrived.”

Owen ignored me. “Move out of my place. I am being released in a few days, and I want you out. I want to be alone.”

“Whaaa….”

“I’m going home to Michigan. There is nothing for me here. You need to leave.”

“Can we talk about this?” I begged, my eyes filling with tears. Before his accident we had talked about the summer, him coming to Australia with me, and meeting my family. Stupidly,I had dreamed we might get engaged and start making things official. Before he changed forever.

“Nothing to talk about. By Friday please.” Owen rolled to face the wall, and I knew that was the end of the conversation. Shamefaced, I slunk out of the room, avoiding the gaze of the hospital staff, who all knew me well by now. As soon as I closed the door to our apartment, the torrential tears started. This wasn’t him. I knew that. But he had made his feelings clear. He wanted to go home without me. Well, it was nearing the end of the season. I may as well do the same.

Blinded by hot tears, I logged into the travel site and booked the next flight to Sydney out of Denver. Tomorrow afternoon. Jodi or Leo would drop me off and my parents would collect me. I knew without question as I emailed them the itinerary. After emailing my boss about my travel plans and apologizing for leaving early, I slammed my laptop closed.

Over the next few hours, I threw everything I owned into bags, not caring if it was wet or dirty. Skis, boots, jackets, and clothes. I didn’t care if it was screwed up. I could deal with all of that at my parents’ place. Glancing around at the insignificant items of mine I couldn’t take, kitchen items and knickknacks, I turned away. Anything I cared about, I would box up and leave with a friend. Anything else he could toss. I didn’t care anymore. Every night since Owen’s accident, I had lain in bed and considered my options. Whilst I loved skiing, I was seriously contemplating finishing my degree and being stable. Maybe it was time to stop chasing the endless winter around the globe. My chest ached with every beat as the splinters of my shattered heart broke a little more.

6

Perisher,New South Wales, Australia

As I watched each of the race club kids go down the course, taking notes on technique and tips to give them when I hit the bottom, the figure dressed in black watching from the side of the course caught my eye. It wasn’t unusual that people watched. These kids were the next Australian national ski team. They had style, and they were impressive to watch. But he wasn’t watching them, he was watchingme. Just the way he casually stood made me know he was comfortable on skis. Skiing was one of those sports where people either looked awkward, like a cat on roller skates, or elegant. He was the latter.

As my last kid left the start gate, I watched for the first few gates, then took off down the course after them. The spectator ducked under the marking rope and hit the third gate, taking off down the course.

“Hey! Excuse me!” I called, trying to catch up. The racecourse was for race training only. Members of the public could not enter. It took so long to groom it, get the flags positioned. Besides, it was dangerous if some punter took out one of the kids by being an idiot.

The skier carved around three gates. That style, I knew that style. Straight-lining down the middle of the course to the astonishment of the kids, I hit the finish line when he did. Ejected my skis, and I flew into his arms as he held me to him.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped, barely aware that twelve kids under fifteen were all watching with glee. He lifted my googles and kissed me, knocking the breath from me. Giggles and squeals of delight broke into my consciousness as I regained awareness of my surroundings.

“Kids, can you catch the lift, and we will wait here?” Owen asked. Not knowing this strange man, the kids looked at me.

“Guys, one more run. I need you to focus on your transitions and your weight shift.”

Owen sniggered, and they took off down the hill to the lift line.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped as the last one ducked under the rope and flew down the hill, chasing his friends.

“Well, I would have thought that was obvious,” he drawled. “Summer holiday in Australia. Cocktails and beaches.”

“It is winter here,” I pointed out dryly.

“So I discovered.”

I waited, the pain of leaving flooding back in a torrent. The awful things he said.

“Soph, I am so sorry for the way I treated you. There is no excuse for what I said. I was in pain and facing a life in a wheelchair. I didn’t want you to see me like that. But I was awful, and I hurt you. Can you forgive me?”

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