Page 42 of Taking Chances

“Sometimes. Mostly I just miss the distraction.” I shrug, unstrapping my skis and sitting down in the snow.

“What do you mean?” She follows suit.

“It was a busy life. The practices, the games, the traveling. There wasn’t any idling. Which worked for me. Now it’s hard to fill the time.”

Her head dips. “And hockey? Playing it? Do you miss that?” Her gloved hand draws circles in the flat snow, destroying the perfect white surface, which eases my anxiety.

“Not so much. I love hockey, I love being on the ice, but it was never really a passion of mine. More like a means to an end.”

Her eyes pop up to mine, clearer than ever. “To what end?”

“To get away. It enabled me to get away.” I break eye contact, gazing at my ski boots.

I already spoke too much, and I fully expect her to ask more questions I don’t care to answer.

But she doesn’t. She shakes off the snow from her gloves and gets up, reaching a hand to me. “Come on, break’s over.”

My lips turning up, I jump to my feet.

“Can we go to the top now?” I motion to the highest ski run on the very top of the mountain.

Her chuckle echoes on the mountain. “Not a chance. But we can try the next one, I think you’re ready.” She shoots me a wink and I’m stunned for a second. Her typical shyness and fear to say or do something wrong has disappeared. She looks relaxed, comfortable. Last time it happened, she was screaming my name in a hotel bedroom.

“Scared?” she asks as we get off the lift. This is definitely steeper.

“I used to get beat up for a living.”

“Not by a tree, though,” she fires back and pushes herself down the hill.

No time to think, I follow behind her. It’s hard to focus on the altitude, or the speed, or the possible death outcome as her auburn hair billows behind her, her soft laughter piercing through the sound of our skis.

How could she ever think she’s anything other than perfect?

So perfect it hurts. So perfect my body aches to mess it up.

Gaining more speed than comfortable, I focus back on what I’m doing. A realization hits me.

Skiing is nice.

The freedom of rushing downhill, your whole body coming alive, is pretty amazing. But with the cold wind freezing my airways, the burn in my thighs and the tiny fear of an imminent death, it’s nowhere near perfect. Just my sweet spot.

She gets to the bottom first and waits for me with a huge smile on her cold-flushed face. “So, what do you say?”

“I have to admit, this was pretty cool. Though I’m ready for a break.”

“Sure, let’s go meet the others.”

Turns out, the others have been drinking in a ski-in, ski-out bar for over an hour.

“Oh, Matt and I hung out around the cabin and then came here,” Rina explains.

“You don’t ski?” I ask Matt.

“I tried last year. Not for me, so I just enjoy myself in cozy settings surrounded by snow.”

“Shit, had I known that was an option.” Some of them chuckle.

“Stop it. You had a great time,” Anne adds, taking her jacket off.

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