Page 92 of Reckless: Collision

“Perfect.” And then we’re flying.

The first run is pure adrenaline—snow spraying, wind whipping, Jinx’s solid warmth keeping me anchored as we hurtle down the hill at speeds that definitely violate several laws of nature. My screech of delight echoes through the trees, mixing with Jinx’s wild laughter.

We hit the bottom in a spray of powder, tumbling into a snowbank. I emerge breathless, heart racing, already addicted to this new kind of rush.

“Again,” I demand, snow falling from my hat. “But this time I want to see how everyone else does it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Theo announces from the top of the hill with theatrical flourish, claiming a sled like it’s a stage, “prepare to witness art in motion.”

He transforms sledding into a performance—each turn graceful, each shift of weight deliberate. Snow sprays behind him like special effects as he carves elegant curves down the hill. Even his wipeout looks choreographed, sending him spinning into a snowbank with perfect dramatic timing.

“Show-off,” Ryker mutters, but there’s fondness in his voice.

“Your turn, Alpha.” I challenge, watching him assess the hill like it’s a tactical objective.

He doesn’t disappoint. His run is all efficiency and controlled power—the fastest, straightest line from top to bottom. No wasted movement, no fancy tricks, just pure alpha precision that somehow still manages to look impressive.

“That’s not sledding,” Jinx protests. “That’s just falling with style.”

“Then show us how it’s done,” Ryker throws back, and oh—there’s that competitive edge I’ve been waiting to see.

Jinx grins like a madman as he runs back up the hill leaving me behind, already positioning his sled at an angle that makes Finn wince. “Watch and learn.”

What follows can only be described as organized chaos. He hits every bump, catches air off every drift, turning the hill into his personal playground. By the time he reaches the bottom, he’s created a path that looks more like a modern art installation than a sled run.

“Now that,” he calls up, “is how you sled.”

“Actually,” Finn pushes up his glasses, “if we account for wind resistance and the coefficient of friction...” He trails off at our collective groans. “Fine. I’ll show you.”

I expect careful calculation. What I get is... perfect precision meeting pure joy. He hits each turn at exactly the right moment, uses the packed snow from our previous runs to gain speed, and somehow manages to look both proper and ridiculous in his cardigan under winter gear.

“The physics don’t lie,” he says when he reaches the bottom, trying to look dignified despite the snow in his hair.

“My turn.” I grab a sled, ready to try solo. “I think I’ve got it figured out.”

“Wait.” Ryker’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Together first.”

I look up at him, surprised by the offer. “You sure? I thought you didn’t?—”

“Just get on the sled,” he grumbles, but there’s a smile hiding in his voice.

We position ourselves—his larger frame behind me, strong arms caging me in—and then we’re off. It’s different from sledding with Jinx. Where he was chaos and laughter, Ryker is steady strength and sure guidance. He shows me how to shift my weight, when to lean into turns, how to read the snow ahead.

“See?” He says as we glide to a stop. “Now you can?—”

I’m already running back up the hill, sled in hand. “My turn!”

“Remember what we showed you!” Finn calls up, but I’m already positioning my sled, mind mapping the perfect combination of everyone’s techniques.

I want Theo’s grace, Ryker’s precision, Finn’s calculations, and just a touch of Jinx’s chaos. What I get is... well.

The first few seconds are perfect—I’m flying, I’m graceful, I’m one with the snow. Then I hit a bump I definitely didn’t calculate for, overcorrect like a rookie, and suddenly I’m careening sideways down the hill while four voices shout conflicting instructions.

“Lean left!”

“No, right!”

“Tuck and roll!”

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