Page 24 of First Echo

Sam glanced between us, uncertainty written all over his face. "You're sure you're okay?"

"I'm sure," I replied firmly. "Go. Have fun."

After another moment's hesitation, he nodded, giving my arm a gentle squeeze before pushing off. Julian shot me one last amused look before following, already launching into some story about a worse wipeout he'd once seen. Victoria and Audrey skied past with sympathetic but slightly smug expressions, neither bothering to stop.

I watched them go, a mix of relief and abandonment washing over me. At least now I could figure out how to get down the mountain without an audience. I was considering just unstrapping my feet and walking down when I heard a voice behind me—a voice I recognized immediately.

"Are you okay?"

I turned slowly, already knowing who I'd see.

Great. Perfect. Of all the people to witness my humiliation, it had to be her.

Brooke stood a few feet away, her snowboard tucked under one arm, her expression a careful mixture of concern and wariness. It was clear she hadn't realized it was me at first—she'd just stopped to help what she thought was a stranger who had taken a bad fall. The kind of decent thing a genuinely good person would do.

I watched as recognition dawned in her eyes, her expression shifting from general concern to something more complicated when she realized it was me sprawled in the snow. There was a flash of surprise, followed by what might have been amusement quickly masked by renewed concern. But there was no mockery in her gaze, no satisfied smirk at my failure. Just genuine concern, which somehow made it worse.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BROOKE

I'd been on the mountain for a few hours now, carving through the snow, enjoying the feeling of freedom that always came with snowboarding. Each run felt better than the last, my body finding that perfect rhythm where everything just flows. After my fourth lap down the same stretch, I was ready for a bit of a break. My legs were starting to burn pleasantly, a reminder that I'd been pushing myself hard all morning.

At the top of the lift, I found a quiet spot off to the side, away from the flow of other skiers unloading. I sat down in the snow, taking a moment to readjust my bindings and catch my breath. The view was stunning from up here—endless white peaks stretching out against that perfect blue sky. It was the kind of beauty that could almost make you forget everything else.

As I tightened my bindings, I caught movement from the corner of my eye—a snowboarder who clearly had no idea what they were doing. I watched as they pushed off awkwardly, their arms flailing as they tried to find balance. It was the universal posture of a first-timer, that rigid, terrified stance that inevitably leads to a wipeout.

And sure enough, within seconds, they caught an edge and went down hard, face-planting spectacularly before sliding dangerously close to the edge of the run. I winced in sympathy. I'd been there before—everyone has when they're learning. That first day on a snowboard is always brutal.

A group of people quickly gathered around the fallen snowboarder—friends, I assumed. There seemed to be some kind of disagreement, with one guy looking particularly concerned while the others appeared eager to move on. After a brief conversation, they all left, leaving the fallen boarder alone on the slope.

I frowned. Who leaves someone who just took a nasty fall like that? Even if they claimed to be fine, that was just poor mountain etiquette. Without really thinking about it, I got to my feet, strapped my back foot into my binding, and glided over to where the person was still sitting in the snow, looking dejected.

"Are you okay?" I asked, stopping a few feet away.

The snowboarder turned slowly, and with a jolt of surprise, I realized it was Madeline. At first, I hadn't recognized her—bundled up in her fancy ski gear, her face partially obscured by her goggles. But there was no mistaking those blue eyes, now wide with what looked like mortification as she recognized me.

"I'm fine," she said sharply, though the way she was gingerly moving her wrists suggested otherwise.

I bit back a smile. Of course she would say she was fine. Madeline Hayes would never admit to being anything less than perfect, even while sitting in a pile of snow after a spectacular wipeout.

"You know, usually people take a lesson before throwing themselves down a mountain," I said, unable to resist a touch of sarcasm. "But I guess you decided to go with the trial-by-fire approach?"

She glared at me, trying to push herself up but struggling with the unwieldy board still attached to her feet. "I don't need a lesson," she insisted, though her actions clearly contradicted her words. "I was doing fine until that... bump."

I snorted. "What bump? You caught an edge on a perfectly groomed run." Despite my amusement, I extended my hand tohelp her up. "Come on, let me help before you actually hurt yourself."

She hesitated, staring at my outstretched hand like it might bite her. For a moment, I thought her pride might win out and she'd refuse my help. But then, surprisingly, she reached up and took it, allowing me to pull her to her feet.

"This is harder than it looks," she admitted grudgingly, once she was upright again.

"Yeah, no kidding," I replied. "Most people don't just strap on a board and expect to master it immediately. It takes practice."

She brushed snow from her jacket, her expression a mixture of frustration and determination. "Well, I'm not giving up. I just need to figure it out."

I studied her for a moment, weighing my options. The smart thing would be to wish her luck and continue with my own day. But something about her stubborn determination, combined with the fact that she was clearly going to hurt herself if left to her own devices, made me hesitate.

"I could show you," I heard myself offering, surprising even myself. "The basics, at least. So you don't, you know, kill yourself."

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