Page 11 of The Mountain
I shrug. “I’m fine,” I say, then inwardly cringe at the words.
Tessa gives an incredulous snort. “The fuck you are. Lady. No.” She shakes her head, then peers around, lifting up as much as possible in her snowboard boots as she scans the crowd of instructors. “I’m going to say something.”
I shake my head, panic rising. “No. Please.” I grab her arm, the thick fabric of her instructor’s uniform stiff beneath my gloves. “I don’t want to make a big fuss about it…”
She gives me a hard stare. “If things were reversed—if I came to you and said someone drugged me and I’d been puking my guts out during my lesson—would you just let it slide?”
Instantly, I shake my head. No way. Not a chance.
Tessa gives a curt nod. “That’s what I thought.” She pauses, expression softening. “I won’t give Chris all the details. He doesn’t need to know everything. But I’m going to tell him you need the day off.”
“No. It’s okay. I’ll talk to him,” I say hurriedly, dropping my hold on her sleeve and looking past her to see if I can see Chris.
I spot him surrounded by a crowd of ski instructors, clipboard in hand as he rattles off directions, telling them what lessons they’ll be taking. Beyond them, students have already started gathering, adults and teens clustered beneath different-colored signs indicating their level and whether they’re skiing or riding—or whether they’re taking private lessons.
I swallow back my nerves and give Tessa a brittle smile. “Thanks, though.” And I mean it.
“Let me know what he says, okay?” Worry lines Tessa’s usually playful eyes.
I nod in agreement, then trudge across the snow to Chris, my snowboard clutched under my arm, reaching him just before he reaches the group of snowboard instructors.
I flash him a bright smile, lifting one gloved hand to wave him down. He slows, not quite stopping, and he gives me an impatient stare.
“I… uh… can I talk to you for a second?” I ask, pulling my snowboard in front of me like a shield, wrapping both arms around it as I clutch it to my chest. I force myself to meet his eyes, remembering belatedly all the advice my grandpa gave me.
Shoulders back, don’t smile too much. Look them in the eye. No, don’t play with your hair. Ask yourself, ‘How would a man stand?’
I’m not a man,I had told him.I shouldn’t have to act like a man to be respected by them,I had argued, my fifteen-year-old self still confident that fairness was a tangible thing.
Grandpa’s expression had softened, a sad smile tilting his lips.You’re right. It’s not fair. And that’s why I’m telling you this.
“What is it?” Chris’s thick brows dip from beneath his beanie, weathered skin wrinkling as his gloved fingers give his clipboard an irritated tap. “Can it wait?” His gaze tracks over my shoulder, to where the snowboard instructors are waiting for him to allocate their lessons. “We’ve got students waiting. First day of the busy period, you know…”
He makes to push past me, and I shuffle to block his way. “Sorry,” I say with an apologetic grimace. “No, it can’t wait.” I take a deep breath, pushing down the anxiety twisting my gut. “I need to take today off. I’m not feeling well.”
Chris gives me a flat look. “You’re not feeling well,” he echoes.
“Yeah.” I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. “I… uh… threw up teaching my lesson earlier.”
“Sure. Okay. Let me guess. Food poisoning. Stomach bug,” Chris snorts, nearly rolling his eyes. “You snowboard instructors are all the same.” He lifts one gloved hand, pointing his finger at me accusingly. “I don’t care what you do on your time, but you show up to work sober or you work sick, got it? Don’t make your poor life choices my problem.” He tilts his chin to the waiting group of snowboard instructors. “Now get over there and get ready for your next lesson.”
My stomach drops as he pushes past me. I turn, following morosely after him, my face heating as I see Tessa staring intently in our direction, her lips set in a grim line. For a brief moment, I worry she’s going to say something to Chris, but she’s speaking hurriedly to an older, female instructor I’ve never seen before, but who looks oddly familiar.
I take a deep breath, pull my goggles down over my eyes, and hope the cold air will do enough to dull the embarrassed flush of red staining my cheeks before I reach the other instructors. At least the guys aren’t here to see my walk of shame. Eddie and Antoine are over in the kids’ ski school, Matty was put on a full-day group lesson this morning, and Liam is on private lessons. And Seth, of course, is in the rental shop.
“Tried to pull a sicky, huh?” an instructor asks me, giving me a sympathetic smile.Adam, going by the name flashing on the front of his jacket. “Good luck with that, dude.” Adam shakes his head, and I can’t quite tell if his accent is Australian or Kiwi. “Last time someone tried that, ole mate Chris here threw his clipboard in the snow,” Adam snorts, then quickly falls silent when Chris’s eyes land on him.
“Adam Bartlett,” Chris barks. “You’ve got an intermediate group.” He tilts his chin toward the waiting students. “Five girls, about thirteen years old. Cousins on some family holiday orsomething. Apparently, they requested you specifically.” Chris’s nose wrinkles in unmasked disdain, as if he can’t imagine why anyone would select Adam as their instructor.
Adam groans, dragging one gloved hand over his face. “Fuck my life,” he mutters under his breath, quiet enough so that Chris can’t hear, then exchanges a commiserating look with an instructor next to me. “I had those same kids yesterday. They were fucking terrifying.”
I find my gaze drifting over to the mob of students, craning my neck in an effort to see if I can spot the kids Adam is so frightened of. All I can see are five relatively innocuous-looking teenage girls standing huddled together under theIntermediatesign.
“Lily Dean.” My eyes snap to Chris so fast, the world tilts momentarily beneath my feet. I grip my snowboard, pushing the nose into the snow as I lean against it for support. “You’re on first-timers.” He’s staring intently at his clipboard, the faint smirk curving his lips blooming into a full grin as he lifts his eyes to meet my own. “Twelve students.”
My heart sinks to my stomach.Twelve first-timers. I’ve taught groups that size before, but first-timers… I bite the inside of my cheek and shoot a panicked look toward the greenFirst-Timersflag in the distance. A horde of students stands together, aged everywhere between teenagers and retirees, and it’s impossible to tell which ones are mine.
The thing is, I actually don’t mind teaching first-timers. I love watching the moment they make their first turn, the look of joy that lights up their faces, that satisfied pride. Especially with adults.
