Page 70 of Avalanche
Something warm blooms behind my ribs at that praise, at the simple, matter-of-fact way he says it. Like he really does see me as an instructor now, as an equal to him. Not just some girl from Hawaii playing at teaching snowboarding, but the real deal.
“Now turn,” he orders, and the heat behind my ribs coils lower, settling in my belly, behind my naval. I draw in a sharp breath, the air cold, and do as he says.
The first turn, I’m so caught up in watching this face, in feeling the nearness of him and the pressure of his fingertips around mine that I nearly forget to open my shoulder like he’s told me, nearly forget to play the student. He gives me a sharp look, and I move my shoulder at the last moment, giving just enough resistance when he tries to guide my arm back in.
“Again,” he says when I come back to my heel-side edge. “It’ll usually take a few times for a student to get it,” he explains. “They’ll need to feel the difference, feel what it’s like to do it right before they know how to move their body.”
We turn again, and again. Liam increases the pressure with each turn, guiding my left arm in, bringing my left shoulder into alignment. Meanwhile, the world behind him blurs and spins, flashes of pine and snow and sky and the plummeting base of the mountain beneath us swirling, like we’re two figures in the middle of a kaleidoscope.
“Just relax,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on my fingertips. His eyes bore into mine, dark beneath the lenses, my own face reflecting back at me in the sun-sparkled reflection on his goggles. “Relax, and follow me.”
My breaths are coming fast now. Perhaps it’s the exertion of riding, for going for a run for the first time in days, after hours spent sitting and waiting in the hospital. Whatever it is, I feel like I’ve hiked to ten-thousand feet altitude.
I do what he says, letting my shoulder drop, letting my body relax. Following the gentle pressure of his hand, the rhythm that he’s setting in my turns, hypnotised by the feel of his eyes on me and the world flashing and spinning behind him.
“That’s it,” he purrs, and I feel those words in my very core, the warmth of them almost molten in contrast to the icy air. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
It does. I feel the second it changes, the second my alignment adjusts and that edge hooks in on the turn. I feel the rightness of it, a stark contrast after all the wrong.
“Yes,” I breathe, finishing the turn.
We’re near the base of the run now, at the edge near the shadowy shelter of pines. But I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, can’t seem to move away. His hold on my fingers never falters. The air between us feels charged, electric.
Liam brings us to a stop beneath the trees, close enough that I can smell pine sap and dripping snow. When the loss of momentum makes it hard to keep standing, I sink down into the pillowy snow drifts. Liam drops to his knees in front of me, close enough that his hands end up resting on my board.
“This,” I tell him breathlessly, “is why I train with Tessa and not you.”
I look pointedly at where his hands rest on my board, gloved fingertips brushing my snow caked boots. My heart is pounding, my cheeks flushed with more than just cold air and exertion. I know he can see it. Know he can see the way he’s affecting me, how each of his little touches and looks sends want coursing through my blood like fire.
Beside us, the trees offer their dark invitation. I imagine what it would be like to unclip our boards and wander in between the snow-laden boughs, to find a hidden spot amid the drifts and pine needles.
Liam’s lips curve into an unapologetic smile, his gaze following mine to the trees.
“Well,” I ask breathlessly, attempting to bring this back to training. “How did I do?”
“You’re a good student.” His gaze drifts back to meet my own and he lifts his goggles up to his helmet. “I can see why Tessa likes teaching you.”
He reaches back to unclip his board, kicking it free and putting it bindings-down in the drifts beside the trees. When he holds one hand out to me and gives my own board a pointed look, my belly swoops, a breathless dizziness turning the snow around us even whiter in my vision.
“We’ve got a few minutes before we have to be at post for the one o’clock lessons.” His licks his lips, the faintest hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “I could show you a few more things if you want.”
“In the trees?” I keep my voice light, full of mock ignorance. Like I don’t know what he’s asking. Like I’m not desperate for it too.
He gives a one shouldered shrug, a teasing smile that flashes white for the briefest of moments. “You seem like an experienced student. I bet you’re good in the trees.” His eyes narrow in laughter, but it seems aimed at himself more than anyone else. Like he’s not quite sure about this game that we’re playing.
Is it a game? I’m not quite sure.
His smile falters when I unclip my board, then rise to stand and drop my board alongside his in the snow. He takes my hand, his breath making wordless puffs that cloud between us, his throat bobbing. He steps forward, closing the distance between us, the brim of his helmet knocking lightly against my own as he brushes the faintest of kisses against my lips. His lips are cold, his nose too, but his breath is warm. Sweet.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, my throat inexplicably tight.
Skis scrape the snow several feet away from us, but neither of us look away. Still, the sound is a reminder that we’re still out in the open, both of us in our instructor’s uniforms, our lips only inches apart.
Liam steps back, a flush painting the tops of his cheekbones as he turns towards the trees, pulling me behind him.
“You’ll probably pass the exam, you know,” he says, huffing slightly as he clambers through a particularly deep pocket of powder. “You could take it at the start of the southern hemisphere season and probably pass.”
“Probably,” I echo.
