Five. That’s the number of layers I’m wearing. I can’t move. I can’t walk. I waddle. Waddle. My face is numb. And I lost feeling in my fingers hours ago. How did I let myself get talked into this? Go, they said. It will be fun, they said. You can’t be alone all winter break, they said. What the hell was I thinking? I don’t even like the snow. I never did. I really need to get better friends.

I’m on top of a grand mountain—truth: I’m on the bunny slope—with about 20 five-year-olds who demonstrate more skills on a pair of skis than I ever will. My legs bow on my skis as I wait in line for my turn to descend the slope. As I amble forward I lose my balance and face-plant in the snow. The majority of my group—aka the five-year-olds—bursts out laughing as a little brat, I mean, boy yells, “The old lady fell!”

Grrr. I never did like kids.

Erika, our instructor, skis over to me. “You okay?”

No. I’m not okay. Does it look like I’m okay? I can’t fucking move. I can’t stand up with these two gigantic sticks attached to my feet. What kind of sick individual came up with this sport? Like it is ever a good idea to glide down a giant, slippery mountain strapped to two pieces of wood in the freezing cold while the wind bites your skin and snow pelts your face. Yeah, no thanks.

But of course I don’t say any of that. Instead I say, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Seeing my struggle, she bends and holds her hand out to me. “There ya go.” She smiles warmly as I finally stand back up. When I’m back vertical, she turns her attention to one of the kids. “Bend your knees a little bit more, sweetheart.”

Gag me. I stand very still and hold my arms out like two airplanes, teetering in place before I find my footing. Balancing my weight on either foot, I think I may actually be getting the hang of this ski thing, but something feels wrong. I slowly turn around and that’s when I see my two ski poles splayed in opposite directions.

Unreal. How am I supposed to retrieve the poles? I can’t ski with the poles let alone without them. I bend my knees and angle my skis in the direction of my poles. Then in a moment of utter humiliation I swoosh my arms behind me in an effort to gain some momentum. Thank God no one is here to see me.

Maria and Rob would be laughing their asses off right now. But no. They’re on the Diamondback trail skiing like motherfucking pros. While I’m stuck on the bunny slope with snotty, rude five-year-olds. Best. Winter. Break. Ever.

After a minute when I’ve still made no progress, I break down and decide to ask a kid to help me. A short boy glides off the ski lift looking like a straight-up advertisement for Northface. I mean, seriously, from the black snow pants and ski coat, to the matching hat, gloves, and ski goggles. I didn’t think it possible for a kindergartener to look so stylish. I call to him. “Hey.” He ignores me at first so I call again. “Hey! Northface!”

This gets his attention. He stops expertly on his skis. Not even a wobble in his perfect form. Really? I mean, really?

“Yeah?” His high-pitched voice sounds unsure.

“Can you get my poles for me, buddy? I seemed to have dropped them,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster, which let’s face it, is right about zero at this point.

“I’ll give you a push,” he says, skiing around me so he stands behind me.

“No, don’t!” I say nervously. “Please. That’s not a good idea.” My voice rises as panic sets in.

Too. Late. Before I know what’s happening, Northface shoves me from behind and I’m set into motion. My body lurches forward and I’m hurtling down the mountain—okay, slope, but whatever—at top speed. A silent scream escapes my throat and I honestly think I see my life flash before my eyes.

I can’t ski.

I can’t ski.

I can’t ski.

I. Am. Going. To. Die.

As I near the bottom of the mountain, my panic escalates as I realize I have no poles. I can’t stop. What was the instructor going on about earlier? Something about pizza? What to do? Tuck and roll? Will the skis pop off?

I’m going to break my fucking neck. I can see the headlines now. Young, promising, soon to be college grad killed in freak ski accident on the bunny slope.

As I contemplate my imminent death, a snowboarder glides right into my path. He’s looking in the direction of the ski lodge and can’t see me approaching.

“Move!” I scream and wave my arms frantically, knowing there’s no way in hell I can maneuver out of his way. We’re seconds away from a full-on collision.

He jerks his head in my direction. Responding with lightening quick instincts, he bends his knees and leans back, effectively angling his body away from me. He whizzes by still fully erect.

I, on the other hand, am not so graceful. With my arms thrown out in front of me, I turn my body away from him, but overcompensate and lurch to the side. My foot twists under me and I fall forward.

Of course I don’t stop right away. No. Gliding forward on my belly, I plow the snow as I go, until I come to a stop at the end of the slope. I lie there stunned for several seconds, face still in the snow. Rotating my head to the side, I spit snow out of my mouth. I am ski-less and pole-less. How am I going to explain this to the rental attendant?

First things first. I need to get up. In push-up position I maneuver myself up to all fours. I begin to push my weight back into my feet, but a stabbing pain shoots through my right foot and I fall back down. I turn my face to the side again and try to roll onto my back. With all my layers it’s difficult to turn and it takes several attempts until I gain enough momentum before I land on my back. My gloved hands rest behind my butt and I lean back onto my elbows.

Okay. Now, where to go from here? I grab for my knees, curling up so I can use my core to pull me up. Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have blown off all of those Pilates classes Maria was always rambling on about.

As I sit there contemplating my next move, Northface skis down the mountain with his perfect outfit, perfect skis, and perfect form. He stops in front of me, spraying me with snow dust. “You fell.” His tone is mocking as he looks down at me.

“Nothing gets by you,” I say, gritting my teeth. I’m two seconds away from cursing out this five-year-old ski prodigy. One. Tw—

We both turn our heads at the sound of crunching snow. “Vik!” the boy says with admiration.

The boarder nods his chin before holding up his gloved hand for a high five.

“Cool!” Northface swishes toward the ski lift, leaving me literally in the dust.

“You okay?” the man asks in a bored voice.

He’s already turning to leave when I speak. “No,” I say, tears beginning to form in my eyes. “I can’t get up.”

The boarder curses under his breath. “Unbelievable.” There’s a moment’s hesitation before he holds his hand out to me. I grip it and he pulls me up smoothly.

“You good now?” His eyes drift back toward the lodge.

“Yeah.” But I stumble forward as I try to put weight on my right foot. “Ahhh.” I grimace and grab for him. “Sorry.” I sound weak. “I think I might’ve twisted my ankle.”

“Christ.” He unbinds his boots from his board, circles around me, and grabs hold of my arm before hooking it around him. “Lean on me.” He instructs as he swings his board underneath his other arm.

He walks slowly toward the lodge and I fall into stride beside him. I allow him to shoulder most of my weight, because honestly it really hurts. On our short walk I notice that everyone greets him. Some yell hello. Some tip their heads. Women openly stare.

A few curls of dirty blond hair peek out from beneath his ski hat. Goggles are perched atop his head and he wears a bandana around his mouth. All I can see are his eyes, which are a very light blue, almost gray in appearance. When he glances at me, they’re narrowed and hard. He seems annoyed by this inconvenience. Annoyed by me.

He stands his board outside the doors in a snow bank and then opens the door, pulling me forward with him. He’s not gentle, more robotic than anything. We walk toward the back of the building to a small desk with a sign above it that reads “Medic”. He sits me on a bench and I stretch my legs out. My right ankle is throbbing. I know, just know, that it’s broken. I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve lived twenty-one years without a break, even though I’m extremely accident-prone. Time is up, I think. Time to pay the piper.

“Get that boot off,” he commands.

I lean forward to unstrap the boot, but it’s useless with my gloves still on. I stop to strip off the first pair of gloves. The boarder stands to the side, watching me impatiently. When I get the first pair off, I begin on the second. Once off, I begin to grab the third, when he says, “Christ. How many pairs of gloves are you wearing?”

“It’s cold,” I say feebly.

“We’re not in Siberia.”

I detect an accent, something European, but bite back the question. His voice lacks humor and I’m sure any conversation from me will only irritate him even more. Without further comment, I watch as he makes his way over to the desk. He’s dressed in boarding gear that looks expensive, but then again everyone here looks wealthy. It’s hard to tell with the bulky clothes, but his build suggests he’s lean and muscular. Across the back of his black jacket white lettering spells the name Vik. I’m guessing it’s his name. But it also may be a brand of clothing.

There are two people already in line, but he walks past them to the desk. The medic greets him with a smile, and I see him glance in my direction as Vik relays the information. Warmth floods my cheeks and I glance down at my still-gloved hands. I quickly pull off my last pair of gloves and reach down to slip the boot off.

When I look up again, a tall blond girl has joined them. She pouts at Vik as his eyes sweep her body appreciatively. She’s beautiful in a snow-bunny, I-try-too-hard kind of way. Her fuzzy white sweater is stretched tight across her chest and her tight dark jeans are tucked into white snow boots that are laced up the front. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief as she licks her lips suggestively. Vik’s eyes crinkle in approval and he slaps her ass. Without a backward glance they both leave.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later I’m still sitting on the same bench, having received no medical attention. I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Maria to let her know where I am, but she’s probably still on the slopes. I’m scrolling through Facebook when the medic approaches. He parks a wheelchair in front of me, helps me into it, and rolls me into an exam room that looks an awful lot like the nurses’ station from my elementary school. In the center of the room there’s a vinyl bed covered by a flimsy piece of wax paper. A table is off to the side with supplies such as tape, gauze, and bandages. The medic helps me onto the exam table and then sits in a chair at the side. The neon lights cast an eerie glow over the room, giving it that sterile feeling.

“Please fill this form out.” He hands me a piece of paper, which requests my basic information. Once completed, I hand it back to him and he glances over it. “Okay, Miss Espinosa. What brings you here today?”

Well, I really had nothing better to do. I love hanging out in crappy ski lodges on my winter break. It’s the highlight of my year. Is this guy for real? “I fell on the slopes. I twisted my ankle.”

“Which trail?” he asks, looking up from the paper.

I lower my gaze and pick at the zipper of my jacket. “Bunny Slope One.”

To his credit he doesn’t laugh, just marks the information on the file. “Okay, I’m going to examine your ankle. Lean back, please, and prop your foot up.”

I do as instructed. He’s gentle with my foot, bending and rotating my ankle slowly. I wince and little gasping noises of pain escape my mouth as he presses on my ankle.

“Is it broken?” I ask tentatively.

“No, just a bad sprain. I’ll tape it up and give you a strong pain reliever.”

“Oh, thank God.” My breath rushes out of me.

“Yeah. Good thing Vik was there to help you. If you had put weight on this, it would have been a lot worse,” he says as he picks up an elastic bandage.

“Good thing,” I agree.

We both remain quiet as he finishes wrapping my ankle and secures it with clips. “I’ll be right back,” he says, getting up from the chair.

I pull my phone from my coat pocket to check if Maria ever got back to me. Negative.

The medic comes back into the room and hands me a pair of slippers. “Put these on. You won’t be able to get a ski boot on for a couple of days.”

A couple of days? That’s almost my entire vacation. Fine by me. If I never get on another pair of skis again, that will be too soon. I nod in agreement.

“Just be careful. Don’t do anything excessive,” he says.

I slip the shoes on and bend to pick up my boots. My long hair clings to my face. I’m sweating. All these layers are unnecessary in this warm room.

“Take these for the pain.” He hands me a small bottle. “And you’re going to need to stop back in tonight or tomorrow with your insurance card. Otherwise we’ll have to bill you.”

“Okay. I will.” I slide off the table. The medic puts his hand out to steady me, and I realize that with the bandage the pain is manageable. “Thank you.” My voice is sincere, smile genuine.

“Don’t thank me. Thank Vik. He’s the one who got you here.” He smiles.

And I guess I really should thank Vik. Even though he was rude. Even though he made fun of me. He did help me. So I ask, “Where is he now? Vik?”

“Your guess is as a good as mine. I’d check the café or the shop.”

“Okay, well, thanks again. I’ll be sure to get you a copy of my insurance card.” I follow him out of the exam room.

“You’re welcome, miss.” He walks back behind the desk and is already on to the next patient.

I re-bundle myself up. All three pairs of gloves go back on, as well as my scarf and hat. By the time I’m done, all that is visible is a tiny space for my eyes. I slowly make my way toward the door and begin the journey back to the hotel.

* * *

Call me a terrible person, but I didn’t go in search of Vik. My foot really hurt. The pain was manageable, but I didn’t want to push it too hard. I already had a ten-minute walk back to the hotel, and at the speed I was moving it was closer to a twenty. Limping in the opposite direction toward the café in the off chance that Vik would be there sounded unreasonable. I rationalized I could always find him tomorrow when I was feeling better. Besides, I was starving.

After twenty laborious minutes I finally arrive at the hotel. Unzipping one of the pockets in my jacket, I find my key card and continue on toward the elevators. Spotting a sign for the ice and vending machines, I hang a quick right, hoping to grab a light snack before dinner.

The machines are located at the end of a long, quiet, isolated hallway and I pass a few closed doors with labels such as “Private” and “Office”. I walk close to the wall, using it to support some of my weight as I drag my foot along. Once at the machine, I scan the contents before settling on the pretzel bites. I feed my crumpled dollar into the machine and it takes three tries before the machine actually accepts it. I enter the code for the pretzels, then grab them and my change.

I turn and slowly walk back in the direction from which I came. I’m about halfway down the hall when I hear a muffled noise. I pause at a partially opened door on my right. The light from the hallway spills in and illuminates the figures inside, although the faces are cast in shadows. I bite back my gasp as I read the name on the back of the sleek black jacket thrown carelessly on the desk—Vik.

The room is dark enough that I can’t make out fine details, but it’s clear what they’re doing. His back is against a metal shelf at the end of the room, head thrown back, eyes closed. His shirt is pushed up slightly, revealing the rippled muscles underneath, and his pants are unbuttoned and shoved down. Shielding his most private parts is the blonde from earlier. She’s on her knees. Her hands and mouth are full of him. And from the sounds he’s making she’s doing a really good job. I stare a moment longer than I should, watching the muscles in his belly jump. My mouth hangs open as I stand rooted in place, completely overcome with the way his ab muscles clench with every stroke of her mouth. His arms are spread wide and his hands grip onto the metal shelf. I hear him groan once, twice, and then…

I drop my bag of pretzels.

Shit. Double shit. He brings his head forward and opens his eyes, but by the time his eyes circle in my direction I’m already halfway gone. I walk as quickly as my injured foot will allow, which is not very quickly, but it must be quick enough because they never catch up with me. Either that or they ignored me and finished the job.

I’m completely mortified. A wave of heat sweeps over my face, and my jacket is suddenly too hot. My fingers fumble over the zipper and my belly churns.

Please God, please God. I send a silent prayer upward. Please don’t let him have seen me. I don’t know what embarrasses me more: that I’m officially a creeper or that I’m turned on.