Page 1 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

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Jade

Ipushofffromthe top of Elk Run, my class of advanced skiers trailing behind me like ducklings. Well, if ducklings wore thousand-dollar ski gear and had the occasional midlife crisis.

"Keep your weight centered!" I call back, carving a perfect turn that sends a spray of powder into the crisp mountain air. The late afternoon sun catches the ice crystals, turning them into momentary diamonds.God, I love that sight. Never gets old.

Three hours of teaching rich tourists how to not break their necks on Darkmore's black diamond runs would exhaust most people, but for me, it's barely taken the edge off. The familiar itch is already crawling beneath my skin—that restless energy that's been my constant companion since I hung up my competition skis.

I lead the group down the final stretch, mentally cataloging their form. Mr. Investment Banker is still leaning too far back. Yoga Mom has finally stopped pizza-ing her skis on every turn. The teenage boy who spent the first hour trying to impress mehas actually improved the most—though I'd rather eat my ski pole than tell him that and restart the flirting attempts.

As we glide to a stop at the bottom of the run, I plaster on my professional smile. "Great job today, everyone! Remember what we worked on—weight distribution, pole placement, and respecting the fall line. Questions before we wrap up?"

After fielding the usual questions and deflecting an invitation for "après-ski drinks" from Investment Banker, I watch my students disperse toward the lodge. The Miner's Lantern will be packed tonight with tourists knocking back overpriced "Mountain Mule" cocktails, all claiming they conquered runs much harder than they actually did.

I check my watch—4:30. The resort closes at 5:00, giving me just enough time for one more run before the lifts shut down.

"Jade!" A familiar voice makes me turn. Carlson, the resort manager, trudges toward me through the snow, his bright blue parka making him look like an overgrown Smurf. His forehead is creased with that particular furrow that appears whenever I'm involved.

"Before you say anything," I start, "I didn't take anyone off-trail today. Scout's honor." I hold up three fingers in what might be the wrong salute, but whatever. I lasted in Girl Scouts for approximately twelve minutes.

Carlson sighs. "Just making my rounds. Weather service called—conditions are deteriorating up on the north face. Some instability in the snowpack."

"Avalanche risk?" I ask, instantly more alert.

"Moderate to high. Search and Rescue already had a chat with me about preparedness." He gives me a pointed look. "Apparently their training session this morning picked up some concerning readings."

I nod, trying to look appropriately serious. Carlson has been my boss for three years. He knows exactly who he's talking to.

"I mean it, Jade. No off-piste runs. Some of the instructors were talking about hitting the powder beyond Silverback Trail after hours." His eyes narrow. "I don't need to remind you what happened last time."

Last time. The disciplinary hearing. The two-week suspension. The lecture about "resort liability" and "reckless endangerment." The unspoken reminder that I'm lucky to have this job at all after my spectacular flame-out in the qualifying rounds of the Olympic trials two years ago. That knee injury ended more than just my shot at the gold.

"I'm a reformed woman," I say, placing a hand over my heart. "Totally boring now. I might take up knitting."

Carlson snorts. "Just stay within bounds, okay? I've got enough gray hair because of you." He trudges away, walkie-talkie already crackling with some new crisis.

I kick at the snow with the tip of my ski. The truth is, I've been good—mostly. I haven't gone off-trail in weeks. But the fresh powder from last night's storm is calling to me like a siren song. Untouched. Perfect. Not chopped up by the hundreds of tourists who think watching Warren Miller films makes them experts.

I look up at Darkmore Peak looming above the resort. The tallest mountain in the range, its rugged face is both invitation and warning. The locals have all kinds of legends about it. Old Man Jenkins at the general store claims it has moods, like it's some kind of giant, grumpy neighbor rather than millions of tons of rock and ice.

The resort sits halfway up its flank, the town of Darkmore nestled in the valley below. From here, I can see Silver Creek winding through the valley like a ribbon, the lights of town just beginning to twinkle as dusk approaches.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A group text from the other instructors.

Not going out of bounds tonight. Conditions sketchy. Meeting at Pinewood for hot chocolate instead. You in?

I should say yes. I should be sensible, join them for overpriced cocoa and swap stories about our most clueless students of the day.

But the mountain is right there, and the powder is perfect, and sometimes I feel like if I don't do something that scares me a little, I might actually die. Like, my soul will just shrivel up from playing it safe.

You guys are lame. But save me a seat. Might be late.

I send the text and shove my phone back in my pocket before they can reply. One quick run. One moment of perfection. That's all I need.

The ski lift is nearly empty for the last ascent of the day. The operator gives me a knowing look but doesn't comment as I slide into a chair. The benefit of being a local—a certain amount of questionable decision-making is tolerated.

As the lift carries me upward, I watch the shadow of Darkmore Peak stretch across the valley. The temperature is dropping fast now that the sun is setting. The cold air burns my lungs in that familiar, clarifying way. Up here, everything makes sense. Up here, I'm still the same Jade who was destined for glory, not the Jade who teaches tourists how to survive intermediate slopes.

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