Page 5 of The Season
“I’m just going to set up at the base there…” I wave with one gloved hand to the end of the run, where the black diamond we’re currently at the top of meets an easy, groomed track. “I’ll film you, and we can go over form and stuff at morning tea.”
I pause, rolling my bad shoulder, and make a note to pop another couple ibuprofen at lunch. It always fucking aches at the start of the day. “Wait until I get to the trees to start, and try to space yourselves out.”
“What’s morning tea?”
I narrow my eyes at the speaker, a feminine voice coming from a ridiculously oversized male snowboarding coat, face hidden behind goggles and a helmet.
Huh. I had definitely thought that was a dude, especially since she’s slightly on the tall side for a chick, at least in the snowboard world—maybe my height or an inch shorter. But now I look, I can see the sheen of pink gloss on lips, the hint of curves under the massive coat.
“I think it’s like a snack?” the guy next to her whispers, and I’m momentarily relieved that I don’t have to answer this chick’s inane question. My relief quickly fades because a breath later he flashes a shit-eating grin and adds: “Or maybe it’s like second breakfast. You know, like those hobbits have in Lord of the Rings.”
My jaw ticks from behind my face mask, and I turn to power down the hill.
It’s not the first time someone has compared me to a fucking hobbit. At five foot eight, I’m not exactly a giant, and my Kiwi accent makes it an easy jibe. Still, there’s something particularly annoying about hearing it from a guy like that. An all-American golden boy, with blue eyes and blond hair and a too-white smile.
“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” I mutter, my voice drowned out by the whisper of fresh snow under my board.
And isn’t that the truth. Even as a trainer, even with all my years of coaching and an Olympic bronze gathering dust somewhere at my parents’ house, I barely make enough to pay rent in a shared flat.
Actually, I still need to find a flat for the season.
Irritation intensifies at that inconvenient recollection, and I turn, sinking my edge in deeper than necessary as I skid to a stop beside a copse of pines, then drop to my knees. The first of my overly eager students has already started making his way down the run, and I fumble to get my gloves off, cursing when I drop one in the snow, and pull out my phone to start recording.
The first few students make their way down relatively quickly, and my mind quickly catalogs their abilities, their flaws, their style as I record their movements.
Most of these riders are likely to go into the A group, with Stephanie. They’re all experienced riders, cocky swagger evident in each turn. They’ve got bad habits too though—weight on the back foot, a shoulder thrown out on the toe-side turn, a pelvis not lining up with the board.
Classic flaws Stephanie will drill out of them within a week.
My gaze tracks up to the top of the run, where a handful of riders are slowly, painstakingly making their way down. The chick dressed like a guy and Golden Boy are among them.
I give a little smirk at the sight of Golden Boy trailing at the back of the group, his legs visibly trembling as he makes hesitant turns down the mountain face. His hesitation costs him, his board skidding out from under him as he loses his edge, then scrambles to close the turn before he wipes out.
I chuckle, then frown when I remember I’m going to be taking group B for the next two weeks. And Golden Boy is definitely group B material. In fact, he’s the most likely of the cohort not to get hired at the end of the two-week training.
My gaze drops down the slope to where the girl in the oversized gear tracks slowly toward me. She’s not quite as hesitant as Golden Boy, but she’s slow, and her style needs work. Still, even from here I can see her lips pressed together, a look of grim determination on her face. I nod in reluctant approval. That’s good. Determination I can work with.
I shove my phone in my inside pocket, then dust snow off my gloves and rise to my feet, the toe-side edge of my board digging in deep to keep me from sliding down the hill.
“You guys…” I point to the twelve guys who made it down the hill first. “You’re in group A with Stephanie. She’ll be at the post. You know, where the signs for the lessons are.” I nod in the general direction of the base of the mountain, even though it’s obscured by trees and several curving runs.
One of the guys makes a face. “Stephanie?” he asks. “I thought we’d be training with you.”
Oh, man. This guy. He has no fucking idea, does he?
“What’s your name?”
He straightens, visibly preening under my attention. “Tom Davey.” He lifts his chin, then adds: “I trained last season in New Mexico.”
I resist the urge to scoff at that little tidbit as my gaze flicks over his gear. Oakley goggles without a single scratch, brand new helmet, this season’s jacket and pants. I bet his mum wrote his name on the inside tag and packed his fucking lunchbox too.
“Tom,” I echo. “Tom Davey.” I make a mental note to text Stephanie. She’s good enough to spot the wankers herself, but still. This guy has arrogant and unteachable written all over him. A deadly combination
I motion to the remaining eight students—the ones who barely made it down a black diamond run in one piece—and sigh. “You guys are with me. Let’s go get coffee and look at the footage.”
I turn, snowboard sliding effortlessly across freshly groomed snow as I head toward the base café, making sure to go slow enough for my B-grade students to follow.
“Hey.” Tom Davey appears in my periphery, his board riding perilously close to my own. One wrong turn would have him clipping my edge, taking me out. “Is that it? You’re dismissing me, just like that? Did you not see me ride?”
