Too late for that, I’m afraid.
We ride the lift all the way to the top of the north slope. I’m not surprised to see Roman heading for the Aibga Ridge, which is the most difficult run. Krasnaya Polyana is really only for advanced riders to begin with—it’s popular with young people because it’s known as the “party resort,” but every year at least one idiot breaks their leg or worse, because they’re not actually ready to ski the red and black runs.
I love this resort the most because it’s so damn gorgeous. From the top of the peak you can see all the way down to the Black Sea. It’s the only place in the world I know of where you can ski with an ocean view.
Roman probably thinks it’s crap, compared to the Alps. Gag. He’s such a Europhile.
He heads to the top of the trail, not even looking back over his shoulder to check if I’m following him. I have to admit, he looks powerful and athletic, and all too comfortable on his skis. I’m 5’8 and he’s got at least six inches on me. More mass, too.
Ugh, why did I even say anything? Everybody’s staring at us. Karina mutters something to Zariyah. Zariyah glances back over her shoulder at me, snickering.
I hate people staring at me.
But I hate losing more.
As soon as I’m at the top of the run, before I can prepare myself whatsoever, Roman tosses me a contemptuous look and says, “See you at the bottom.” Then he pushes off, cutting cleanly through the snow.
I have to scramble after him, already feeling flustered and hot, and like a total fool.
He really does have beautiful form. I can see him ahead of me, carving tight semi-circles on each turn, easily avoiding the natural moguls made by the cycles of melt and snowfall, or else using the little bumps to propel himself all the further ahead of me.
His coordination annoys me. I don’t want him to be good at anything. I want him to be a poser like Karina, who can barely stay upright in the snow, or else a clumsy oaf like Burian, who can ski alright but has the grace of a scarecrow on sticks.
Worse, Roman looks like he’s enjoying himself. He glances back at me, laughing when he sees how far behind I am. I see the flash of his white teeth in his tanned face, and I hear just a hint of the laugh, pulled away by the wind and muffled against the thick, fresh snow.
It infuriates me. I wish a moose would come galloping out of the trees and plough into him. Or maybe one of his bindings could break and he could get a nice compound fracture—nothing debilitating, but just enough to ruin his summer.
His slate-gray jacket is getting farther and farther ahead of me. He looks like a hawk, swooping cleanly across the snow. Jesus he’s going to be so obnoxious about winning. He won’t let me hear the end of it the whole rest of the trip.
I can’t let that happen. I try to focus on my own form and technique. I can hear my coach Frederick’s voice in my head: Keep your weight over your skis and get on your edges as early as possible on the turns. Keep your body straight, don't bend so much at the waist.
The upper part of the run was quite icy—Roman bombed down it with his superior weight. However, now we’re coming to the lower half where the fresh snowfall has left a foot or more of powder. It’s early in the day, the snow hasn’t been fully packed down yet. That means more resistance, especially for Roman. His skis will sink in.
I bend my knees, trying to get into a bouncing kind of rhythm on my turns. I keep those turns shorter and more even, so the powder makes a kind of springboard under my skis.
I’m catching up to Roman, bit by bit.
I know he can hear me coming. He refuses to turn his head to look at me.
He tries to speed up as well, but his haste only makes him heavier and less fluid. I hear his breathing, his grunts of exertion.
Now I’m almost even with him. He’s flushed, not laughing anymore.
As I draw even with him, I do something very stupid. I deliberately cut close, sending a spray of snow in his direction. I slightly misjudge my distance. The wash of wet slush hits him right in the side of the face, splattering his cheek and running down his neck into his coat.
Oops.
Roman swears furiously, but I’m already past him, still booking it down the hill.
He barrels after me.
I’m like a rabbit on the run. Roman chasing me only spikes my adrenaline. I’m going faster and faster, having maybe the best run of my life. I wish Frederick was here to time me.
I pull far ahead of Roman, the crisp, cool air like a flag of victory flying in my face. I feel flawless, invincible, on top of the world.
When I beat him to the bottom, I pull neatly to a stop, waiting for him to complete the run. I’m panting, grinning, amazed at myself. Stupidly, I think Roman might actually be impressed.
He skis right past me like I don’t exist. He’s too angry to say a word to me.
I’m highly tempted to shout something after him, but for once I manage to keep my mouth shut.
Burian and Zariyah arrive a minute later, having seen the whole thing as they followed after us. Zariyah skis right past me, chasing after Roman, but Burian pauses and says, “That was pretty fucking fast! You do slaloms too?”
I shake my head. I can’t help smiling, pleased at the compliment.
It takes Anna even longer to come down. She’s a competent skier, but not interested in zooming.
“You idiot!” she says to me affectionately. “He’ll never forgive you for embarrassing him.”
“I don’t care,” I say stubbornly. “I don’t want him to ‘forgive me,’ I want him to fuck off.”
“Well, come on,” she says to me. “Let’s go do a blue run. I don’t like when it’s so steep, it tires me out.”
We ride the lift up several more times, until it’s close to lunch and Anna wants to stop for a croissant and coffee.
It looks like everybody else had the same idea. The chalet is packed.
I wait in line for the food while Anna tries to find us a table. She snags one on the upper floor, right by the window.
Soon Karina and Zariyah join her, and by the time I bring Anna’s croissant and my soup, Burian is there as well.
Everybody’s laughing and talking, in high spirits from the gorgeous morning and the crisp air. Burian asks me about my old school. Even Karina is being reasonably nice to me, saying we should partner up on our next algebra assignment.
Then Roman arrives. It’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over the group. The sense of nervous tension returns. Karina and Zariyah physically scoot their chairs away from me, only having eyes for Roman. Even Burian seems more awkward. It infuriates me how everyone is so desperate for his approval. What the fuck is so special about Roman Turgenev?
Sure, he has supermodel cheekbones and eyes that cut right through you, and confidence to burn. And I guess he’s pretty good at school and can be witty when he wants to be. And he’s rich and always well stocked with party drugs.
But take that away, and what’s left?
A raging asshole with a hair-trigger temper.
I’m not going to let him unnerve me. For once I’m going to pretend that he looks like an ogre and his cologne doesn’t smell incredible. I’m going to keep my cool and totally ignore him.
Even when he sits down directly across from me, fixing me with that laser-focused glare.
He pulls off his knitted cap, throwing it down on the table between us. Anyone else would have a god-awful case of hat hair, but of course he just looks wind-tousled and dramatic.