Valentine Kisses: A Kiss to Last a Lifetime

by Abigail Drake

  “Wanting and getting are two very different things. And I know who I want.”

  Maybe Harrison the fourth really likes me. I know he wants me, but surely, he wouldn’t put in this much time for a piece of ass. He kisses me on the cheek. A wet, sloppy kiss. I wipe it off as Kendall pulls me away. His kiss is not exactly as sensually erotic as getting kissed with someone with a beard, but I guess given the right combination of alcohol and hormones his pretty face makes up for it.

  Kendall loops my arm and Chloe loops the other. When you’ve had as much alcohol as I’ve had, designated walkers are a good idea. Designated walkers also eliminate the need to pay attention to where you’re going unless of course you don’t want to walk into a hard wall of abs belonging to a burly snow groomer, which as we know, I kinda do, but I don’t want Gabe to know it.

  I step away from him. He wasn’t the best lay I’ve ever had. He wasn’t. I don’t want to wrap my legs around his waist and have sex with him right this minute. I don’t. Really, I don’t.

  I shout over my shoulder. “Hey H4, what time tomorrow?”

  H4 slides up behind me and draws me to his chest. The air fills with his Obsession for Men cologne. I won’t comment on that. “8:00 am, babe.”

  Gabe’s jaw tenses. It reminds me of other things that get hard.

  “And Lex,” he bends down so his lips graze my ear, “I can’t wait to get you on the mountain.”

  Gabe turns and disappears into the parking lot.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I stroll over to the ski instructor sign up table feeling much more confident than I did three weeks ago. When I first tried to sign up for ski instructor school, I didn’t know anyone, I didn’t have a place to live, and I didn’t even own skis. Now, I know loads of people, I live in a fantastic apartment in town with Kendall I own skis albeit not the best all-around powder skis, and Harrison the fourth can’t keep his hands off me. Life is pretty freaking fantastic.

  “I remember you, you’re the one who wanted to rent skis. Did you bring your own today?” says the still-not-helpful check-in guy.

  “I did.” Safely locked outside, along with my poles.

  I hand him my application. He flips through a few pages, looks at me, flips through a few more. “Wait, you’re not the chick who’s rubbing H4’s balls?”

  Somehow, he deems this appropriate conversation to have with someone he doesn’t know who is not only a female, but applying to be a ski instructor at the ski school he works at. Has he not heard of sexual harassment?

  “No, I am not rubbing H4’s balls or anyone else’s balls for that matter. There is no rubbing.”

  “Hey Double D, who’s the chick Harrison’s all hot for?”

  A stocky guy in a Patagonia fleece strolls over. “You mean hot and horny for.”

  “This her?”

  “You work in food service?”

  I stand with my chin raised. They will not break me. I am Lexi. I kick ass. “I did. Hopefully, after today, I’ll become a Ski Instructor participant.”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “That? Did you really call me that?”

  Double D and Male Chauvinist instructor smile at me without an ounce of guilt or fear of reprimand. Double D says, “We’ll be keeping our eyes on you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I say with what I hope is the right amount of repulsion with touch of flirt before I make my way over to the tables to find a seat.

  The crowded cafeteria wing could be a photo shoot for the Ski Shack. Striped beanies, bandanas, polka dotted, blue monster fur, white cable knit hats, multi colored skullcaps cover the heads of all the wannabe Ski and Snowboard instructors. I squeeze through the narrow aisle toward a seat all the way in the back. My old boot bag swings back and forth as I shuffle through, trying to avoid people’s heads.

  “Watch it.”

  “Be careful with that thing.”

  Evidently, I’m not doing a very good job.

  I nod to the other people at my table as I slip into my chair. No one smiles or nods or acknowledges my presence. Intense crowd these wanna-be ski instructors.

  “Attention everyone, attention,” shouts Double D.

  Harrison in all his steaming, man-glory stands before his disciples. “Thanks, man.” Double D ducks out of the way, as if his 5’8” frame takes way from H4’s tall, lean one. “Welcome everyone. In case you don’t know, I’m Harrison Williams the fourth, son of the owner, and for a handful of you, your future boss.” His eyes find me in the crowd, and he winks. I gotta admit he makes me a little wet. “We’ll break you into several small groups for the remainder of the morning and all of the afternoon. We don’t teach you how to ski—you should already know that. We expect you to show us you can handle glades, powder, and the narrows…By closing time, you’ll find out whether you’ve been selected to participate in the Ski Instructor program or whether you can return to your boring, everyday life.”

  Double D reads off four groups.

  I’m in a group with Nutt. The super helpful check-in guy who thinks ball rubbing conversations are appropriate, especially in large crowds. Our group comprises two middle aged, slightly balding overweight men who I’m pretty sure are related, two middle aged women, one with a bad limp and the other with glasses so thick I doubt they’ll fit under goggles, a tall, skinny man with gray hair and a comb-over, a young fifteen-year old racer, who’s dad wants him to become a Jr. Ski Instructor, and me.

  The other groups all have early twenty something year old skiers, both guys and girls, many of whom I recognize from town or the ski lodge. I thought the groups were chosen based on a lottery system but, I’m rethinking my assumption and trying to figure out how I got into this group of yahoos. Unless of course, I am one of those yahoos.

  Harrison the fourth is talking to two leggy blondes with white snow pants and furry boots. I hate it when female skiers wear white snow pants and furry boots. Like how do their pants stay white if they’re shredding the mountain? They still have to ride the chairlift or the gondola to get to the top just like everyone else, and there’s grease and gum and all kinds of crap on the seats. There’s no way their pants will stay white for more than a run or two, and those boots. Those boots aren’t even water proof. They also cost more than Dot. I don’t think they actually ski. I think they’re more of an accessory to drape across the lodge’s leather sofas with a hot drinks in one hand and selfie sticks in the other.

  “Coming?” Nutt says to me on his way out the door.

  “Yep, I’ll be right there,” I say buckling my boots. I follow him outside while the rest of the group is still wrestling with their ski boots and buckles. At least, I thought to wear mine around the house for a few days to get my feet and calves used to them. They’re snug in the toe box, but that’s alright, as long as I can keep the flex in the shins working in my favor when we get out on the slopes, I’ll be happy.

  I carefully unlock my skis and poles then stow the new lock in my pocket. It’s the only thing I bought new, and I don’t want to lose it on my first day. I flip my skis on my shoulder and walk over to the base area. Kid racer and the old guy have caught up to me, but the rest of the crew must still be in the lodge.

  I lay my skis down and step into the bindings. I’ve stepped into skis hundreds of times through the years. It should be as easy as breathing. After two failed attempts, I realize breathing ain’t that easy. My bindings refuse to cooperate with my boots. I fiddle around with the bindings, then pop my skis on. It’s my first time on skis in ten years. I hop around a little to try them out. I glide down the little slope at the base, sidestep back up, and glide back down again. It’s not until I climb back up that I realize the rest of my group is already in the lift line. I skate over and quickly notice the only person who isn’t paired up is Nutt. Coincidence? I think not.

  I pay close attention to the lift signage and the going ons of the lift chair operation. I don’t want to make an ass out of myself with Nutt. The STOP HERE sign is fairly o
bvious. I get my poles ready to push me forward once the chair shoulders around the lift pendulum. It creaks and moans as it banks the turn. Grease drips down into the snow. (That’s why white pants are stupid.) Once it swings in front of us, Nutt and I proceed forward.

  I smile at the lift guy. He’s Randy’s roommate but I forget his name. Bob. Moe. Something like that. “Hey! How goes it?”

  He glances at Nutt, then Nutt’s bright blue ski instructor jacket. His eyes narrow into pinpricks when he looks at me. Waves of betrayal and accusation roll off him. “Hey,” he says in a subdued voice, much different than his typical, “How-the-yell-are-ya-let’s-do-a-shot!”

  He lets the back of the lift knock into our calves instead of slowing it down. “Prick,” Nutt grunts. “Those guys are freaking assholes.” Without asking me if I’m ready, he swings the bar down. I pull my arm in before it gets pinched between the chair and the bar which hurts like hell. I need all the strength I can muster today to get into the program.

  He lifts his skis onto the lower bar and opens them wide. He’s got Kastle FX95 HPs, the fastest graphite base ski money can buy at $1,200 a pop without bindings.

  My skis shrivel up and die. If not for H4, I’d have no mountain to ski on.

  He leans over to look at my gear then grimaces at me. “Where’d you get those skis—your grandma’s basement?”

  “Ski Shack. And FYI, your boss picked them out.”

  “I thought you weren’t rubbing H4’s balls.”

  Yes, he brought up ball rubbing again.

  “Skis and balls—I don’t see the connection.”

  “Skis and balls go hand in hand.”

  For rest of the lift ride, Nutt enlightens me on the finer nuances of skis and balls. By the time we get off the lift, tears of laughter are streaming down my face. For someone who spouts wildly inappropriate comments at the most inopportune times, he’s freaking hilarious.

  The rest of my group stands in a semicircle off to the side of the lift area. I shush over and slide stop. Unfortunately, I neglect to observe the large blue plastic pipe sticking out of the snow. My ski catches the edge and I yard sale it.

  Laughter erupts all around me and not just from my group. Apparently, all the groups meet at the top of the mountain. Team bonding and all that. Yes, this is how my grand entrance begins into the wonderful world of Ski Instructor Tryout Part 2.

  I flail on my stomach toward my ski that is now sliding down the hill. H4 laughs the loudest as he shushes by my runaway ski. His pretty, long leggy snow bunnies follow, carving perfect turns into the slope with their perfect brand new skis with their perfect white pants and their perfect ski poles. Three hot rod skiers follow.

  Guess the groups weren’t exactly picked by an impartial lottery system.

  “Sexy Lexi, we don’t have all day,” calls Nutt.

  And so it begins, though I can’t help but feeling it already ended.

  At least I got a nickname of it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sun sits low on the eastern horizon. Thin groomer tracks run the length of the slope. Tall, snow-capped pine trees line the trail. By mid-morning this early in the season, the groomer tracks will be gone and the fresh snow decorating the trees will melt, but for now, there’s nothing but first tracks to be made.

  Nutt gives a brief ski instructor intro. Something about paying attention to the needs of your class and keeping your group together as you guide them down the slope, and a load of other crap I don’t listen to. How can I? I’ve waited ten years to get here.

  My skis peek over the top of the first run. Margie’s Delight. A solid green circle with a wide turning radius, boring, flat terrain, and a lazy decline, but the edge, oh the edge drops fifteen feet and depending on snowfall, you can ride it like a mother fucking monster.

  The temptation to rock the edge calls to me. I consider taking a safe practice run before railing it. Get the feel of my equipment. Reintroduce myself to the slope. Understand what the mountain wants. But then I remember the way skis glide across first tracks in a seek and destroy mission down the mountain and I take off.

  I overestimate the ability of my skis to navigate turns. I bite it big time. While I gather my equipment, Nutt yells, “Stick to ball rubbing.”

  Rickie the Racer laughs. Old Gray One sprays me with powder. I hop back in my skis and take off. The long skis with dull edges create a lot of chatter, so I bend my knees and listen to the mountain’s lesson. Before I can take notes, Baldy Brothers cut me off in a deliberate peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I windmill to regain my balance, but my body forgets how, I miss my plant, and bite it in a snowdrift.

  At this point, a giraffe on roller skates has better form. In hindsight, I probably should have taken a day off work to practice before the tryout, but I was cocky. I am cocky.

  My entire group, along with middle aged mamas, who have not yet earned a nickname from Nutt, beat me down the slope. This defeat is a major blow to my ego, and it will not happen again.

  The second run I concentrate on my turns and the feel of the snow. The thin lines of groomed track temporarily derail my focus because I think of Gabe, and the wholeness I felt when he erupted in me. Rickie the Racer and Old Grey Man fly past me. I tuck in for the chase, catch Old Grey Man at the sharp curve, and slide to a finish just behind Rickie the Racer.

  By the third run, my skis carve two, deep, beautiful parallel lines into the slope. I beat everyone to the bottom.

  Nutt skids next to me. “Nice run Sexy Lexi! You schooled me when you took the inside track on the corner pin curve.”

  “Any bump runs ready?”

  “Sexy Lexi, I know you’re rocking the mountain, but you are not ready for bumps yet.”

  Old Grey One and the middle aged mamas slide to a stop. Evidently, Rickie the Racer and the Baldy brothers yard saled it after a failed peanut butter and jelly sandwich attempt.

  “Nutt, I guarantee I will shred those bumps.”

  “Alright Sexy Lexi, lets see if your sexy ass can keep up with your smack talk.”

  The boys arrive with their tails tucked between their legs and their backs covered with thick patches of snow. When Nutt tells them what run we’re taking, they shiver.

  Silly boys, tricks aren’t for kids.

  ***

  Silverton Pass. The last slope I skied at Wolf Creek before my parents tossed me in Dot and drove to the land of heat and cactus.

  Sixteen skis hover off the edge. The middle aged mamas, now called Jacking Jane and Loose Lips Lillian, along with the Baldy brothers shift their weight from ski to ski. Ricky the Racer knocks his together. Bits of ice drop off and don’t hit the slope until the first headwall, one hundred feet downhill.

  “Do we have to ski this in order to become a ski instructor?” Loose Lips Lillian whispers.

  “You should be able to, but we can’t make you do anything. I think of this slope as a lesson in character enhancement.”

  Bah-ha-ha! “Big words coming from a guy who lectured me on ball rubbing.”

  “Listen Sexy Lexi, let’s see if you’ve got the ski chops to match that smart mouth of yours.”

  “You got it Nutt Job.” Without peeking over the edge and picking a line, I kickstart and prepare to plant for my first turn. I land hard and fast. The bumps are the size of Mini Coopers and bulletproof. I shift into kick ass speed. Each pole plant lands just above the hump. My knees glue together and don’t wobble as I pound bump after bump. Tears freeze to the sides of my temples. I am more at peace in the rush of this moment than I have been for ten years. I finally understand what a cathartic experience is.

  A group of skiers perches on the top of the second headwall, either choosing their lines or finding their nerve. Probably a little of both. H4 is there with his group of darlings. I launch off the headwall, spread my arms and legs out, and fly through the air for one, two, three seconds. I pull it back in and stick the landing. My Big Mountain skis chatter, but I tighten every freaking muscle to hold them in place. In th
e blink of an eye, I assess the next bump field. It demands an attack approach.

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I plant, land, turn. Plant, land, turn. I am one with the mountain. We murmur a language to each other that most don’t understand and few ever master. Every plant is perfect. Every turn is perfect. I am perfect.

  At the bottom, I slide-skid to a stop, sending billowing snow clouds into the air. Dramatic ending? I think so. Exhilaration courses through every vein, corpuscle, and artery in my body. I want to scream to the heavens. I want to jump up and down. I want to ski it again.

  A cloud of snow falls from the sky as Nutt slides next to me. “Sexy Lexi, you smoked that shit.”

  Fast approaching skis chatter behind me. A pair of skis straddle mine. Poles attached to arms wrap around me. Harrison the fourth’s head slides to a stop next to my left cheek. “Guess, who just qualified for Ski Instructor School?”

  I’m back, mother fuckers. I’m back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Our training day ends at 4:00. Fifteen people qualify for Ski Instructor School. My name tops the list. By 4:05 pm, Harrison the fourth hands me a pint. By 4:10, word has spread among the instructors about my bump run. The run and my perfect form are the stuff of legends.

  Harrison wraps his arm around my midsection and parades me around the room. I shake hands or fist pump thirty or forty ski instructors. The majority of them male, the majority of them wanting to know where I learned to ski like that.

  Harrison the fourth finds a small patch of skin between my fleece and pants. He slips his hand in. It’s wet and reminds me of his sloppy kiss on the cheek last night. I’m a little turned off. Harrison the fourth may be the prettiest face in the place, he may be my boss, and the son of the owner, but he is not the rugged outdoorsman I keep fantasizing about.