Don't Pester The Ski Patrol • L.S.

1

The first thing I remember experiencing is a face full of snow.

The second thing I remember is the distinct crack of my wrist as I tumbled forward.

And the third and final thing I remember feeling were two strong arms lifting me up from the avalanche.

Now I'm doing my best to regain consciousness, rubbing my eyes with my good hand, trying to sit up. I don't exactly know where I am, but I know I'm somewhere safe - though I don't entirely know what's making me feel that way. When I finally get my dizzy eyes to open, I'm met with a man sitting next to me, and that's when I'm sure I must be dead.

He's fucking gorgeous is the thing - I'm talking curly brown hair, huge green eyes, that type of walking wet dream. They do not make earnest looks like his back in California, I'll tell you that. He's looking at me with intense concern, his bushy eyebrows furrowed together and his gentle pink lips in a small frown. For a moment, I'm sorry to have ever made this beautiful face concerned, when I feel he should be nothing but deliriously happy at all times.

Leave it to me to make my first thought of consciousness about a boy, and not the fact that I survived a literal avalanche.

"Hey there," He speaks to me when I look conscious enough, his voice low and warm like apple cider. "You okay?"

I repress the shameless side of me that would immediately dip into something crass, and instead try and find answers. "Where am I?" I ask, and it's then I look behind him to see wooden walls and old mountain paintings. My eyes dip lower, and I'm met with an aztec carpet that looks like it hasn't been properly steamed since the nineties.

"You're in the northern ski lodge. It's mostly abandoned these days, but it was the closest thing to the slope you were riding down. I would've usually taken you to the medic center, but it was too far and you were shivering like crazy so I strapped you in a toboggan and took you here." He explains calmly, and I just know this man is expert at talking people down. He then adds, "You took quite a spill."

I finally connect my brain to my wrist and look down at it pathetically, seeing it wrapped in gauze. It horrifies me. "What happened?" I probably sound like an absolute idiot, meanwhile his warmth and experience is dripping all over the couch like honey.

"What happened is that I think you're a little overly ambitious, my friend." He smiles softly, as if he just told a hilarious joke on me. I don't laugh at a joke until I know the punchline, though.

"What do you mean?"

"You toppled over on the intermediate slope and triggered a small avalanche, completely burying yourself in the snow. You also hurt your wrist. In my expert ski patrol opinion, you didn't break it or anything, just sprained it a little. Just don't take the hand wrap off and don't do too much with it. You should be okay."

Ski patrol?

It's then that I finally take him all in - from the winter cap on his head, down to the breast of his jacket that says in big, white letters:

HARRY STYLES
SKI PATROL

And then I remember exactly where I am - barricaded on the Whiteface Mountain ski resort in the Adirondacks in New York. Clearly, I'm doing great at this.

I look down again at my wrist. It's not that painful, but I know if I even attempt to bend it, I'll pass out. The pressure of the gauze wrap is covering up the ailment nicely.

"You saved me," I observe gently. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't rescue people from avalanches, eh?" He chuckles, removing his mittens to reveal his hands. He had those kind of hands people would dedicate hours to drawing; the kind where his skin is stretched tautly around his knuckles and his wrist bone juts out just a little.