The Brit And The Twit

Skiing

Jake's p.o.v

It's been three days since we arrived in France. We were pretty situated, so that's good. Mike's been giggling about something like a little girl for a while now. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, tugging him from the computers. He quickly exited the site he was on and followed me, shaking my hold of his collar free. I pointed to some blond French girl. 

He looked up and examined her before shaking his head. "She doesn't have, you know," he mumbled. I glanced at her and laughed, nodding. We headed to a few slopes and grabbed our things, getting dressed for the occasion. We grabbed a third mate, not wanting to look like a pair of fools flailing around. 

We all headed down to a semi-high slope, pumped like a bunch of idiots. Dylan kept bragging about how he'd be a pro, and Mike kept saying he'd flow as smooth as sandpaper. These two were so reassuring. Once we all were set, it was hard to avoid falling. As soon as Mike was up, he was down. Dylan only lasted a few feet before face planting.  

It was up to me. Feeling heroic, I hopped, attempting to do a little twirl, falling instead. Mike laughed, standing and balancing himself on his poles. Dylan was doing good for a while, until Mike brushed past him and playfully shoved him. They started throwing things at each other, and I walked over, trying to play Mr. Hero. They glanced at me and poked me with their poles.