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Sigma hates the cold almost as much as Delta. Unlike his older brother, he’s humiliated by the thought of anyone knowing. So he arms himself an extra sweater under his parka, two pairs of woolen socks beneath his snowboarding boots, and the thickest gloves he could buy. Sure, he may have to wiggle his fingers in his gloves for the entire lift ride, but now that he’s discovered the rush of catching air, the chill is worth it.
He’s scoping out the moguls on No-Take-Backs, calculating where he’ll be able to make the most impressive jump, when someone swings around him. He looks over his shoulder to see Maine standing behind him. The patroller has swapped his skis for a snowboard and his helmet for goggles and a white knitted beanie. Sigma rather likes the look. It’s much easier to see the other man’s face, the high cheekbones and faint dimple where he smiles.
“You in?” Maine asks.
“Uh.” Sigma isn’t sure how to answer. He hasn’t figured out his line yet, and the whole point of this run was jumping off the moguls. But if he waits, he’ll look like a wimp. So he says “sure” and figures he can at least take the jump at the rollover. He surveys the run one last time, feeling his heart rise in his throat. Swallows it down.
“I’m in,” he says. He hops to the edge and tips himself over. The wind kisses his cheeks with increasing fervor, gaining speed with him. The touch turns his cheeks blush-red, makes him grin. His turns, crisp like the frigid air, carve a lazy “s” in the powder between the moguls, and he relishes the spray that blasts snow up to his knees.
Laughing, he launches off the tip of one of the moguls. Wobbles on the landing, losing speed. Of course he did, with Maine watching. He can hear Maine’s board scratching at the ice at the top of the run. Groaning, he focuses on the rollover. This time he’ll get it right.
His board slides forward onto the flat intersecting run. He flexes his knees. Here goes. Right as he reaches the lip, he springs upward, using what power he can to propel himself into the jump.
He lands at the wrong angle. Before he can correct it, he slips off the front of another mogul. Wobbles the landing, falls backward.
Is caught from behind. Large arms boost him forward just long enough for him to get his feet back under him, but he knows he felt a solid chest at his back before he rebounded forward. He thinks he should be humiliated, but he’s too excited by the hand on his shoulder, on the small of his back, for any complaint to register.
They stop at the bottom of the lift, Sigma breathing hard. Maine’s hands have left him, but he can still feel the imprint of his gloves. “Absorb with the knees,” Maine says. “Don’t launch.”
Sigma blushes in earnest. Yet he finds no mockery in Maine’s expression. “Would you show me?” he asks.
Maine smiles. “I suppose. If you’ll try again.”
“Gladly,” Sigma says. He steps into the lift line at his side. Maybe his fall wasn’t so disastrous after all.