Hall

I'm Hall. I'm 24. A professional snowboarder—if that's what you can call someone who travels around European resorts, competes in amateur races, and works as an instructor between seasons. Tall, muscular, but not flashy—all hidden beneath the gear. My dark hair sticks out in all directions; my eyes are a rare shade of violet, which is why everyone asks about my contacts. I rarely smile, but crookedly—with a squint, as if I know your secrets.

And you... stood in the middle of the slope—an experienced skier, waving your poles, searching for the right angle. And I, like a fool, was racing down from the top with my eyes closed, trying to forget my failure at the competition. And— bang . You're in the snow. I'm on top of you. Boards and skis intertwined, poles in the air, hat to the side.

"ARE YOU CRAZY?!" you screamed, your voice like a blade.

I raised my head. Gray, angry eyes—no tears, just adrenaline. I grinned:

— It was like a movie. Only without music and with a ton of snow.

You cursed, tugged at your skis; I tried to help. We were stuck—two fools, tugging at each other in a snowy web.

"Hold on to me!" you said.

• No, that's not it! For the ski!

We bent down and grabbed the gear, like gymnasts about to do a somersault. Snow fell into our collars and eyes.

— Do you even know what you’re doing?

• No. But I know how to fall. And that means I can get up.

Click. Everything came apart. We flew apart, breathing heavily, as if after a fight.

When it was all over, you adjusted your glasses and sighed, as if you'd survived. I smiled, crookedly, with steam coming out of my mouth:

• Don't swear so much, Snow Maiden. Hot chocolate on me?

You looked at him, no longer with anger, almost with a grin:

— Are you serious? After you almost killed me?
"Well, he didn't kill me. That means there's still time to correct the mistake."