Chapter 2: First Impressions (Jonas)
The second morning brought clearer skies and a sharper bite to the air. I arrived at the beginner slope a few minutes early, skis already on, red instructor jacket zipped against the wind. The hill was quieter today, mid-week calm settling over Alta Badia. A few families dotted the lower runs, but the private-lesson area felt almost empty. Perfect for focused work.
Jeff appeared right on time, striding down from the lift base with more confidence than yesterday. He wore a black ski helmet, the kind every resort in Italy insisted on for beginners and pros alike. Mandatory rule, smart one. The helmet framed his face cleanly, making the trimmed beard stand out more against his tanned skin. He still looked every inch the American newcomer: tall, beefy shoulders stretching the rental jacket, dark hair tucked neatly under the edges of the helmet. Solid. Masculine. The kind of build that made my stomach do a small, involuntary flip. Older guys with that quiet strength had always been my weakness. Berlin nights had proven it more than once. But again: client. Professional. Lock it down.
He spotted me and raised a pole in greeting. "Morning. Ready for round two?"
"Always." I skied over and gave him a quick once-over. Posture already better, stance less rigid. "Helmet looks good. Smart choice. How're the legs feeling after yesterday?"
"Sore in places I didn't know existed," he admitted with a half-smile. "But good sore. I practiced a little on my own last night, just gliding around the flat bit near the farm. Didn't fall once."
"Progress." I grinned. "Let's build on that. Today we'll move to the real beginner run, the one with a gentle pitch. Time to link turns properly."
We clipped in and I led him up the short magic carpet. He rode it without wobbling this time, helmet visor reflecting the pale winter sun. At the top I demonstrated the wedge-to-parallel transition again, exaggerating the movements so he could copy. "Start in pizza, then gradually flatten the skis as you shift weight. Feel the edges bite. Ready?"
He nodded, focused. His first run was cautious but smooth. No dramatic crashes, just a few hesitant skids when he overcorrected. I skied backward in front of him, calling adjustments. "More pressure on the left ski now. Good. Chin up, look ahead. Nice!"
Halfway down he managed three clean linked turns. When he stopped at the bottom, cheeks flushed from cold and effort, he let out a low laugh. "Okay, that felt... real. Like actual skiing."
"Because it was." I clapped his gloved hand. "You're a quick study. Athletic background?"
"Some. Navy kept me in shape, and I did a lot of hiking and basketball back home. Never anything like this, though."
We rode the carpet up again. Between runs the conversation opened up naturally. He told me more about DC: the endless paperwork, the court-martial cases that weighed on him, the way the job had slowly eaten everything else. "I woke up one day and realized I didn't have anyone to call if shit went sideways. No partner, barely any friends outside the office. Felt like I was just... existing."
I listened, nodding. "That's heavy. Sounds like you needed to hit pause."
"Yeah. Hence this." He gestured at the mountains. "Figured if I don't do something drastic now, I'll be forty and still asking the same questions."
I understood more than I let on. Berlin could be lonely too, even with the parties and the scene. Summers at the boulder gym helped, but the winters here were my real reset. "You picked a good place for it. The Dolomites have a way of putting things in perspective."
He glanced at me, eyes steady under the helmet brim. "You like it here that much?"
"Every season. The skiing, the quiet, the fact that no one asks for your résumé. Just whether you can make it down the hill." I shrugged. "Summers back in Berlin keep me grounded. Bouldering, part-time uni, the occasional hookup when the mood strikes."
The last part slipped out casual, testing the water. He didn't flinch, just gave a small nod. "Sounds balanced. I could use some of that balance."
We kept going. By the end of the hour he'd progressed to the point where he could handle the full beginner run without stopping mid-slope. Not fast, not pretty, but competent. When we unclipped near the base hut I handed him a bottle of water from my pack. "Drink. You're sweating under all that."
He took it, helmet off now, dark hair damp at the temples. "Thanks. For the lesson, and... the patience. I know I must look ridiculous out there."
"You look like someone learning something new. That's never ridiculous." Our eyes met for a beat longer than necessary. His were dark, thoughtful. Mine probably betrayed more interest than I intended.
He broke the moment first, putting the helmet back on. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time. We'll try a slightly steeper section. Nothing crazy."
"Sounds good." He extended his hand. Firm grip again, lingering just a fraction. "See you, Jonas."
I watched him head toward the bus stop, broad back moving with that easy power. My pulse hadn't quite settled. The way he listened, the quiet intensity, the subtle cracks in his armor when he talked about his life. It all added up to something dangerously appealing.
Client, I reminded myself again. Straight, or at least not signaling otherwise. Yet.
Still, as I skied off to grab coffee before my next group lesson, I couldn't shake the image of him on the slope: helmet on, beard catching snowflakes, body moving with growing confidence. And the small, electric moment when our hands met.
Day two down. Twenty-eight to go.
I was already looking forward to day three more than I should.
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