Wei Zhi stubbornly turned her head away and began to sidestep down the slope, putting as much distance between them as possible in case he decided to drag her back and give her a piece of his mind. “You started it,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m just retaliating.”
Shan Chong watched her clumsy retreat, his frustration mounting. He couldn’t very well drag her back and kick her like he might with a male student.
Suppressing his annoyance, he reminded himself of his teaching plan and forced himself to focus on her technique. “Extend your heel edge more,” he instructed. “Commit to the falling leaf turn. You’re barely angling the board before flattening it out. What’s the difference between that and simply sliding down? It’s slow and unstable. We’ve been at this for three days, and you’ve slid down every slope countless times. Why are you still so afraid of speed? It’s going to be difficult to progress if you don’t overcome this fear—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Wei Zhi tumbled backward.
“Thump!” The sound of her impact reverberated through the air, sending a spray of snow flying.
“You’re going to give the turtles a complex,” Shan Chong said, easily catching up to her and stopping beside her. “What happened this time?”
“I wouldn’t fall if you weren’t constantly nagging,” she retorted, her voice muffled by the snow.
“You blame your clumsiness on my talking?”
“Yes,” she stated matter-of-factly.
From the moment the ski lift closed and he dragged her back onto the slopes, their usual playful banter had been replaced by a tense standoff.
“Fine, I’ll be quiet,” Shan Chong conceded. “Engage your heel edge and get up.”
The topic of “getting up” brought them back to their initial argument at the top of the mountain.
“I can get up, but why do I have to do it facing forward?” Wei Zhi argued. “People need to be adaptable. I can just turn around, face downhill, and push myself up…”
As she spoke, she demonstrated, twisting her body on the slope until she was once again lying flat on her back. Then, using her hands for support, she pushed herself up, successfully regaining her footing.
For a moment, she felt a surge of triumph.
“See!” she exclaimed, dusting the snow off her gloves. “I got up!”
Silence met her declaration.
Shan Chong, standing downhill from her, simply uttered a single word: “And?”
“And what?” Wei Zhi asked, confused.
“You’re just going to stand there, facing uphill, with your toes dug into the snow?” he asked, his tone dry. “How do you plan on turning around?”
“…”
Wei Zhi glanced back at him, her brow furrowed. The man stood motionless on his snowboard, his arms crossed. Even with his face mask obscuring his expression, she could sense his utter lack of amusement.
“Give me a hand,” she mumbled.
“Nope,” he replied flatly.
Silence descended once more. After a beat, Wei Zhi sighed. “Fine, let’s practice heel edge turns then. My legs are sore from all the toe edge turns anyway.”
Expecting her usual whining and complaints, Shan Chong was surprised by her sudden compliance. He watched as she squared her shoulders and began practicing her heel edge turns with newfound determination. He couldn’t help but comment, “You’re surprisingly adaptable when you want to be.”
“It’s not like you’re going to help me otherwise,” she retorted, her voice devoid of its usual playful lilt.
Her words hung in the air. Even someone as oblivious as Shan Chong sensed the shift in her demeanor. He shifted his weight on his snowboard, the board making a soft “thump” against the packed snow as he hopped backward up the slope, stopping beside her.
He leaned closer, peering at her technique. Wei Zhi, noticing his presence in her peripheral vision, stiffened slightly. “Don’t block the way,” she muttered, averting her gaze.
Shan Chong backed up, giving her space.
For the remainder of their descent, they skied in silence.
Apart from the occasional instruction from Shan Chong, guiding her through the intricacies of heel-edge falling leaf turns, the only sound that filled the air was the soft “shhh” of their snowboards gliding over the snow.
By the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, it was past six o’clock, and darkness had completely enveloped the sky.
Exhausted and famished, Wei Zhi bent down to unfasten her bindings. As she did, her knees buckled, and she stumbled forward.
She braced herself for impact, but instead of landing on the hard-packed snow, she felt a pair of strong hands grip her arms, steadying her.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. Then, the familiar scent of cold wood and masculine cologne filled her senses, and she realized who it was.
Without a word, she pulled away from his grasp, regaining her balance.
Bending down, she picked up her snowboard and began brushing the accumulated snow off its surface.
“What’s with you?” Shan Chong’s voice came from above. “Throwing a tantrum?”
Wei Zhi ignored him, focusing on cleaning her board.
Suddenly, a hand reached out and plucked the snowboard from her grasp. She whirled around, glaring at him through her snow goggles.
His eyes, visible above his face mask, were unreadable in the darkness. The lack of starlight made it impossible to discern any emotion in their depths.
When he spoke, his voice was clipped, laced with an almost imperceptible edge of arrogance.
“This is what it’s like being my student,” he stated. “You’re the one who insisted on becoming my apprentice. Male or female, my previous female student spent every waking moment at the resort, practicing from opening to closing. She broke three boards in a single season. I don’t see a problem with my teaching methods.”
His words were cold, devoid of any warmth or humor.
Wei Zhi’s grip tightened on her helmet. “But you don’t see me as your student,” she retorted, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
She lowered her hand, letting it fall to her side. A gust of wind whipped past, sending a shiver down her spine. Gritting her teeth, she continued, “Admit it, you never considered me a real apprentice. Lao Yan told me you have a WeChat group for all your students… but you never even thought about adding me.”
Her voice was quiet, devoid of accusation or blame. It was a simple statement of fact, a truth she had long suspected and come to terms with.
But even suppressed emotions had a way of bubbling to the surface.
Voicing her realization aloud brought a wave of unexpected sadness washing over her. She couldn’t quite place the feeling. After all, she hadn’t been particularly upset when she first found out.
But his cold, indifferent words, “You’re the one who insisted on becoming my apprentice,” stung more than she cared to admit.
Clutching her helmet tightly, she adjusted her snow goggles, grateful for the barrier they provided. At least this way, he wouldn’t be able to see the tears pricking at her eyes. “Fine,” she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. “Whatever.”
Without another word, she turned and stalked towards the lodge.
She had only taken a few steps when a hand shot out, clamping down on her shoulder, and spinning her around.
Startled, Wei Zhi stumbled, her eyes widening in surprise. Before she could protest, the hand on her shoulder tightened its grip, forcing her to turn around.
She found herself face-to-face with Shan Chong. Before she could react, he reached up and pulled her snow goggles off, momentarily flooding her vision with light.
The next instant, something soft and slightly cold brushed against her face as he pulled a beanie over her head. She blinked, her vision now tinted with a rosy hue as she realized he had replaced her goggles with a new pair.
“…”
Wei Zhi stared at him, speechless.
“This was your first time learning to ski,” Shan Chong said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It was also my first time teaching someone from scratch. We’re both figuring things out as we go. So how about you try being a little more patient, hmm?”
He paused, his gaze softening slightly.
“Your heel edge turns were good,” he added. “You did well tonight.”
He reached out and tapped the lens of the Burton M4 snow goggles he had just placed on her face. Wei Zhi instinctively flinched, but he only chuckled softly.
“Consider this your official welcome gift,” he said, his voice regaining some of its usual playful lilt. “No need to thank me.”