Page 19 of First Echo

brOOKE

I 'd been on the mountain for a few hours now, carving through the snow, enjoying the feeling of freedom that always came with snowboarding.

Each run felt better than the last, my body finding that perfect rhythm where everything just flows.

After my fourth lap down the same stretch, I was ready for a bit of a break.

My legs were starting to burn pleasantly, a reminder that I'd been pushing myself hard all morning.

At the top of the lift, I found a quiet spot off to the side, away from the flow of other skiers unloading.

I sat down in the snow, taking a moment to readjust my bindings and catch my breath.

The view was stunning from up here—endless white peaks stretching out against that perfect blue sky.

It was the kind of beauty that could almost make you forget everything else.

As I tightened my bindings, I caught movement from the corner of my eye—a snowboarder who clearly had no idea what they were doing.

I watched as they pushed off awkwardly, their arms flailing as they tried to find balance.

It was the universal posture of a first-timer, that rigid, terrified stance that inevitably leads to a wipeout.

And sure enough, within seconds, they caught an edge and went down hard, face-planting spectacularly before sliding dangerously close to the edge of the run. I winced in sympathy. I'd been there before—everyone has when they're learning. That first day on a snowboard is always brutal.

A group of people quickly gathered around the fallen snowboarder—friends, I assumed.

There seemed to be some kind of disagreement, with one guy looking particularly concerned while the others appeared eager to move on.

After a brief conversation, they all left, leaving the fallen boarder alone on the slope.

I frowned. Who leaves someone who just took a nasty fall like that?

Even if they claimed to be fine, that was just poor mountain etiquette.

Without really thinking about it, I got to my feet, strapped my back foot into my binding, and glided over to where the person was still sitting in the snow, looking dejected.

"Are you okay?" I asked, stopping a few feet away.

The snowboarder turned slowly, and with a jolt of surprise, I realized it was Madeline.

At first, I hadn't recognized her—bundled up in her fancy ski gear, her face partially obscured by her goggles.

But there was no mistaking those blue eyes, now wide with what looked like mortification as she recognized me.

"I'm fine," she said sharply, though the way she was gingerly moving her wrists suggested otherwise.

I bit back a smile. Of course she would say she was fine. Madeline Hayes would never admit to being anything less than perfect, even while sitting in a pile of snow after a spectacular wipeout.

"You know, usually people take a lesson before throwing themselves down a mountain," I said, unable to resist a touch of sarcasm. "But I guess you decided to go with the trial-by-fire approach?"

She glared at me, trying to push herself up but struggling with the unwieldy board still attached to her feet. "I don't need a lesson," she insisted, though her actions clearly contradicted her words. "I was doing fine until that... bump."

I snorted. "What bump? You caught an edge on a perfectly groomed run." Despite my amusement, I extended my hand to help her up. "Come on, let me help before you actually hurt yourself."

She hesitated, staring at my outstretched hand like it might bite her. For a moment, I thought her pride might win out and she'd refuse my help. But then, surprisingly, she reached up and took it, allowing me to pull her to her feet.

"This is harder than it looks," she admitted grudgingly, once she was upright again.

"Yeah, no kidding," I replied. "Most people don't just strap on a board and expect to master it immediately. It takes practice."

She brushed snow from her jacket, her expression a mixture of frustration and determination. "Well, I'm not giving up. I just need to figure it out."

I studied her for a moment, weighing my options. The smart thing would be to wish her luck and continue with my own day. But something about her stubborn determination, combined with the fact that she was clearly going to hurt herself if left to her own devices, made me hesitate.

"I could show you," I heard myself offering, surprising even myself. "The basics, at least. So you don't, you know, kill yourself."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You'd do that? Why?"

It was a fair question. Why would I help Madeline Hayes, of all people? The girl who'd spent most of our time together either insulting me or dismissing me?

I shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Because contrary to what you might think, I'm not actually in the habit of leaving people to injure themselves on mountainsides. Even people I don't particularly like."

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe?—crossed her face before she masked it with her usual confidence. "Fine," she said, raising her chin slightly. "Show me."

And so I did. I started with the absolute basics—how to position her feet, how to distribute her weight, how to use her edges to control speed and direction. Madeline listened with surprising attentiveness, her usual haughty demeanor replaced by genuine concentration.

"The most common mistake beginners make is leaning back," I explained, demonstrating the proper stance. "It feels safer, but it actually gives you less control. You want your weight centered over the board, knees bent, shoulders aligned with your feet."

She nodded, mimicking my position. "Like this?"

"Close," I said, moving closer to adjust her stance slightly. "Bend your knees a bit more. Yeah, that's better."

We started on a gentle section of the slope, just practicing the feel of sliding on the board, getting comfortable with the balance. Madeline fell a few more times, but each time she got back up more quickly, her determination never wavering.

"Try turning now," I instructed after she'd managed to go straight for a decent stretch without falling. "Shift your weight to your toes to go to your right, to your heels to go left. Don't force it—let the board do the work."

She attempted it, wobbling precariously before overcorrecting and ending up on her butt again. But instead of the frustrated scowl I expected, she actually laughed.

"This is impossible," she said, but there was no real defeat in her voice, just the exhilaration that comes with learning something new.

"It's not impossible," I assured her, offering my hand again to help her up. "It just takes practice. Try again."

And she did, again and again, each attempt a little better than the last. About half an hour into our impromptu lesson, something clicked. She linked a series of turns, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident. The look of focused concentration on her face gave way to genuine delight.

"I'm doing it!" she exclaimed, her smile wider and more genuine than I'd ever seen it.

"Wow, looks like you're a natural," I called back, surprised at how pleased I felt at her progress. "Just don't get too cocky!"

But of course, she did. Feeling more confident, she picked up speed, carving wider turns and clearly enjoying the rush.

I kept pace beside her, ready to step in if needed, but also surprisingly enjoying myself.

There was something infectious about her enthusiasm, about seeing someone experience the joy of snowboarding for the first time.

For those moments, it was like all the tension between us had evaporated.

We weren't Madeline Hayes and Brooke Winters, the popular girl and the loner, the bully and the bookworm.

We were just two people enjoying the mountain, laughing when one of us took a spill, celebrating the small victories of linked turns and successful stops.

But then, predictably, Madeline's newfound confidence got the better of her. She attempted a sharper turn at a higher speed than she was ready for, caught her edge again, and went down in a flurry of snow and limbs.

"I told you so," I said, sliding to a stop beside her, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. "Didn't I warn you about getting cocky?"

She looked up at me from her position in the snow, and for a second I thought she might be actually angry.

But then she pushed herself up and turned around.

The next thing I knew, a handful of snow hit me square in the chest, exploding in a puff of powder.

I stood there for a moment, stunned, as Madeline's laughter rang out, clear and genuine in the cold mountain air.

When she looked at me, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes I'd never seen before.

"Oh, you're so asking for it," I said, already bending to gather my own ammunition.

What followed was possibly the most ridiculous and yet most fun snowball fight I'd ever participated in.

We were both still attached to our boards, which made moving around challenging, but somehow that only added to the hilarity.

We lobbed snowballs at each other, ducking and weaving as best we could, our laughter echoing across the slope.

Madeline's aim was surprisingly good, and she managed to nail me with several well-placed shots, including one that caught me right in the face, sending snow down the collar of my jacket.

In retaliation, I maneuvered close enough to dump a handful of snow directly onto her head, causing her to shriek in mock outrage.

We were both breathless and laughing uncontrollably, feeling like little kids without a care in the world.

It was strange how natural it felt, how easy it was to forget all the reasons we supposedly couldn't stand each other.

In that moment, covered in snow and grinning like fools, we were just having fun.

Eventually, we called a truce, both of us winded and soaked from melting snow.