“Well then, this is your second month training with us, but despite getting reamed on previous runs for exactly these issues, it looks like you’ve fallen back into old habits—endless deferrals of substantive skiing in favor of mechanical motions that suggest what you ought to be doing (but aren’t, because it’s not showing these things); tortured turns that, in trying to carve smoothly, abundantly aren’t; a near-constitutional inability to run in a straight-forward line with an active tuck or dynamic stance. (Please note the Academy policy whereby runs with an unacceptable number of faults will summarily be DQ’d: if the next run looks even remotely like this one, expect to be returned to the lodge.) The baffling thing is that in class discussion, you are totally on the ball, and seem not only capable of following the lecture but often one step ahead of it; in this regard, indeed, you seem even sharper and more confident now than when I first met you. So why, when you prepare to make a run, do you invariably approach it as a no-holds-barred approach to achieving uncontrollable speeds? Is this strategy really working for you? Do you feel like you’re genuinely learning anything, teaching yourself, improving, this way? Because you seem like the kind of person that that matters to. What happened?”

My run ended with a skidded stop in the finish area where Coach Price demanded to see improvement. Normally, I would’ve braced for his brutal tirade but I was unoffended by his usual criticisms. Both ears having been bitten off long ago.

I was foiled. Always overthinking the moment and any attempt at self-correction was an exercise in futility that fostered further malcontent.

“Come talk to me, and let’s see if we can get these two sides of you to connect. The problem here wasn’t just the execution, but that when it came down to it, there really wasn’t any willingness to take the next step and put our lessons into practice. Let alone prove your run even mattered. If my comments aren’t enough to do so—I’ll show you.” Coach Price shook his head in a defeated show of frustration as he turned me around to face the course.

Drake’s turn. Or what Coach Price referred to as the model for flawless fundamentals.

The drawn-out silence got shaken by comments along the lines of: “Observe how the ski on the outside completes the turn and the inside ski begins the next,” and “Simplicity: the art of arts.”

There simply was no match for Drake’s expertise. He performed deft cuts with skillful precision. I operated shakily. The difference between a carved turn and a skidded one. He had every option at his disposal. I had none. Always the touchstone of success, he was esteemed where I was distinguished only as an abject failure. Being the inverse of a working performance model, my skiing was like a poor rebuttal to an even worse argument.

The modicum of promise I once showed had all but petered out and the more I observed the stark differences between us, the more incompetent I felt. Like a rough draft hastily hurried to completion. Its plagiarized content merely parroting someone else who did it better than me. Drake’s performative knack placed him alone in the spotlight. With every device necessary to vaunt his prowess louder than his boastful attitude or grandstanding ever could. Living proof that the best stock was bred and those with proper birth, skill, wealth, strength, dress, and humor comprised the most fashionable imitators of human nature. Which was why I didn’t want to be good at anything. It was the fair versus the foul. The defining factor being in the accuracy of our marks. Some tracks cut impossibly deep. Never to be erased. You could only admire such precise and perfectly timed execution. Which shook the beholder with the same conviction as the quaking flags left in Drake’s wake. Calculated and planned. A mere function of second nature. Technically our best skier, he took a line devoid of any signature style. Every move ripped straight from the textbook. As if he were a turnstile of repeated tropes the rest of us so desperately tried to emulate. But there was almost an ineffable quality about him. I guess some flames burn brighter. Which is why large figures tend to overshadow the smaller ones.

“Look who’s running last,” said Blade to Drake after he’d completed his run.

“Let me guess,” Drake answered. “Oh wait, now I don’t have to.”

The tiny black speck started its descent from the top of the slope. Not exactly vanguard, but the jerky movements were fundamentally sound as they ran the course.

“Fifty bucks says he misses a gate.” Flank said to a fresh round of cackles which Drake added to with a laugh.

“I’m half-tempted to take that wager.”

“Come on,” I said aloud, more to myself. “Give him a chance.”

The Shanks continued to snigger throughout the entire run. I prayed that he made it to the bottom on both skis and most importantly, without missing a gate. I believed this newfound faith in a higher power had actually made a difference as he made all the way down before missing the penultimate gate.

Hanger groaned.

“What a waste,” he said. “We should petition to kick him off the team.”

“It would be for the best. I’m always one for trimming the fat.” Ended Blade.

“Yeah, right. You know who his daddy is,” said Chuck. “And as long as he’s the U16 ski instructor, he’s not going anywhere.” Drake said with rising boredom.

“So much for keeping it equal.”

“Alright, enough is enough. Come on boys, let’s bring it in…” Coach Price signaled for everybody to listen up.

There we stood. Lined in a row under the low sun. A sharp light glancing off helmets with hardly a dint in them. Hot lava bubbled beneath the surface in my veins. My heart alight as if set on fire. More so from the spark of flint and tinder as I was too distracted waiting for Coach Price to draw practice to a close so my plans with Sophia could begin.

Earlier this week, after all had been deemed hopeless, she called me out of the blue right after I finished up on the mountain for the day. I wasn’t prepared for what she gave me next. An apology of sorts. So with a shining glimmer of hope, I believed our relationship could only improve while speeding down the canyon as if at risk of being snowed in by an unexpected storm. The usual nagging voice that had become so commonplace in my head got pushed out by a volition I never knew existed and after every peak and valley I traversed wide-open pastures opened up before me. Temperatures in the valley began to warm, and whether the excuse ended up being a dead phone battery or a broken-down car later on I didn’t care. When she asked me what I was doing later on I answered hanging out with her and Chase without even asking Niko. I knew he’d be there.

Upon returning home Niko’s hand-me-down Mercedes-Benz was parked on the front curb. He sat on the porch with a lit Parliament in his mouth. A half-gallon of whiskey in a crinkly brown bag at his feet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about Sophia’s surprise text. Setting him up with a chance surprise in the course of his terminal heartbreak.

It wasn’t long before Lefty arrived followed by everyone else looking to buy a sack. My mindset reverted back to worry as Sunday’s competition entered back to the forefront. I could only dwell over how different all of this would be if I had taken the plunge at ski camp. If I’d raced in Park City maybe this anticipatory dread would be nonexistent. Or not.

The girls arrived reeking of high spirits and perfume. Once again, they apologized profusely for last week’s game. Which Niko dismissed entirely after one look at Chase. So what if they didn’t bring any weed to match? A small price to pay for unforgettable company, and which could easily be written off as any other business expense. Whisked away by whiskey. We discussed future activities for us to do between endless rounds of bowls, with Lefty rolling his eyes after every word I said. Anything sounded plausible in this swirling state of intoxication and high emotions as we eventually settled on meeting at my house again the following night.

Even once they had gone our heads continued to spin.

Leftover smoke hung in a grayish smog. Our mouths open, speechless and fixed, unsure exactly what had occurred. It was like that all week ever since making up with Sophia. I awaited each meeting with her by tossing endlessly in bed during the night only to daydream about her throughout my waking day so that I truly got no rest. Always being in a hurry after practice as I maneuvered against the homebound traffic of those returning from work. In fear of whenever she might flake out again.

Come this morning I woke already primed for some afterhours activity with its prospects looking favorable over the top of a generously loaded bowl.

The breeze outside pierced the shell of my warmest down-feather coat. While the car engine heated up, I used my ice scraper to chisel off a solid block of ice from the windshield and brushed off the newly fallen snow from my car’s windows in order to leave for practice. To which, I arrived much too early. Mistakenly of course, yet Coach Price was duly impressed and showed his gratitude by instructing me on the proper technique for anterior lunges until the team filtered in. Then it was back to the old classroom dynamic for the day.

It was becoming harder than ever to pay attention, and by the time my focus drifted back Coach Price had finished breaking down the financial costs and liability waivers we’re required to sign before moving onto registration deadlines: “…with the Regional Open around the corner I recommend registering early to avoid disappointment if the race closes. As usual, I prefer submitting entries as a group. That also prevents you from paying a twenty-dollar late fee. This does not include your bib deposit. Although not a qualifier, we’ll treat the Regional Open as if it were the Intermountain Cup. Meaning there’s a certain expectation we must uphold as the host.

“So with all of that being said, I’m extending my usual office hours. Lord knows there’s still plenty to get ready for come Sunday morning…”

He scanned over each of us with the same burning intensity which forged his sharply-pointed words, then proceeded to forewarn us about popular races like over Christmas and how priority is given to ski racers with lower points. Pertinent information I should have listened to but was too busy wondering what pleasures of enjoyment the night would bring.

I glanced once more at the frustrated tracks I had left behind on the shredded slopes. Sunlight blazed upon the west-facing edge. Leaving the ground littered with countless glittery specs embedded in the snow like diamonds.

Although we were already over the allotted time, Coach Price droned on a little longer.

“In closing, I’m sure you’ve heard another winter storm may affect race conditions. I also know there’s rumor of a program change but I wouldn’t substantiate such whisperings until the official snow report comes in. Come sleet, snow, or shine, we’re showing up to compete. I’ll keep you posted.”

Dismissed. I could already feel another cold wave coming on.

I stooped for my ski poles. My head hung heavier than the sweeping boughs of an ungainly pine. I skulked under the shade of my wooded path so preoccupied with thought I didn’t see the first snowball coming until it smacked me squarely in the back of the head.

By the time I turned round a second flying projectile nearly collided with my face. Passing within an inch of my nose. Beneath his white helmet Drake wore his best shit eating grin.

I packed together a snowball of fluff in haste for a return volley that missed him entirely.

“You haven’t spoken all day,” said Drake once he skied down to meet me, resting with his weight on his uphill ski.

“Are you suggesting I’m a dumb mute?” I asked in earnest.

“Or is it catatonic shock?” His hand pressed upon my shoulder. “Ease up. The world doesn’t stop spinning after one hard practice.”

“Try a whole slew of them. Not that I expect you to understand. You couldn’t imagine how bad they’ve been.”

“I’ve had an off day or two. Believe me. But come off it, we still need to catch up from PC.”

“About that, the condo party was a lot of fun. Thanks again for showing me the door.”

“Want to get tuned up—or you feeling too tuckered out?”

“A drink’s always in order for the working mind.”

“How about the resting mind?”

“Even better.”

“Meet you at our spot?”

“Sure. Where’s that again?”

He responded by taking off down the mountain. Cutting laterally and traversing across the slope in a horizontal line towards the skiable trees.

With my plans not until later I had time to knock back a few. That, and the more I got to know him the more tolerable Drake came to be. An enemy mere weeks ago, he now exhibited those intimate qualities of a close acquaintance. If not a friend.

Drake beckoned me along with both of his middle fingers up as he disappeared into a dense pocket of aspen mixed with evergreen trees. The entrance marked by a fallen spruce which lay brown and bloated like a beached whale. Its exposed side completely stripped of bark from the repeated scraping of passing ski poles.

I followed him off-trail into a steep chute, narrow and filled with twisty turns and difficult corners. Turning left, right. Left, left, right.

Trails for glade runs were hidden all throughout the park. It was only a matter of knowing where to find them. All the unseen obstacles and dangers you had to pay attention to, from difficult turns and corners to concealed roots and fallen limbs, logs, broken stumps, underbrush, tree wells, and other hazards, were what made such runs enjoyable. No surprise the woods held the best snow with the shade coverage provided by the trees.

Once out of the twisting thicket he stopped at a cache of ungroomed powder bordering the embankment to the parking lot, ending all too soon the most fun of the season I’ve had thus far.

Last light broke through the darkening rack of clouds as if triumphant. Drake was already out of his skis before I arrived. He waved me over to his souped-up white Subaru WRX and instructed me to use the ski rack on top. After kicking the icicles off his bumper, he fired up the ignition before peeling off loudly into the coming night.

Drunken Moose. Back where it all started. Where we first solidified our friendly rivalry through liquid means and with the shared misery of practice still fresh on our minds there was plenty to discuss. Mostly the usual griping one shares with a fellow classmate or coworker following a long workday. Even Snappy rolled his cyclopean eye upon our unexpected pairing as we sat side-by-side at the splintered bar top.

It wasn’t until Snappy set down a couple steins before us that Drake spoke about skiing again.

“Speaking of Coach, he can’t quit going on about that miracle move bullshit.”

“You mean the ‘infinity loop’?” I raised my foamy mug into the air.

“Don’t get me started. I love the guy and all, but his pedantic five-step fundamentals are an outdated doctrine.”

“More times than not I benefit from his teaching once I understand the method to his madness.”

“I get it all right. Trust me.”

I couldn’t help being distracted by his beardless face. Or the words coming out of it while he talked on at his cool pace.

“Take all his harping on dated techniques like stemming, for example. But want some real keen advice? Pick up some high-performance race boots and ditch those carvers for a pair with more bite.”

“Trade the Elan SCXs! They’re all I have.”

“They’re practically fossils. What? Don’t look at me like that. Time to evolve with the rest. You want rounded, non-pointed tips. That’s what it takes to be a five-event skier.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know any?”

Drake rolled his eyes before downing his glass.

“Suppose I followed said advice,” I began after a long pause. “What do you recommend?”

“Keeping a couple in the quiver.”

I nearly choked on my suds.

“A couple pairs!”

“Naturally. Different skis perform better on certain events. Your base grinds also depend on the snow type with each discipline requiring a different angle on the sidewall. This can be done at any ski shop with a machine. You’ll want a smaller base bevel for more edge engagement while racing slalom. Base structure depends on dry versus wet, coarse snow and in-season grinding the base to match these conditions can improve performance. But for best performances you have to keep the bases waxed. Which I recommend doing yourself.”

I was speechless.

“Tell me you’ve tuned those skis up.”

Upon reading my confusion he seemed too pained to go on until Snappy refilled our mugs.­ “Well if you ask me, which you did, I’d recommend a wider set of rockers to start.”

He clarified further. “Basically whatever has a turn radius between SL and GS.”

“I won’t quit my day job.”

“And that was? Something about inbound sales?”

My mouth opened. But only to sip more beer. Drake continued on.

“You should also treat yourself to a stone-grind. Come now. Just wait until you’re obsessing over all of this in the offseason with extra coarse grit sandpaper and a set of fibertex pads in hand.” Drake took a big gulp before picking up again: “Ahh. Not sure if it’s the rising suds or what but the mood is pleasant and I’m willing to divulge another secret—for our club’s sake. Every skier abides by a core set of principles. An ascetic code, if you will. Like rituals. Mine’s not a strict diet. Or shaving body hair. It is absolute devotion to treating skis and priming them for any given race condition. This requires tuning your equipment every other week and before race day. Especially for speed events, where you’ll want to use a stone grind over a belt grind to avoid producing a flat base. All of this demands utmost care and attention and to nurture intimacy with your equipment is the most sacred part of the process. The wax cycle increases and skis get faster. But apart from prep waxes and tuning up, want to know what else it takes to be extraordinary? A winner’s attitude.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Subscribe to what you will.”

“You can’t fall on your ass if you’re already sitting on it.”

“Whatever you believe can be confidently brought into being. That’s the secret. Even you could make first seed.”

I about added delusions of grandeur to that as well. But I sucked my teeth instead. I’d never have such confidence in my abilities. I was too painfully aware of how often they proved on the contrary.

I stared downwards. Down into the frothy head sloshing around my mug while tight coils wrapped snugly around me. Such blind faith I could never have or understand. There was no talent to be honed to a finer point. With dull faculties no sharper than a butter knife.

Drake signaled for refills. I chugged my remaining drink to catch up while hmm, hmming to each of his points about sharpening skis to save the pains of added conversation.

“Call it pedantic, but what you want is a razor’s edge. Sharp enough to cut your teeth on. Some say to wax and sharpen after twenty days of riding. But I’m in the habit of tuning them after each race day. I’m known to be quite fanatic about my wax preps. It’s the ritual that’s gotten me through every season. Taking care of your gear is of utmost importance. You can never be too hands on.”

“Are we still talking about skis here?”

“Take from it what you will.”

“Having no experience on the matter, I’m in no position to scoff at any advice for what it’s worth.”

“Objectively, when it comes to the best structure for local conditions, I’m a vast reservoir of wealth. And regarding prep waxes, you can never wax them too much.”

“I’ll have to add waxing and grinding to my routine.”

“For thirty-five to fifty race days it makes all the difference. I also wouldn’t get too troubled by qualification results. All athletes get to attend a special state wide event. Either the Championships or Finals.” He finished clueing me in on what I should already know by now.

We drank as another lull in conversation set in. My mouth stayed shut except in attempt to swallow my lumps with deep gulps. I thought our conversation was at an end when, savoring his next swig longer than the last, Drake spoke up again.

“So tell me about your new lady.”

“Are you being funny?”

“No. I’m talking about the resort girl.”

I nearly spat out my drink having forgotten I mentioned her before.

“Oh, yeah, we’ve been hanging out together. That’s all.”

“And she works at Carbonado?”

“That’s right. Think you might know her?”

“It’s possible.”

The moments ticked by before he picked right back up with a smirk.

“Speaking of, that reminds me—back to our little condo party. I’ve been meaning to ask if you had any special encounters with that fine selection on hand?”

“No. None that I can recall. But the archives are slightly waterlogged.”

“Yes, that’s fine and dandy and all but did you meet any beautiful ladies or not? Any wearing a sexy red dress to be specific.”

“Now that you mention it, I may have engaged in some light conversation. But only one was special enough for me to fuck it up.”

“You sly dog. And with Tati from PC, no less. Can’t say I’m not impressed.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” I tried to explain. “Nothing happened. I dunno. Maybe she has a boyfriend.”

“Don’t they all? Tati and I, we go way back to our early years in ski school. You know she’ll be racing at Carbonado, right?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I tried to play it cool. “What if they both come?”

A deviant smile spread over Drake’s face. These kinds of scenarios kept the blood hot in his veins.

“It’s the ideal situation. Naturally, whenever I’m obliged to choose between two courses of action I have to ask, what am I picking for and why not have both? You can stop after taking one sip or keep sampling from others. It is your choice in the matter after all. No one, or nothing rather, has the authority over your will. This is the ultimate dream come true. That which separates the men from the boys.”

I was completely at a loss. My head still spinning by the time he was done. Never had I considered the possibility of her and Sophia being at the event. I teased out each potential future. Each as fleeting as the other. Including the prospects of having it both ways. But instead of choosing between them I’d likely end up with neither. Further proof all I ever courted was disaster. And as well intentioned as he could be, Drake failed to see any perspective apart from his own. Especially one that couldn’t seize whatever it wanted by bowing to the ego’s superficial whims.

“As much as I’d love for that to be true, that’s asking for trouble. Besides, I’d likely ruin it with them both.”

“Really? You strike me as the tell-it-like-it-is type that women can’t get enough of,” said Drake. “You’d be a certified pimp where I come from.”

“You’d be surprised. I only wish the timing was better. Or that they wouldn’t converge like this.” Yet as I said this, I felt something was owed to this new spark within me. Even if that meant dousing the match in gasoline to guarantee a flame.

“Suit yourself.”

“It’s an occasion I’ll never be tailored for. If only shit could hit the fan at a more convenient time.”

“Does such a thing exist? Someone’s always getting devastated or heartbroken in this field. Don’t let it be you. Except you strike me as the type that makes the right choice.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I’m certain of it. We are one and the same. Only with wholly different approaches to our style. That’s all. For example, I myself had a beautiful and engaging chat the other night at the condo.” Drake continued on: “A couple, in fact. One with a stunning blonde.”

“Let me guess, and a second equally stunning blonde?”

He thought it over. “Couldn’t say. This was back in the hot tub which admittedly was a haze since we weren’t talking too much.”

He pounded his formerly neglected drink as I thought back to that night at the condo and the chance I might’ve had myself. “Are you going to see them again?” I asked at last.

“No way,” he said. And would have gladly got on with his day if it weren’t for my noticeable reaction. “Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” I could no longer hold back and quickly fired off: “They were beautiful!”

Drake merely examined his fingernails for dirt.

“That’s a been there done that sort of thing.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Winning races. Threesomes with beautiful women. An auspicious future. How could he abandon privilege so recklessly? Yet I knew I was behaving foolish all the same.

Drake remained unfazed as he eyed the arrival of a couple. An older brunette with an upturned nose, dressed business casual, and her husband. I looked at him with incredulity. Which I took as the perfect segue to drop my accusatory tone.

“Forget I said it. I shouldn’t be unfair.”

“That’s because you’re a good guy.”

“Too bad for me.”

“Regardless, we were shit-canned beyond all recollection that night. Fancy another alcoholic beverage?”

“Does a fish piss in the sea?”

Drake signaled to Snappy from across the room and pointed to our vacant mugs. Snappy rolled his eyes as he finished wiping the countertop with a filthy rag.

“Think he got the message?” I asked Drake who leaned back on his stool to eye the lady whose boyfriend had left to use the boy’s room.

“Meh—just living up to his name.” He said with a smile.

Snappy slammed two sloshy pitchers before us then wiped his hands clean of us altogether.

That was when the conversation really started to pour.

We discussed our childhoods in depth from the similarities of disappointing our parents to the stark differences which defined us. Having focused on skiing since an early age, Drake crammed all his schoolwork over the summer so he could attend private ski academies and train all winter long. Such talk spilled over to expectations for the current season and beyond until, checking his watch for the time, Drake nearly fell off his bar stool.

“Where’d the time go? I’m off to some stupid birthday dinner with my folks so thanks for indulging me with drinks. They’ll certainly be needed.”

“Today’s your birthday?”

“Right before the cutoff for U19. And another couple years I’ll be lumped in with the Seniors. Can you believe it? Me racing with those grandpas.”

“Nineteen’s not that old.”

“Under eighteen is FIS age. Settling for the mediocrity of normal life is my biggest fear. Which makes time the greatest enemy of all. My own cursed expectations, I know.”

“If that’s what it takes to be the best.”

“I don’t want to be the best. I want to be a living phenomenon.”

The tube light buzzing overhead revealed not a single hair or imperfection on his waxen face to break its smoothness. Nor a single wrinkle or line which marred the perpetuity of youth held ransom by his colorless cheek. Behold, the perfect model for an alpine skier. And somehow, I crossed paths with this great up-and-coming tale while it was being written.

Art came naturally like a wellspring from the individual. Or so is the idea. But I saw Drake for the first time as a culmination of all his hard work, training, and painstaking efforts. I didn’t even have to scratch the stubble on my chin to recognize the actual differences between us. Where he had every option, I had none. My story forever doomed to be redacted while I choked down the next frosty draft in lieu of further refinement.

So be it. Even confronted with such diametric opposition I preferred to wear my own groove. Nonetheless, it was good to know all of this show he put on wasn’t strictly vainglorious.

I raised my mug for a birthday toast.

“Allow me to pick up the tab. Here’s to another trip around the sun.”

Drake’s glass met mine with marked hesitation. “Which is yet to burn out.”

“Speak for yourself. Think we’ll have a program change?” I hastened to clear the melancholy air.

“It might not be the worst thing to happen. You heard Coach Price. We’re not even close to ready.”

I fell silent. Caught in a web of doubt as if the criticism applied solely to me.

“Better get going while we can still see the lines on the road *burp* until we’re out of the canyon, at least.” He slid off his stool. Landing onto slightly unsteady feet.

I hung around a little longer like a bad odor. Sipping the last of my beer. Even with a plan for the night I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was doing. Or where I was going. But I left anyway with the prickly realization there was no going back after a decision was made.

Our talk ceased again until we were back in Drake’s car where he kept his luxury cigarettes inside the glove compartment. He coolly lit one up using the flint wheel of a flip-top butane lighter with a gold finish.

“Can I bum from your fancy pack? I’m tapped out and overdue for some lung damage.”

“What’s mine is yours.”

He handed me the pack along with his gold plated lighter which featured a side ignition system. Sleekly engraved along the side of it was S.T. Dupont in cursive lettering.

We were two individuals from opposing walks of life who happened to share a single objective. Except I always got it wrong.

Drake blew cottony white clouds into the night. As if picking the right occasion to give more sagely wisdom: “So what if she doesn’t come Sunday?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“She should be.” I didn’t bother explaining she was scheduled to work.

“Try not to get your hopes up too much—just in case.”

Now I felt like the one being pressed. It grew hot under my collar. Sweaty, damp, as if someone bumped up my internal thermostat. Why bother investigating further? Nothing I could uncover now would be of any potential benefit. I chose my bed. And I’d have to sleep in it.

Yet I couldn’t leave it alone. My interest piqued.

“Just in case what?”

“In case reality doesn’t match your expectations. Don’t mean to put you out,” he flicked his fiery butt onto the pavement. I couldn’t help from watching it fizzle out into the snow as he spoke. “I’m saying this strictly out of confidence because I know all about these resort workers. It was only this past summer I met a bar back from the resort. Or was it a hostess? I digress...”

“Was her name Sophia?”

“I don’t recall names. This is only a forewarning not to get hung up if so. No need to crash and burn still in the preseason.”

Her personal life was certainly no business of mine, but having a history with Drake slightly diminished the appeal. As if she should’ve been better than that. Except I knew that was unfair so instead of adding any input I drank my remaining suds.

“Thanks for the consideration,” I blurted out, choking on a mouthful of hot ash and flushing red. All of it looked tarnished now with his mug in the picture. “But you’re not even sure it was her.”

“C’est la vie, mon ami. All that matters is on the mountain. The rest is extracurricular. Speaking of, think you’ll be ready?”

“For what?” I stalled for an answer.

“To race, of course.”

“Ready or not. Any more winning advice?”

“Yeah. Be cool.”

“Thanks.”

“The first time is never as bad as you imagine. The opening run is no more than a breezy jaunt.”

“Which course is that? Slalom? Giant slalom?”

“Very funny. You’ll be fine.”

Hoping for the words of encouragement only found in your fellow teammate and compatriot, I elected for a little truth in my response. “I’m pretty nervous about it, to be honest.”

“Bah, that’s only the excitement talking.”

“Closing like hands around my throat?”

“Trust me. You’re golden.”

“As a well-polished turd, perhaps.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was half-joking. Truth be told, I had become so engrossed with my personal affairs I hardly knew what to expect for the coming season and simply rolled along with the calendar dates. However seriously you may treat life’s drama we’re no more than jesters at play in the court.

From there, I receded into my smoky exhalations.

Drake dropped me off at my car feeling more unsettled than before. I wondered if he even struggled with these same problems and pondered over what it would be like to have the luxury of always getting the green light. But I never wanted it so easy.

He lit another one of his fancy over-priced cigarettes. After taking a long drag he broke the silence: “Before you go, I’ve got a present for you.”

He stepped out of the car with me and handed me the skis he used to run gates in earlier that day. They were stiffer and narrower and rather short in length compared to his body height.

“They could use a good tune up but a pair like these are best suited for technical events like SL and GS. Consider them yours.”

“It isn’t my birthday.”

“I already replaced them with a new pair of hybrids.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say nothing at all.”

He hopped back in the still running car.

But before he could speed off, I stuck my head in the car window as white flecks lightly covered his windshield.

“Have you ever met with Coach Price after practice?” I asked him.

“What for?”

“To talk with him in his office.”

“What would you talk to him about?”

“I dunno. I guess my progress in general,” I felt as perplexed as Drake looked. “You’ve never gone?”

“I always thought it was a joke. I mean, what’s the purpose in schmoozing him? He’s impossible. All that he cares to do is instruct you.”

“Isn’t that his job?”

“Yeah. Except he’s the most pedantic asshole you’ll ever meet. He’s got an imaginary style guide in his head you’ll never have access to yet somehow expected to live by.”

“The virtue of tough teaching, I suppose.”

He paused to exhale a silvery plume into the glittery starlight. “No spoon feeding or hand holding with that one. Now that I think of it, I suppose he’s mentioned something along the lines of visiting him before. But I seriously doubt anyone’s taken up the offer.”

“Well, I’m feeling righteous enough to walk straight into the lion’s den.”

“With how unapproachable he already is, you want to meet him a few nights before a home event? Good luck!”

His engine revved before he zoomed off in a swell of swirling gray exhaust into the gleaming obsidian night.

I stood under the blinking parking light. Unsure whether I was more lost to drink or to thought until the slow burning tip reduced the cigarette to a long column of ash.

Uneasiness set in as I stowed the old skis along with my new pair of rounded, non-pointed tips as was in style, into the back of my old hatchback. Then, between deep heaving breaths, I took my first step of several towards a new direction. Heading straight for the main lodge.

Not a sound stirred the night. A waxing crescent moon watched over me. Liable to drop out the sky at any given moment as I raced with my heart throbbing to escape the coming cold.

All that I wanted to say caught in my throat like a barbed lozenge. Rounding the corner at the top of the stairs conjured a torrent of horrific memories from that bright day I first started training with the Academy. Now, the hallway was dark and foreboding. I tread past rows of lockers on either side to Coach Price’s office.

I stopped before a closed door. Its tiny window blocked-out with white construction paper.

I steadied my breath and with a hesitant fist knocked a couple of times to announce my arrival.

“Yes?” Coach Price’s voice boomed from the other side. “Somebody there? I was on my way out.”

I still had a split second to run away. But going against my better judgment I pushed through the doorway and entered.

“Oh—hey, look who it is,” he said while he organized a paper stack. “Please, come in…”

Not claustrophobic. Not roomy. My beleaguered sight adjusted to the fluorescent lighting of his office. Gradually I could discern the sketched outlines of a polished oaken desk, a single serve coffee maker, the portable whiteboard he used for lectures in the corner, a brimming bookshelf ran along the wall crammed with all the ski instructor materials needed for teaching on and off the mountain, making this as much his study as it was a second home.

Seated there in the center of it all was the most composed individual I’ve ever known. Staring unblinkingly at me.

“Practice ended hours ago, you know?” Coach Price broke the ice with a little humor. So it awkwardly began.

Already questioning the motives for what brought me here, my failure to articulate my intentions befuddled every action, every line, to where I was unable to say what I had been rehearsing on the walk over here.

In the end, I opened up with what came naturally.

“That is true. Earlier you said we could come visit you. Is it a good time to chat?”

“Yes, of course.” He shuffled around the folders on his desk.

“Sorry. You must be swamped. Maybe I should go–

“No, no, no…” He stopped me short.

“And come back another time–

“Stay, please. Clearly there’s ample pressure on all of us. Proving Carbonado is a well-rounded program. Much of which, is resting on Sunday’s event. But I’m never too busy for a quick chat. I’ll set these interminable forms down over here—oh! allow me.”

After dashing around the desk to move a brown leather briefcase and tweed jacket with elbow patches he cleared some space on a two-seater couch for me to sit on.

“Nice jacket,” I said, making conversation while sitting far enough away in the hopes that he didn’t detect the reek of alcohol on my breath.

“Uh, yeah, thanks. It’s a new one.” He settled himself at his desk, slightly distractedly. “All right then, much better. Sorry about that.”

He pointed his laser beam stare directly at me.

At once I began to stir.

“Looks like they got you living out of here,” I said.

“Only nights and all weekend. It’s pathetic really. Most weeks I wind up working 60-plus hours. But I thrive on it. Just ask my wife and kids. Please, do excuse the clutter. As you can see there’s many preparations to attend to as the host resort. Want it or not.”

“No worries. The place has got a certain charm, anyways.”

“It’s quite a cozy corner they’ve got me tucked into. As you can imagine my tenure as Head Coach came on condition that I serve on the Committee—hence, extra work for me to do. It’s sure better than being an adjunct instructor though, which is how I started my career here at the Academy. Back then I operated out of a space no bigger than the supplies closet and now I am in a slightly bigger one. Yet, with how much time I spend on the slopes these days I hardly ever get to enjoy it.”

“A great escape, nonetheless. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.” I spoke up. Almost a little too loosely.

“Erm­—thanks. So, what brings you in here today?”

I was unable to meet his burning gaze head on. I glanced about the room in a struggle to find space within its cribbed proportions. My chest tightened. It usually took more than a couple pitchers to spill my contents out.

“In brief, to discuss my progress. Or lack thereof. Either of which shouldn’t take up much of your night.”

He filled the room with a heavy exhale. “About time.”

Being caught unaware by this reaction I merely gaped back at him in return.

“What I mean is that I’ve been expecting this. Only sooner. Much, much sooner.”

“Good timing isn’t my shining virtue.”

“Tell me where you think the focus of your training should be and identify the steps to produce the desired results. Speak as openly as you please.”

I stopped to clear the lump in my throat. Now dry and scratchy. Then I opened up to loosen my tongue.

“To be honest I’ve been (pause) frustrated, I mean, really frustrated with my performance. Especially today. Having the opportunity to train at the Academy has been the single best experience, but I can’t seem to move beyond this current threshold I’ve been stuck on. I have gone from stripping bad habits to executing nothing but personal frustration to catch hold of a technical grasp. I’d greatly appreciate whatever insights you have on the matter.”

“For starters, let me ask this: what are you doing here?”

“In addition to your professional feedback?”

“No. Like why’d you decide to leave the comforts of your home before sunrise every morning to train on the mountain? Kind of a crazy thing to want to put yourself through when you think about it.”

“I guess I wanted to be a skier,” I said. Causing him to further contract his brow.

“OK, fine. Why?”

“It’s always been my dream. Ever since childhood.”

One of his eyebrows raised.

Without thinking about it I continued trying to explain. “And the only passion I find worth pursuing in life.”

Then the other eyebrow lifted. “So in effort to identify any cause-and-effect relationships, what are you trying to get out of this?”

“Even being here, in a competitive setting such as this I feel as if I’m gaining a sense of control. Like I’m where I should be. Just not as far along as I’d like.”

“Exactly what have you done to rectify this?”

“What now?”

“How are you correcting that? Any precautionary measures? Or better yet, changes to the formula. It’s the only way to reach a different result.”

“I feel as if there’s been some improvement–

“You think? Where exactly have you seen this?”

My cheeks turned crimson. I stuttered on: “I-I can admit to a minor lack of preparation before runs.”

“Just to put it bluntly, your marks suffer less from a lack of improvement than some sort of cognitive disconnect whenever you run through the gates. You’ve certainly got a mind for it, but become so caught up in your head and discombobulated that you abandon what helps to prevent any unnecessary complexities. Instinct and fundamentals.”

Profound shame welled up inside of me and I had to avert my eyes. My line of sight falling to the black and white tile floor. Instead of Coach Price saying he saw something special in me that first race with Drake, this one-on-one only seemed to confirm my suspicions. It was all in my head.

He continued on: “Fortunately for all parties involved, technique is not static. Rather adapted to meet the conditions in contrast to so-called talent. That’s why I’m here. My trained eye sees all and I’ll break the movements down for you. But if you’re showing up here to mindlessly mark line after line… what’s there to be said?”

“Nothing at all.”

Having no discipline whatsoever, it was becoming all too clear that my performance anxiety was the result of my futile efforts to harvest months before the fruits of labor could be sown.

I looked up to meet his hardened stare once again.

“And for the record, I agree with you,” I said to Coach Price’s shock. “If I appear rushed and unprepared it’s because I am. Admittedly, balancing our ski schedule with my personal life has been a challenge.”

“I understand what you’re saying. I really do, and want to care. But I don’t. Sorry if that was snarky.”

“No offense taken.”

“It’s the same story. Old as time. So when I say that I don’t care it’s only with the best intentions. We each have our own schedules and personal lives. That’s why time management is not only critical, it’s essential. We can only hold ourselves accountable at the end of the day. Any other explanation is demonstrably false. As in life, the dilemma is all about the trade-off between the choices a skier must make in which various movement options are necessary for aerodynamics during ski/snow interaction.”

“Well, I asked for the truth if it was harsh to hear than I deserve it. So thanks for that.”

“My pleasure. I only abuse you like this now so that you’ll thank me for it later.” A soft smile broke his steady gaze only for it to disappear at once. “Now. The question is, do you intend?”

“Intend to what?”

“Try to compete. US National Championships, National Performance Series, NorAms; the Western Region has quotas for national events like these and established procedures to fill them if Intending.”

Unsure of what he fully meant I nodded stupidly along as if I understood.

“Don’t worry too much about your position at the start of the season. There remain plenty of regional events for us to meet our quota for intents which is based on enrollment numbers in each region. As long as the USAA collects their headtax I found everybody’s happy so if you’re thinking of any date in particular make it known ASAP.”

I hadn’t thought of future events let alone considered the season’s calendar. The scheduled dates and deadlines sucked all the fun out of what I loved so much. But I continued nodding as if I understood.

“Intent deadlines are submitted by me eighteen days from the first team captain’s meeting. Which, speaking of, you seem to be getting along with everybody since ski camp.”

“Yep, and all it took was my reputation. And then some.”

“I do have a bit of a confession regarding your room arrangement. I set you up with Drake thinking you’d help keep him out of trouble.”

“That was obvious.”

“In a way, I guess you did.” Coach Price chuckled.

I shifted in my seat. All that I had to drink at Drunken Moose broke my dammed tongue in a rushing flood and I asked him off the cuff: “Question for you: do you regret bringing me on?”

“Not yet. You’re just another problem for me to work out.”

“Thanks. Any other soul-crushing truths I need to hear?”

“Let’s see,”—I held my breath, expecting him to deliver the worst— “the good news is that it’s not as complex as you make it. Except what you thought you knew about skiing needs to be forgotten and relearned. Now you only need to concern yourself with rote exercise.”

“Could you elaborate further, please?”

“On the whole, with a very long way still to go, your skiing has indeed improved since our first-time training, and if that took some effort of concentration on your part, you are to be applauded for such progress. Today was also a better (if highly unstructured and free associative) attempt to weave together what’s discussed in lectures. But those tips and pointers are where the exercise was meant to take you, and you entirely skipped over that exercise. I kept waiting for you to show, or remember what you learned—but it never materialized, and in fact you treated the whole run as if making up for lost time. You have potential to be a top tier ski racer but become too ambitious whenever your tips touch snow. The frustrating thing is that I know you can ski. You’ve done it your whole life like you said but when damned up you always seem to miss the mark…”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Allow me to recapitulate the case. There is simply no rubric for excelling in a discipline. From my objective stance with the binoculars, all I can judge is the final product from the bottom, same as the rest. Up there on the icy slopes, the run is your argument. Whether it’s a good one or not is up to you. It’ll take hard work and time, lots of it, before you see the changes you want. But in my estimation, you’ll eventually find what you seek through all the daily hardship and toil.”

Wearing his emotion on the deep, recessed lines of his brow he divulged more than his words ever could. Showing the age and wear of a career dedicated to developing a model student. And with its antithesis now facing him, the sad reality was that neither of us were getting what they wanted.

“I’ll try to make the Academy proud.”

“If that’s required to declare interest.”

“Thank you again for the opportunity and taking the time to chat. I’m not entirely sure what the inspiration was.”

“You have a personal connection with skiing that no one can take away. That’s paramount above all.”

“Being a skier is all I aspire to be.”

“That’s great. Now what’s left is to develop a focus with respect to your angle or direction. Speaking of one’s destiny, never forget the importance of the process to fulfill it. The only obvious factor is your age. A proper trainer would agree it’s rather late to get in the running.”

“Improper training it is.”

“Nothing’s impossible. Who cares what others say? I for one never have, and look at where that’s gotten me. However, be forewarned many obstacles remain strewn upon the path to international-level competition. Forget having an occupation as an alpine skier. Even then, sponsorships hardly sustain a living beyond a lifetime supply of free gear and equipment. At least that’s how I found it to be after having first moved from Toronto. Being a ski instructor is the only other viable career path through the program. Which, from personal experience I would recommend against it unless that’s where you really want to be.”

“You’re saying that only one percent makes a career in this?”

Coach Price scratched the top of his bald head.

“Oh, it’s much less than that. If you already had the prerequisites, who knows where you’d be. Yet I found whenever one sticks to their discipline, they can overcome any adversity. At least in terms of subjectivity.”

“Which always lies with the beholder,” I said. “Much like one’s fate.”

“No wonder. It’s your deceit.”

“My destiny.”

Regardless of how promising my progress could be I wholeheartedly rejected the notion of ascension altogether. We tell ourselves what’s important is an upward arc in your trajectory when the Academy only cared about those at the top. At least until you inevitably plateaued.

And by the time I could command influence over my runs I’d likely drop-off cliffside and let gravity do the rest.

“You know what,” Coach Price spoke in almost a hushed whisper, as if caught in a watery-eyed reverie. “I used to hold mandatory one-on-ones with everyone. Weekly too. But for the vast majority, and for what reason I know not, it never mattered. Even those at the top of their class think they know it all as if by divine right. Coming and going through the motions. All they want are the results. My goal is to teach you a lesson. If you can take away one new thing than I’ve successfully done my job. Although when it comes to giving advice, I found people will do what they want anyhow. Maybe that’s being too sentimental. In any case, I’m glad you made the decision to drop by.”

I learned all sorts of new things about Coach Price today. I would’ve never guessed he was Canadian which explained his peculiar accent. But after speaking with him you’d think he had been with the Academy over twenty years already when he was still an up and comer in his own right. Cutting his teeth as a career professional in the refined world where you adorned your title like an appellation on the lapel of a decorated war soldier. That was the myth of the teacher-student dynamic. All I ever wanted was a mentor to confirm I possessed some latent ability I was yet to tap into—forget comparing with the rest. But I never heard it growing up. And didn’t expect to hear it now.

After a brief pause, I opened up again. “You know what? This was a great idea. It’s already helping in a way.”

“Who knows where you’ll end up if you continue to whet your appetite and pay your dues. Opportunity awaits. With respect to one’s fate, it not only chooses you, but you have to choose it.”

“That’s it?”

“Boot canting would correct your stance problem. Ideally, your skis should lay perfectly flat on the snow. Boots shimmed opposite to the lean of the leg. Oh, and one last order of business before I forget.”

He held up a black jacket in my size with a black diamond crossed by a pair of skis on the sleeve. He then tossed me a red-and-white race suit with blue camouflage and certification plomb for the season which was still in its plastic shrink wrap.

“Until we meet again?”

It no longer snowed by the time I had stepped back out to meet the crystallized night.

Instead of the usual yawning abyss the open skies rang so clearly it hurt.

My impromptu meeting with Coach Price had ended on an off note. That and a twinge of guilt from not having understood all which was said. As if I suffered from some mental block. With any hope of one day conquering the mountain officially squandered.

Seeing almost too clearly now, I pulled off onto a shoulder of the road with an overlook that was near vertigo-inducing. The guard rail of the canyon rim being all that separated me from glittering black night.

I put the car in neutral and pulled the handbrake, then I killed the headlights. In the darkness I dug out the glass pipe left loaded in the center console. I sucked in a cloud. Exhaled. Then I sparked another.

I puffed away with the car door open. Nearly careening over the edge due to the swirl of conversations I couldn’t quite get out of my head. My thoughts buzzing like flies circling a pile of garbage.

I always did prefer to walk through the fire.

The occasional car passed by on its way down the canyon. Fleeting mementos of ending a full day skiing on the slopes. Our sopping wet skis tossed into the back of my dad’s hatchback—now my own.

For the first time in what could have been months I thought about my family. Knowing how proud they’d be I was doing something purposeful with myself. To them it legitimized me somewhat to say I was somebody by societal standards.

In a swirling haze, with smoke curling at the corners of the windshield, my attention was drawn back to the cliff edge I was parked next to. I didn’t know what concerned me more, its sheer drop or the wild urge to hurl myself off it. As if beckoned down to be swallowed by the hungry abyss.

Before rolling off into the roaring deep I became stricken by the sudden need to reach out amidst the strange and unfamiliar and make the call that was long overdue.

With the inner-peace of a tropical rainstorm and hands trembling, I fumbled for my cellphone. I hesitantly listened each time the phone rang out. Believing no answer would ever come I mulled over what to say for the dreaded voice mailbox before deciding against leaving a message altogether when the last ring got cut short–

“Hey, Sonny Buck. Been wondering when you’d give us a ring.”

More of a statement than a greeting, I was met with a voice deep, stern, and familiar all in one. The nickname was also a dead giveaway it belonged to someone keen to receiving late calls from impertinent telemarketers and wayward sons.

“It’s about time.” I tried to answer as if it weren’t contrived. A pulsing heartbeat in my throat. My nerves haywire. I felt the same degree of paranoia I used to have talking to my parents stoned back in high school.

“So what’s the latest? Not dead and rolled over in the gutter, are you?”

“Not yet. Just taking time to figure things out. Same as before.”

“Right. Taking care of yourself?” Although an honest question, I sensed the worry in his tone.

“Still living and breathing according to my last bill of health. And you? How’s work going?”

“Gone to hell. I’ve got another work trip coming up.”

“Nothing new for you. And Mom?”

“Great. She’s puttering around the house here somewhere. I’ll can put her on the horn for you.”

“No, thanks. No need stopping her from what she’s doing.”

“You sure? I bet she’d love to speak with you,” he said but I hurried onto the real reason I called.

“Yes. There’s something else I wanted to discuss though…”

“I’m all ears.”

His voice had a slight change of pitch. I wanted nothing more than to be direct with him. But the words I wanted to say circumvented my tongue. Even though my parents would love nothing more than to know about my first ski race so they could plan to attend.

“I’ve been putting serious thought into our previous talks, you know, returning to school and building a career.” I lied. At least—contextually as to what prompted this call to reach out after so long. I even contemplated earning credits over the summer so I could still focus on the ski season.

“Not a bad idea.”

“I’m more than ready to make that change and already signed up for night classes in the spring.”

“I can’t say how much that means to hear. I used to be there doing the same thing as you, smoking pot, getting drunk, and soon enough you’ll be twenty-one. But I’ll tell you what, all those hours wasted going to bars was never worth it.”

With him being on a roll like this I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my fake ID.

“I appreciate the advice. But I should get going. I don’t want to get trapped up here if the weather takes a turn for the worst.”

“Up where? The canyon? Wait, you’ve been skiing again, huh?”

“Yeah, here and there.” The back of my neck felt hot. With my free hand I adjusted my collar so cool air could penetrate through.

“Atta boy! Call me when you’re going up one of these days. Maybe your old man can still beat you down the mountain!”

Without a second thought I blurted it out— “There’s another reason why I called.” The other end stayed dead silent. Only imagining the horrors and atrocities conjured up in his mind the longer I kept him waiting.

“I’ve been training with Carbonado’s Alpine Ski program.”

“The Academy! Why not? You’ve always had a knack for it. When’s the first race?”

“Sunday.”

“Next week?”

“This Sunday.”

“The day after tomorrow? And you’re telling us now?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“I’m guessing that’s what made you too busy to spend Thanksgiving with the family. That about broke your mother’s heart, you know?”

“I’m sure she managed.”

“Never mind that for now. You must be talking about the Regional Open. What’s the event lineup?”

“Two slaloms, two giant slaloms. Sunday through Wednesday. So I’m told.”

“Hearing that gives me an itch to return to the mountain. It’s been too long since I drove up the canyon. We sure had some great times in the past. Just us and some good tunes as we left the city far behind.”

“I benefitted from my season’s pass all through grade school. How come I never skied for the Academy as a kid?”

“I tried signing you up for their development program. Back then you never cared to compete. At least as far as I could tell.”

“I never thought I had to.”

“Last thing I wanted was to push you into doing something. Not without your heart being in it.”

“Makes sense. Hopefully we’ll get the chance to go up together again.”

“We will. And soon. Please, call your mother sometime. She worries about you.”

“She sure does.”

“Good talking to you, Sonny.”

But right as I thought our surprisingly pleasant discourse was over, he undercut the harmony of our little moment with a cautious warning.

“And keep taking care of yourself. See you Sunday.”

I disconnected from the call with a smile. My capsized world may never right itself fully. But at least I could always rely on some absolutes to never change.

After I cashed the pipe bowl, I loaded another with the drifting haze snaking across the valley to bar my vision of the dark canyon road.

Secluded within my car, my head swam. Fogged over with Coach Price’s last words as if it had struck the eleventh hour. The day nearly done. I thought over what was said from my amateurish skiing to having drinks with Drake when I realized that even with the right tools being handed to me his likeness remained an unobtainable archetype. I thought about my dad and how I could never be better than him or live up to his legacy. I thought about our talk and his decision to never push me into competition. Something I thought I was grateful for at the time. Now, I had grown to be inexperienced and unproven. In defense of this charge, I hold my dried-up muse in contempt. If not to teach her how it should be done, having queried the argument I once supplied for her. Thoughts just as quickly turned to Sophia. Star-crossed. I never felt more insignificant than being under her tiny thumb. A minion to her passing desire. Like the hopeless romantic type of pursuer: beside myself in a loving fit while caring about her more than life itself? No thanks. I’d rather be reduced to a drunken one-night stand lost to all memory. Both equally unhealthy behaviors. Incoming storms on the forecast were flung to the nether regions of my mind while I entertained another side—so what if she’d been flaky? And that her stories occasionally contradicted themselves? Previously, I found the invitations to join her in feast to be distasteful. But the agony of her refusal of my denied advances was a grievous blow. Injurious enough to kill in the act. Like having to temper my expectations, always and forever.

After having built temples of her wisdom, I relied on Sophia’s guidance in all things to know what was right or wrong. Ready to receive her. I was unable to bear the growing urge to prove just cause for us to be in union any longer, and so with a renewed spirit I called her next to change our plans by asking her out on a dinner date instead.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

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