Cramps and Cheating: A Ski Trip From Hell

The weather is -4 degrees Fahrenheit in Snow Park. The menstrual cramps are too much for me to handle, so I can only crouch beside the snow paths in order to rest.

The new beautiful ski instructor, Sandy Hatfield, who Owen Schultz has hired, skid to a stop all of a sudden. The flurry of ice and snow gets splashed onto my face as a result.

"Oh my, the snow quality here really is amazing! Unlike a certain someone, whose health is weaker than that of an average child…"

Sandy takes off her snow goggles before flipping the bird at me tauntingly.

"A dainty maiden like you should just go home and enjoy the heater. Don't take up precious space on the snow paths!"

Unable to take it anymore, I grab my ski pole and try to strike Sandy with it.

The next thing I know, Owen comes skidding in my direction on his snowboard and quickly shields Sandy from me. In doing so, he knocks me to the icy ground.

He frowns at me, his voice colder than the icy winds.

"Sandy is a professional athlete. What she did is a professional ski move. Can you stop being unreasonable?"

As I slump on the ground, I find myself staring at a pink turtle cushion hanging from Sandy's hip.

That was a cushion I’d sewn for Owen over three sleepless nights before this trip, with a safety charm hidden inside.. Back then, Owen thinks this charm is childish-looking and embarrassing, so he has tossed it into the boot without looking at it.

Sandy follows my line of sight and feels the turtle cushion near her hip. Then, she brushes the snow off the charm with a scowl on her face.

"Owen told me that this is a piece of garbage that's taking up space at home. So, it serves as my cushion now. I don't think even old ladies are prone to making such lame crafts nowadays, right Brooke?"

I lay face down in the snow, my stomach cramping so badly that I couldn't straighten up.

My body hurt, but what cut deeper was the chill in my heart.

Owen Schultz stood protectively in front of Sandy Hatfield, his voice dripping with disgust.

"Brooke Greer, can you stop being such a buzzkill? Sandy was just teaching me how to switch edges, and she got a little carried away. You're the one with a weak body who insisted on coming to the slopes, and now you're here faking an injury and playing the victim. Get up already. Don't embarrass us."

Playing the victim? I bit down on my lip.

I'd worked two extra weeks of overtime just to come to Winterley with him, because he said this trip was to celebrate our third wedding anniversary.

But the moment we got here, he hired Sandy, a pretty private instructor. For three whole days, he left me alone at the hotel while he tore down the advanced trails with her.

That day, I