The Fatal Ski Trail
The wheels of the country train clattered cheerfully along the rails. Towering pines stood like a wall beside the tracks, their branches filtering the low winter sun. A group of medical students chattered noisily, their skis propped near the carriage door.
The trip had been Alexander “Sasha” Harrington’s idea—a handsome, athletic man, the pride of their university and a champion skier. Every winter, he competed for the university’s honour, never placing lower than second. His father held a high position in the city council, making him something of a local celebrity.
Just before Christmas, Harrington suggested a getaway to a remote ski lodge deep in the woods—a hidden gem few knew about. Most of the group agreed, though none were serious skiers apart from him. But who would refuse a winter retreat?
Emma had only ever skied during school P.E. lessons. Yet, when Harrington invited her, how could she say no? She’d have agreed to anything just to be near him.
In the train, she leaned against his shoulder, blissfully unaware of the jealous glances from James Whitaker. Nor did she see Angela’s lingering looks at Harrington. *What does he even see in her?* Angela’s expression seemed to ask.
Emma wondered the same. Plenty of girls were prettier, yet he’d chosen her—quiet, studious, but unremarkable. He’d even mentioned marriage after graduation. His father had made him promise: no wedding until he had his degree, or he’d lose his prospects at the best hospital in town.
A year and a half remained. Anything could change. But Emma didn’t think that far ahead. Pressed against Harrington on the train, she was simply happy.
At the station, they paused, struck by the snowy woods where the lodge nestled. The crisp air revived them as they trudged toward the cabins, laughing, young, and eager for the holidays.
Once settled, Harrington called everyone to the trails.
“We’ll start with the short loop—three miles. Keep your phones close. Call if anything happens. The trail’s smooth, wild animals rare. Stay together. I’ll lead; James will bring up the rear.”
Emma hung back, knowing she’d slow them down. James waited with her. Harrington noticed but said nothing.
The faster skiers soon vanished ahead. Emma struggled, her muscles aching, her breath sharp in the cold. Behind her, James’s skis whispered.
“Go on without me,” she called over her shoulder.
But he lingered. She regretted coming—a warm cabin and tea would’ve been wiser. Then—a sudden crack of branches. Startled, she stumbled, her leg twisting with a sickening snap. A scream tore from her throat.
“What happened?” James knelt beside her.
“My leg…” she gasped through clenched teeth.
He carefully felt her shin. She cried out.
“Broken. Bloody hell—no signal.” He pocketed his phone. “Don’t cry. Harrington’s fast. If he does a second lap, he’ll be back soon.”
“He said just one loop!”
“We’re halfway. No choice but to wait.”
She shivered violently.
“I’ll check farther ahead for signal. Won’t leave you.”
Moments later, he shouted, “Got it!”
After a call, he returned. “Harrington’s coming. Hang on.” He draped his coat over her. His own lips turned blue as he jumped to keep warm.
When Harrington finally appeared, he dragged a plastic sled behind him.
“Let’s get her on this,” he ordered, impatient with Emma’s cries. “The snowmobile’s gone. We’ll pull her back.”
They lifted her onto the sled. James covered her, and Harrington hauled her effortlessly along the trail, James trudging behind.
At the lodge, someone rubbed James’s frostbitten cheeks with a wool sock and handed him tea. Emma lay on a sofa, sedated, her leg wrapped.
Two hours later, an ambulance arrived. Emma expected Harrington to come, but he refused. “I can’t leave the others.”
She wept the whole way. The break was clean, requiring only a cast. James, treated for frostbite, was sent home.
The next day, he visited with oranges and a book.
“Why did I even go? Now I’ll miss New Year’s…” she lamented.
“We’ll stay in. My face would scare anyone anyway,” he joked, but she barely smiled. She’d dreamed of Harrington’s fireplace, his company. Instead—silence. He called once, visited briefly days later.
When her friend Lucy revealed Harrington had flirted with Angela—even inviting her to his cottage—Emma buried her face in a pillow, shattered.
James took her home by taxi, arranged her studies, stayed by her side like a devoted squire.
That New Year’s Eve, Emma sat with her parents, miserable. At midnight, she wished for one thing: *Don’t let him leave me.*
But love plays tricks.
Her leg healed. Harrington ignored her; James remained. By summer, she married him, knowing she didn’t love him—not yet. After graduation, they moved to his hometown. A son was born.
Five years later, they returned for further training. James, now dignified with glasses, resembled a rising professor. Emma had softened into motherhood.
One day, they crossed paths with Harrington. He pretended not to know them. A colleague whispered of his father’s influence, his infidelity despite marriage.
Noticing James’s tension, Emma teased, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“A bit. I know you married me to spite him.”
“Silly. I love you. And—I wasn’t going to say yet—our son’s getting a sister.”
So it goes. We fall for charm, but as the old song says—*such love brings only pain.* Emma’s wish had come true. The right man stood beside her—she just hadn’t seen it at first.
Make your wishes at New Year’s, at Christmas, every day…
