**The Fatal Ski Trail**
The wheels of the commuter train clattered cheerfully along the tracks. Towering pines lined the railway, their branches filtering the low winter sun. A group of medical students chattered loudly, their skis propped up by the carriage door.
The trip had been organised by Jake Harrington—tall, athletic, and the pride of their university, a champion cross-country skier who never placed below second in competitions. His father held a high-ranking position in city government, making Jake something of a local celebrity.
Just before Christmas, he’d suggested a weekend getaway to a remote lodge in the woods, perfect for skiing and unwinding. Most agreed, though none were as skilled as Jake. Still, who would pass up a chance to escape the city?
Emma had only ever skied during school P.E. lessons—but when Jake invited her, how could she refuse? She’d have done anything just to be near him.
On the train, she leaned against his shoulder, blissfully unaware of the jealous glances from Oliver Whitmore—or from Angela, who kept eyeing Jake and Emma with disapproval. *What does he even see in her?* her expression seemed to say.
Emma wondered the same. Plenty of prettier girls surrounded him, yet he’d chosen *her*—quiet, studious, unremarkable. He’d even talked about marrying her after graduation. His father had made him promise not to tie the knot before getting his degree, threatening to cut off support otherwise.
But graduation was over a year away. Anything could happen. Right now, pressed against Jake in the train, she was just happy.
Stepping onto the platform, they paused, struck by the forest’s winter beauty. The crisp air invigorated them as they hiked toward the lodge, skis slung over their shoulders.
After settling into the wooden cabins, Jake immediately rallied everyone for a warm-up ski. “We’ll start with the short loop—five kilometres. Keep your phones handy in case anything happens. Stay close, don’t fall behind. I’ll lead; Oliver takes the rear.”
Emma hung back, knowing she’d slow them down. Oliver positioned himself behind her. Jake noticed but said nothing.
Within minutes, Jake and the faster skiers vanished into the trees. Emma struggled—her skis slipping, muscles burning, fingers numb. Behind her, Oliver’s skis crunched steadily.
“Go ahead!” she called, glancing back.
But he kept pace, trailing her. She regretted coming. She should’ve stayed by the fireplace with a cup of tea. Suddenly—a sharp *crack* from the undergrowth. Startled, she faltered, sprawled onto the snow, and screamed. Pain shot through her leg.
Oliver crouched beside her. “What happened?”
“It’s—my leg,” she gasped.
He examined it carefully. “Yep, broken.” He pulled out his phone—no signal.
“Jake’s fast. If he does a second lap, he’ll be back soon,” Oliver said, trying to reassure her.
“He said *only* one lap,” Emma whimpered.
“We’re halfway. No choice but to wait.”
She shivered violently. Oliver shrugged off his coat, draping it over her. He jogged ahead, checking his phone. “Got a signal!” he shouted. After a quick call, he returned. “Jake’s on his way. Hang in there.”
By the time Jake arrived, Oliver’s lips were blue. Emma’s leg was secured to a makeshift sled, and Jake—impatient—snapped at her to *stop crying and help*. Oliver stayed silent, trusting Jake’s experience.
Dragged back to the lodge, Emma was given painkillers while Oliver thawed out. Hours later, an ambulance arrived. Jake refused to accompany them—*can’t leave the others*—and promised to call.
Emma sobbed the entire ride. The fracture was clean, but she’d spend New Year’s on crutches. Oliver visited daily—books, oranges, reassurances. “We’ll get through it,” he said, though his frostbitten face made him a reluctant companion.
Jake called once. He didn’t visit until Tuesday—five minutes, hollow excuses. Then came the blow: a friend revealed Jake and Angela had hooked up at the lodge. Emma crumpled.
Oliver, ever loyal, ferried her to exams, smoothed things with professors, and eventually took her home for New Year’s. Under the chimes, she wished for *him*—the wrong *him*—not realising yet.
By summer, they married. Oliver knew she didn’t love him—not then. But he hoped, as lovers do, that his love would be enough. They moved to his hometown after graduation, had a son.
Five years later, back for training, they crossed paths with Jake—now a rising star, married but unfaithful, pretending not to recognise them.
“You’re not jealous, are you?” Emma teased Oliver.
“A little. I know you married me to spite him.”
“Don’t be daft. It took time, but I *do* love you. And… our son’s getting a sister soon.”
So here’s the thing—we fall for the glittering ones. But as the song says, *that* love just brings heartache. Emma’s New Year’s wish *did* come true. The right man stayed. She just hadn’t seen it yet.
So make your wishes—New Year’s, Christmas, any day. Just be careful what you *think* you’re wishing for.
