Love Lies Beneath by Ellen Hopkins

I finally stop, unlike the bastard who ran into me and is still tumbling toward the bottom of the run. The bad news is, when I try to stand I fail the knee test. Strangely, it doesn’t hurt much. But no way can I take a turn. The knee wobbles and pops too easily sideways, its center loose. Ligament tear, for sure.
    I drop onto my butt in the tattered snow. Two boarders stop to check on me. “You okay?”
    â€œCould you contact ski patrol, please? I’ll need a sled.”
    One guy takes off. His buddy stays with me. “Whoa, that was gnarly, dude.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    â€œYou cold? You’re shaking.”
    â€œNot cold. Pissed.” There goes my season, first day out.
    â€œDon’t blame you. That guy sucked. If you’re warm enough, I’d pack that knee in snow, try to keep it from swelling.”
    â€œHow did you know it’s my knee?”
    â€œWe could see it go from up there, man. But as bad as it is, check that out.” He points to a still figure near the bottom of the slope. Ski patrol is already gathered around him. “That dude took a radical fall, man. It’ll be Care Flight taking him out of here, all the way down to Reno. All you get is a sled and maybe an ambulance to Barton Memorial. Unless you’ve got a ride.”
    â€œI do, actually, although it’s valet-parked down in the village. My sister can drive me from there, though. Hey, if you happen to see a lady in a ridiculous orange powder suit, would you let her know she can probably find me in first aid later? Tell her to bring me a drink.”
    â€œLike, coffee or what?”
    â€œLike whiskey. Neat.”
    He laughs, then reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket. “If you don’t mind risking germs, I’ve got this.” He extracts a metal flask. “Not whiskey. Jäger.”
    The kid doesn’t look too germy. Why not? “You sure?”
    â€œHell yeah. Oh, look. Here comes your chariot.”
    I take a big slug of the licorice-flavored liqueur, just as my own personal pair of ski patrolmen arrive. The young one is tall and stocky, the fortyish one built like a miniature mule. It is the ass who gives me an appraising once-over and says, “Been drinking today, have we?”
    I bring my eyes square level with his. “Did you ask the guy who took me out from behind if he’d been drinking today?”
    â€œIt’s hard to question someone who’s unconscious.”
    â€œYeah, well, my sitting here with a destroyed knee had nothing to do with me drinking. I never touched a drop before this one, and I kind of feel like I deserve a good belt, considering an out-of-control jerk—who was totally conscious at the time—just annihilated both me and my entire season. Now, you want to do your job, or what?”
    I start to hand over the flask to my boarder buddy, reconsider. “Do you mind?”
    He shrugs. “Help yourself.”
    After a long, slow swallow, I return the flask to its owner. “Many thanks, and thanks for hanging out with me until the inquisition arrived.”
    â€œHey, now,” says Tall and Stocky. “I haven’t said a word.”
    â€œThat’s why I like you. Well, that and you’re sort of cute.”
    The guy blushes and starts to ready the sled as the boarder takes off, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll be on the lookout for orange.”

Nine
    My ride off the mountain is quite a production. The ski patrolmen—tall and stocky Trevor, and miniature-mule Will—forgive my Jägermeister indulgence when they observe the state of my knee. Despite their packing it with snow so quickly, it is ballooning. This, plus its purpling mottle, is all too obvious when Will slices the leg of my ski pants most of the way to my groin.
    He whistles. “I’ve seen some ugly knees in my time. That one is up near the top of my list. Does it hurt?”
    â€œOddly, not