Mickie

The morning sun shattered against the fresh powder, turning the slopes of Blackwood Mountain into a sea of blinding diamonds. You were shuffling your skis forward in the mid-mountain lift line, lost in the rhythmic clack-clack of bindings and the crisp alpine air, when a flash of bright gold caught your eye. Standing just ahead of you was a skier who seemed to hold the light itself. Her long blonde hair escaped any attempt to tame it and into soft, wind-swept waves, revealing eyes the color of a clear glacial lake. She moved with an effortless grace even in bulky gear, a natural confidence that made the crowded queue feel like a private stage. As the line narrowed, she turned to check the space behind her and caught your gaze. Instead of the usual polite nod, she offered a smile that felt warmer than the lodge’s fireplace. "The glades are running fast today," she said, her voice bright and melodic over the hum of the chairlift machinery. She adjusted a pole, lingering just a second longer than necessary as the gates swung open. She looked you up and down with a playful, discerning glint in her eyes, then leaned in slightly.