EGRV 6 | Chance Encounter

“That world had free dreams, endless snow, and truly free freestyle.”

He met Chi Yu at a snow gear shop in the city.

The shop, called The Board Shop, was lined with colorful snowboards, vibrant hoodies, and eye-catching stickers, exuding street style. The moment Liang Muye saw him, he understood why Cheng Yang had three brand-new, unopened snowboards piled in his living room, bindings still unattached, yet kept coming back to the store.

Chi Yu was helping a kid, fitting boots and installing bindings while slipping in moments to wax a board at the nearby workbench. With no place to put the screwdriver, he held it in his mouth while waxing. Only when Cheng Yang brought Liang Muye closer did Chi Yu notice them, waving at Cheng Yang without removing the screwdriver.

Cheng Yang said, “You’re busy. We’ll look around.”

He introduced them briefly: “Muye, Chi Yu. Chi Yu, Muye.”

Liang Muye followed suit, raising a hand in greeting.

Chi Yu hadn’t noticed him at first, but that voice made his spine snap straight. Cold sweat broke out, the shop’s AC suddenly feeling too chilly, the world going quiet. He doubted his ears—his right ear had hearing issues, and in moments like this, he always assumed he’d misheard.

Cheng Yang turned toward the snowboard section. Only then did he notice Chi Yu standing, staring at Liang Muye’s back.

In that moment, Cheng Yang regretted bringing him. Having known Liang Muye forever as childhood friends, Cheng Yang was immune to his looks, often forgetting how striking he was. Han Zhixia, once a folk singer with two albums, was a renowned beauty, and Liang Muye was her spitting image—her delicate features, but his father’s sharp jawline and height. By sixteen or seventeen, he was already turning heads.

In college, Cheng Yang relayed countless messages from admirers, male and female. But Liang Muye ignored the ones nearby, chasing those out of reach. His first love was a handsome ge from the music conservatory’s composition department who played cello. Back then, Han Zhixia had just bought a flashy Jeep Cherokee, and Liang Muye would sneak it out to cruise campus with his boyfriend.

Feeling eyes on him, Liang Muye glanced back.

Their gazes met, but Chi Yu looked down, resuming the kid’s boot fitting.

“Come on, don’t stare,” Cheng Yang said, pulling Liang Muye along.

“It’s not that,” Liang Muye said, exasperated. Once they were out of earshot, he added, “He looks familiar.”

Cheng Yang nearly cried. “No way, you two…?”

He almost thought Liang Muye meant they’d hooked up. They’d known each other for over a decade, shared the same orientation, but never the same taste. Cheng Yang went for athletic types, while Liang Muye consistently liked delicate, pretty elves. His past flings could fill a lineup, and none resembled Chi Yu.

“Nah, nothing like that.”

Chi Yu turned his head, revealing a small gray device in his right ear—an in-ear hearing aid. He usually hated wearing it, finding it uncomfortable, but work demanded it.

Liang Muye shook his head. “Maybe I got it wrong.”

Once Chi Yu finished with the kid, Cheng Yang approached, chatting casually and asking if he knew he’d gone viral again. “Last week, the snow community was buzzing about a video: ‘What’s it like to be pulled from death’s door in two minutes by an X Games god?’” He showed Chi Yu the clip.

Chi Yu glanced at it—a first-person view of someone skiing through a powder forest, tumbling into a tree well, vision going black. The shop was noisy, so he held the phone to his good left ear, hearing his own shouts.

It was Zhang Chenxiao’s video from the day he and Justin rescued him from the tree well. Their hearts raced at 180 bpm, shouting themselves hoarse, fearing they were too late. But Zhang? No thanks, no reflection—just posted the clip for clout.

Chi Yu wasn’t amused, feeling a pang of frustration. “He knew he was two minutes from death, huh?”

Cheng Yang, sharp as ever, sensed his mood and said, “Lots of comments told him to be safer off-piste…” Though most were jokes about “spotting a wild Feather God.” Chi Yu was a Whistler legend, popping up to land 1080s on big air jumps. Those who’d seen him bragged; those who hadn’t claimed they saw someone like him—a mountain myth.

Chi Yu handed the phone back, saying nothing more.

Cheng Yang sat to try on snow boots. Liang Muye lingered by the counter alone.

Chi Yu cleared his throat before speaking. “What’s… your skill level?”

“For snowboarding, I can edge, I guess. It’s been a while, but give me time, I’ll pick it back up.”

Chi Yu listened, cautiously sizing him up, his gaze lingering on Liang Muye’s face. The voice was eerily similar, but thankfully, the face wasn’t.

“How tall are you? Weight?”

“183 cm, 72-73 kg.”

Chi Yu thought for a moment. “Try my board then. I’ve got an all-mountain that should suit you. Pick boots today.”

Liang Muye straightened, countering, “How tall are you?”

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, he could tell he was at least five centimeters taller and heavier. Having skied double boards growing up, he knew board length scaled with height and weight.

Chi Yu turned, lips curling into something like a smile. “My boards are long. You’ll only go faster.”

Cheng Yang looked up, seeing Chi Yu grabbing boots, confused. “Didn’t you say no skiing?”

“You said that, not me,” Liang Muye said, sitting beside him. nécessitas“You’re going this weekend, right? I’ll ride with you. No point wasting the trip.”

After they left, Chi Yu checked the time—4:45 p.m. He told the boss he was heading to the night session and clocking out early.

The shop owner, surnamed Yu, a Chinese snow enthusiast nearing forty, had moved to Canada for skiing and later bought the sporting goods store. Chi Yu had worked there part-time for two or three years, starting in the stockroom and moving to the front. Three years ago, recovering from a serious injury, doctors banned him from snow for a year. Without this job, he’d have missed rent.

Things were different now. Coaching on the mountain paid better than shop work, but out of loyalty to Yu, he spent a few afternoons a week at the store, resting between training and lessons. He offered expert advice to gear buyers.

When Chi Yu said he was leaving early, Yu didn’t notice anything off, just told him to drive safely up the mountain. A routine remark, said a thousand times before. But this time, Chi Yu paused. Then he walked off, unlocked his car, and tossed his board and helmet into the trunk.

With his congenital hearing issues, Chi Yu was hyper-sensitive to familiar voices. The moment Liang Muye greeted him, he thought it was Liang Yichuan returning.

Like in countless unfinished dreams, someone walked toward him through the open, snowy mountaintop, approaching the creaky glass door. Calling him to night ski, to shred the mountain together.

They met in Chi Yu’s eighteenth winter. Having left youth training, he moved to Calgary alone to train. In Revelstoke, he met a group of freestyle skiers, including an Asian face half a head shorter than him. “I’m Liang Yichuan,” he said, insisting everyone get his name right. From that moment, Chi Yu liked the kid.

They tackled forests only double boards could handle. That year, Chi Yu’s tree-line powder skills soared, mastering the splitboard.

The next winter, Chi Yu briefly left Canada, skiing off-piste at Mammoth Mountain for over a month, crashing on a friend’s couch. By season’s end, he knew Mammoth’s backcountry like the back of his hand, shining in a freestyle challenge race. He didn’t place top three, but judges praised him as the flashiest freestyler, daring the deepest cliffs and riskiest tricks.

At season’s end, a Rossignol rep gave him their contact, considering him for a youth snowboarder endorsement. Rossignol hadn’t signed anyone under twenty, and rumors said they’d pick one. That U.S. trip felt like the launchpad for his career. He scribbled the number on a scrap of paper, tucking it into his pocket.

The next day, Liang Yichuan called. At seventeen, he’d secretly signed up for a local Canadian freestyle race at their familiar Revelstoke. He said his dad wanted him focused on studies, not global competitions. A good result could prove himself. Among his peers, only Chi Yu, long independent, had a car and license. Yichuan begged him to drive.

Chi Yu used his race winnings to buy an expensive next-day return ticket, telling Yichuan to stay put in Calgary. Ignoring his own twisted knee from the U.S. race, sleepless from the flight, he picked up Yichuan and drove through the night to the race.

Like their secret night skis, Yichuan snuck out, packed their gear, sleeping bags, and essentials. Chi Yu climbed into the pickup’s driver seat, studying a map by dim light. In his mind, they’d head west, escaping constraints, toward an adult world—a place of free dreams, endless snow, and truly free freestyle.

As if by unspoken agreement, Chi Yu set down his phone after mapping the route. Yichuan, done packing, hopped in, flashed a smile, and said thanks.

That moment replayed in Chi Yu’s mind a thousand times. In countless dreams, he tried every way to refuse.

He’d say, I think your dad’s right—there’ll be better races for you. Let this one go. Or, My knee’s acting up; I can’t keep skiing. Let’s skip it. Or even, Sorry, I can’t help this time.

But the dream always shattered, like reality, falling apart.

When he woke, he’d remember what he actually said: “Alright. Let’s go.”