It's All in Your Head

by Sabina Nordqvist

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A “poignant and swoony” romance about a woman with a rare neurological condition who agrees to fake-date the hot guy in her chronic pain support group—only to discover he’s an Olympic snowboarder whose career-ending injury is as infamous as his dating history (Gigi Griffis, author of The Empress).

Your fake relationship shouldn’t come with chronic feelings.

Skylar is done with offline relationships—especially romantic ones. Living with chronic illness means she’s heard it all before: unreliable, high-maintenance, too much. She’d rather spend her free time in her online chronic pain support group, and lately, she can’t help but notice Pike, the hot new guy with a penchant for broody poetry. When a chaotic night in the group forces her to pose as his girlfriend, she reluctantly agrees to keep up the charade in real life. Surprisingly, he’s thoughtful, sweet, and—most importantly—doesn’t flinch at the things that have scared others away.

Fake dating gets a lot more complicated when she discovers Pike isn’t just some guy. He’s a professional snowboarder whose career-ending injury is as infamous as his playboy past. He won’t talk about that, though. He’s fine. Really. But pretending to be in love with Skylar turns out to be the least depressing thing he’s done in months. As they spend more time together, she starts to notice the cracks in his carefully crafted image, and for once, he doesn’t mind being seen.

After all the bed-sharing and late-night talks, it becomes harder for both of them to pretend. But just as things start turning real, the paparazzi catch on, wanting the scoop on how everyone’s favorite Olympic medalist is doing post-accident. Dating while disabled comes with challenges of its own, but public speculation and invasive questions are something else entirely. If their newfound feelings can’t survive the spotlight, their not-so-fake relationship may be over before it ever truly begins.

Release date: February 10, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

There’s nothing like a notification from the hot guy in your support group to make you momentarily forget how miserable you are. I refresh the page, half-sure my painsomnia has reached a level of making me hallucinate. But it’s still there.

Pike replied to your post.

I switch my cooling lavender compress from the left side of my face to my right and adjust the heat pack under my neck. It doesn’t take away the feeling that invisible brain fingers are trying to pop my eyeballs out of their sockets, but it makes squinting at my phone through one eye more tolerable. Since I’ve come out of remission with my idiopathic intracranial hypertension, hanging out in my online chronic pain support group is the only thing that gets me through unbearable nights like this.

I click on my latest post.

Skylar King: Anyone else’s champagne tonight electrolyte water? Their party hat a pillow? *gestures around in exhaustion* Can’t wait for the holidays to be over.

There are a host of commiserating replies. Members who are looking forward to tonight’s hangout. And now, Pike.

Pike: Couldn’t have said it better myself.

I screenshot and jump into my private chat with Analia and Emy, my best friends and fellow group members.

Yes, it’s a generic reply, I write. Anyone could’ve said it. But the fact that it’s *Pike* makes me want to squeal.

ahh! Emy sends thirsty GIFs. it says he’s online too! welcome to late night with the ladies, sir!

I laugh into my heat pack, the smell of stale rice making my nose wrinkle, then check the member list. There are 1,179 of us; right now, 77 are online. And Pike—no last name, no emojis—is one of them. I’m always online at night, and I’ve never seen Pike in the group past 10:00 p.m. He’s probably a functioning adult, not a twenty-six-year-old with a parasympathetic system that makes her body think it’s awake when it’s supposed to be asleep (among my other great qualities).

Analia sends a wink. Someone still has a crush on a profile picture.

I reply with a heart. He’s online on New Year’s Eve! Makes me like him even more.

maybe he’s joining the party, Emy says.

As a group admin, I host virtual hangouts for people like me who don’t have supportive friends or family outside the group. Tonight, we’re supposed to be watching the ball drop together, but I can’t handle all the flashing lights. The only part of me ringing in the New Year is my tinnitus.

I enter the hangout room. At least ten others join in succession. Did they notice Pike come on and also want the chance to chat with him before anyone else? All it takes is one hot man joining your support group for grown-ass women to regress into middle school girls.

For the record, I noticed him first.

When he joined three months ago, it was his picture that caught my attention. Side profile. Pensive in front of a mountain peak. Muscular build. A bit too I know I’m hot. With a brush cut, sharp jaw, and a hint of scruff just a shade darker than his rich brown hair, it was hard not to take a second look.

Or a twentieth.

After all, I’m the admin who approved his request. All we require for membership is that either you or a loved one have chronic pain, are over the age of eighteen, live in Rochester, and promise to abide by all group rules. Some applicants give us essays on their diagnoses. Pike just answered yes to every question, so I didn’t learn anything else about him.

Nope, I say. He hasn’t joined.

Emy sends a detective emoji. lost: mysterious sexy man we’re dying to meet.

I grin. If found, please return him to my DMs.

The thing about Pike is, he lurks. He rarely replies to anyone beyond offering a stray like. I get it. A lot of people in support groups lurk, overwhelmed by the plethora of knowledge and the number of different health conditions represented.

Pike has only ever posted four times.

First, an intro—common for new members: Hi, thanks for letting me join. Hope everyone is having a low-pain day. Not much to go off, pretty generic. He got a whopping 257 likes.

Second, a mobility aid question: Any suggestions for canes that work in the snow? What are your favorite models?

Unless he was Christmas shopping, the man uses a cane for something.

Then, the most interesting one: For those with visible disabilities, are people constantly asking if you can still have sex?

The answer is, yes, of course, everyone is a nosy fuck when it comes to disabilities, especially if it relates to our sex lives, so he might be more recently disabled.

And lastly: Is it okay to have a beer every once in a while with oxy? Just one. Special occasion.

I spent a night fantasizing about what his special occasion might be. If there was a special someone. Maybe someone asked him about his junk again and he finally told them, Yes, I can still give you the best orgasm of your life.

I’ve commented on his posts, but this is the first time he’s interacted with me.

I drop a few replies in the hangout to show I’m around, but a part of me hopes he won’t join. Not tonight. Being online is such a double-edged sword. I love talking to my friends, but it also hurts to look at screens when my cerebrospinal fluid pressure is skyrocketing, the way it is now from my IIH.

The base of my skull burns, so I reluctantly shuffle out of bed to switch out the compress for my ice hat. Every step feels like a plane roaring off the runway that wants to jerk me back into my seat. I grab a sip of water too. It doesn’t help the tingling in the left side of my upper lip.

My fault for waiting until winter break to start my meds. I’ve spent the holidays stumbling around banging into random walls and gasping for air while I get re-accustomed to my meds. But I’d rather waste my uneventful break than take sick leave.

That gives me another two weeks to adjust to the many side effects of the pills meant to lower my intracranial pressure. Among them, the torturous zapping that’s overtaken my fingers and face. People with my condition don’t call this medication the devil’s Tic Tacs for nothing.

Luckily, it’s not fair season at work yet. But it’s coming. I need to be more stable by then—both with my condition and the medicinal side effects—so I can safely drive and stand up all day without passing out.

My muddled mind goes back to Pike when I lie down again. I’ll like his comment but not engage. It’s not like anything would come of it. Besides, if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s men are always better admired from afar.

So true, Analia says. Another client from work sent me a DM today asking if I’d give him a massage with a “happy ending.” Still vomiting in my mouth a little.

Eww, I write. That’s so inappropriate.

Sometimes I want to write ASEXUAL on my forehead so everyone will leave me alone. Maybe they won’t even talk during their session.

i worry that’ll make some of them see it as a challenge, Emy says. better to report.

Wait, Analia says. Pike posted!?

I scramble back into the group hangout. There’s nothing from him there, thankfully, because I’d struggle to keep up with the constant moving text.

Pike’s not even online anymore. I head to the discussion forum. And there it is.

A new post from Pike.

“Write down what you’re grateful for”

Well, if you insist:

I’m grateful for

no longer holding myself

to your toxic standards of positivity

that have never touched

the type of pain I feel

or the loss I’ve had to overcome

Well, hello, Mr. Deep Dark Soul. Hot cane boy is a poet. And a salty one at that.

My ridiculous crush on a profile picture grows exponentially as I keep reading. There’s a rawness to his words that leaves me feeling less alone. It’s exactly what I wish I could tell my mom. If I were brave, I’d print it out and mail it to her.

Pike vents for a good page and a half. His vulnerability fascinates me. It’s heart-wrenching and honest, with a lot of snow metaphors that go over my head, but the ending is simple.

No show and tell

I play hide and seek

but all that’s left to find

is pain

By the time I’m done reading, I’ve missed the midnight ball drop, but I couldn’t care less. His post already has fifteen hearts and four comments.

I click to expand the first one. A comment from Pike himself: Just writing out some vents. Thanks for reading.

Aw, he’s polite too.

Second comment. GinaB: Needed this. Please write more!!

Third comment. Laurie Durnam: Brandon? It’s your mom. This is very sad and alarming and I need to know you’re all right. Please answer your phone.

I nearly choke. What’s his mom doing in here!? Besides the fact that he’s a full-blown adult, there’s private messages for this sort of thing. He said he was venting. And beautifully, at that!

I check the timestamp. She replied one minute after Pike. Her screen probably didn’t refresh in time to catch his comment. I cringe. He’s going to be mortified.

Not his mom, Analia says. Also, *Brandon*?

I head back to the forum. Laurie Durnam posts another comment.

I’m calling, Brandon. Why aren’t you answering?

Maybe he’s not answering because he posted his poem and went to bed? Why can’t she read the other comments and see how deeply everyone is relating? We understand how battered your heart becomes from fighting your body every day.

Soon there’s a third plea. Brandon, if you don’t answer your phone in the next five minutes, I’m going to call the police.

What the hell? We have protocols when people are suicidal, but that’s not the case here.

Should I message her? I ask the girls. The other admins aren’t on to confer with.

based on this interaction, Emy says, i doubt his mom even knows how to check a DM. probably better not to do anything.

Maybe I’m spurred on by a lifetime of my own parents misunderstanding everything I say, but I feel like I need to intervene.

I write, I’ve seen horror stories in this group about disabled people who were forced into emergency psychiatric care. And doesn’t he take oxycodone?

Oh, yeah, Analia says. They confiscate your meds. Isolate you. Forced psych treatment is super traumatizing.

Analia would know. She’s been through all kinds of psychiatric care.

good point. Emy sends a thinking emoji.

Pike was venting. An adult who vents in an online support group doesn’t need family snooping around and making assumptions about what they post.

I’ll tag her in one of the comments, I say. She’ll get a notification.

But I don’t know what to say besides: Hi @LaurieDurnam! Sending you a message about Brandon.

A message from her pops into my notifications after another minute. She’s not that technologically challenged, after all. Hello? Is he okay? What’s happening?

I type as fast as my medication-muddled fingers will let me, my thumbs slipping unevenly on my phone. Hi, Laurie! I’m an admin. Brandon was just venting. If you scroll up, you’ll see his comment. He’s fine.

A minute passes. I know my son. He’s never like this.

It’s a poem in a support group. We encourage creativity (and venting).

Something’s wrong, she says. There was suicidal ideation in that poem.

My eyebrows shoot up. I scroll back through Pike’s words. There’s grief, but that’s not the same thing.

I can see my own mother misinterpreting something I find cathartic as suicidal and further screwing up my life because I’m not “positive” the way she thinks I should be.

I send Pike a message. Hi there. Bit of a situation with your mom, if you’re on/invisible, could you please respond ASAP?

Please be invisible, Pike. Please log back on.

He does not log back on.

I appreciate the “admin” help, Laurie writes, but I’m going to call the police. If he’s this depressed, he needs help.

Wait! I type frantically. This is going to ruin Pike’s New Year—his year period.

Just dissuade Laurie from calling the cops, Analia says, and Emy agrees. Of the three of us, Analia’s the rational one who thinks things through. Emy is spontaneous, while I’m always ready to take charge. If they both think I should do something…

How?? I ask.

Don’t you have his email as an admin? Analia says.

I look it up. A bunch of numbers. Probably fake. I email it anyway, then go back to the girls. What if I say he’s with me?

She’ll want to talk to him, Analia says.

say he accidentally got drunk married, Emy suggests. she’ll be so relieved tomorrow it’s fake that she’ll forget all about the poem.

Spontaneous indeed. How would I even know he got married?

Emy sends another thirsty GIF. u were the bride.

He’s so depressed after marrying me that he wrote a “suicidal” poem?? I can picture Analia and Emy laughing, but I go back to my chat with Laurie and write, I’m pretty sure he’s fine because… I glance at my chat with the girls. Marriage seems a bit too fake, but… I’m pretty sure he’s fine because he’s sleeping right next to me. My pulsatile tinnitus whooshes to the same tempo as my erratic heart rate. If I’m going to sell this, I need to commit. I didn’t want to say anything earlier because it’s new and I’m guessing he didn’t tell you yet. Sorry you were worried. I feel bad waking him up.

I press send and hold my breath. Will she buy it? I send a screenshot to the girls.

WHAT DID YOU JUST DO. Analia is freaking out, but frankly, so am I. DID YOU EVEN CHECK THAT HE’S SINGLE?

“Fuck.” I flip onto my elbows so my phone will stop falling on my face. She wrote me back! I open the message, my heart somersaulting, and skim. I’m guessing he *doesn’t* have a partner, I report, because his mom really wants to meet me!? I keep reading. She’s buying it? She says she feels bad for worrying but this isn’t like him and when can I come over for dinner?

What are you going to say? Analia asks.

I pause. I have no idea.

Pike still hasn’t responded to me. I google Brandon Durnam, and when that turns up nothing, I try Pike Durnam. I quick search his name with Sutherland, Fairport, Webster Schroeder, and other local high schools in case he grew up around Rochester. Nothing. Brandon Pike is a last-ditch effort, and when some Olympic athlete clogs the results, I groan and give up.

After eleven minutes, his mom writes me again. Hello?

She can see I read her message. I hate that feature.

Hi again, let me talk to Pike. I delete that. My relationship with Brandon is really new so I’ll let him make that call. No. Shit. How can I make this vague enough? You should talk to Brandon. We’re pretty new! Happy New Year!

I send the message.

Then I screenshot the entire conversation and send it to Pike.

Since pain won’t let me sleep, I’m caught up on most of my admin duties by morning, from deleting buy links to reviewing the membership requests assigned to me. The sheer number of people who have joined in the last four years is overwhelming. But every newcomer reminds me that even if some of these tasks feel tedious, someone will appreciate this work when they’re at their loneliest and saddest hour.

I’ve been there. When I first realized that most people couldn’t handle me talking about my pain, it damn near killed me. There’s no dagger to the heart like opening up to a loved one only to discover that your life is a little too inconvenient and sad (read: disabled) for them. I quickly joined a national support group for IIH.

But after attending a chronic pain retreat in Rochester, I wanted to be part of something smaller—something more than a Q&A forum. But it had to be online because in-person events drained too much energy. So I created this group with three women I met at the retreat.

I hoped we’d become friends, but our personalities never really meshed. Still, the group helps me cope emotionally with chronic pain. It gives me a community, a safe space to vent, and a place to share knowledge and lived experiences. Doctors tend to bristle when we bring in our own research, but patients know their conditions best. For many of us, support groups are the only way to find answers.

Every time I accept a new member, I feel like I’m paying it forward. Someone else no longer has to be completely isolated because they can virtually attend our movie nights or moderated discussions from their beds or preferred pain spots. As a bonus, I met Emy and Analia.

Pike has sent you a message.

I sit up so fast that black sparkles temporarily take over my vision. Once I can see again, I shake out my tingly hands. He wrote me!!

It’s only ten, but Analia responds with a popcorn-eating GIF. WHAT DID HE SAY

I open Pike’s message and cringe.

What the hell???

My pulsatile tinnitus whooshes louder and faster. Okay, okay. I expected him to be mad.

How does it even cross your mind to pretend to be a random dude’s girlfriend?? To his MOM??

… But not this mad.

I’m sorry! She was going to call the cops!

Pike is typing pops up for so long that I turn on a rerun of The Price Is Right. I can’t watch because of my eyes, but Bob Barker’s voice is soothing in the background.

It has to be the worst-case scenario if he’s typing this much. If you already have a boyfriend/girlfriend, I write, I will totally call whoever and vouch for you.

No girlfriend. But.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

She’s already left me a dozen messages. She wants to meet you!

My thumbs pause. I said our relationship is new.

Yeah, thanks for that. Not.

Pike is typing. Good grief.

I haven’t had a serious girlfriend… ever? I always told my mom the day I did, she’d be the first to know. Now she’s not only wondering if I’m suicidal but also why I didn’t tell her about my new relationship. You said I was at your house, Skylar. Sleeping. Fucking. Over. Now I can’t even pretend it’s a casual fling like always.

My eyes narrow at our break in polite conversation. I copy everything over to Analia. HOT CANE BOY IS A PLAYER.

Not necessarily, she says. You prefer casual flings.

That’s different, but Pike sends another message.

I don’t need this bullshit. Not here. I’m reporting you to the admins for harassment.

I let out something between a gasp and a protest and almost swallow my cotton tongue in the process. It’s not harassment. I know the rules. I *am* an admin.

Well, there’s another one, he says. Maria. We talk. Good thing you sent me a screenshot of your lies.

My face flushes with a rush of irrational jealousy. Figures he’d talk to Maria. She’s the prettiest admin and the most outgoing, the one everyone gravitates toward.

Oh shit, what if Maria also tells Tess and Adiba, the other two admins? My chest tightens unbearably. Pretending to be someone’s girlfriend isn’t against any rule, because who in their right mind thinks of doing that? No one, that’s who. I’m not in my right mind, though. My brain is being squished. Surely that qualifies me for some leniency. But even in my panic, I don’t want to use my disability as a shield. That’s not why I helped him.

Analia’s sent me about twenty messages, but I’m afraid to leave my chat with Pike. He might already be writing Maria.

Hear me out for two seconds, I plead. I was trying to help. Your mom thought you were suicidal.

That doesn’t mean you pretend to be my girlfriend!

You’re rgiht, I say, typing so fast I don’t care about typos. I messed up! I hvae family taht doesnt understand my chronic pain. I thoght yours was the same. I loved your poem! I’m rly sorry!!

Pike is typing.

Note to self: Never engage with a hot profile picture again.

I had no idea my mom was even in this group, he says. How the hell did that happen, admin?

Let me check. I go to Laurie’s profile. Adiba accepted her, so I pull up her application responses. I don’t have chronic pain, but my son does. I want to learn.

We allow caregivers and loved ones, I say. Her answers seem like she has a little kid. Usually that’s why moms want to learn.

I’m 27. There should be rules against parents joining without the consent of their ADULT children.

My neck throbs from holding the same position too long. I shove at my makeshift pillow throne and drop back against it, but my head still feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I fully support that! I write. I can look into changing those rules. Parents/partners could identify their loved one in the group and get permission? Either way, I’ll remove your mom now.

Wait. Don’t remove her. Not yet. She’ll worry even more.

I’m getting the impression this guy is more of a thinker than a slow typer. Maybe he hasn’t messaged Maria yet.

I’ll remove her when you give the word. Pike starts typing again, but I plow on. Listen, now that she knows you’re okay… can’t you tell her I made it up?

No.

Is she so horrible/ableist that there’s no way you could explain why I stepped in?

Pike sends me a damn essay.

My mom isn’t horrible. She cares a lot. But she’s having trouble accepting my new disabilities. I can’t open up to her about how I’m really feeling. I try to be positive and put any negative thoughts into my writing instead. Sometimes things are dark, but it’s not because I want to die. I just need to get out the heavy, which my mom’s not ready for. Now—because of your interference—she sees an alternative to the depressing image she has of her disabled son. I have a girlfriend. Things must not be as bad as she imagines. I can still have the “normal” life she wants for me.

Ugh. He just had to pull on my heartstrings. And use em dashes in a chat.

You can still have a “normal” life while disabled! I say, but I get what he means. My parents haven’t accepted my disabilities, either, and it’s been five years. I didn’t even bother telling them I went into remission for seven months. They don’t understand that IIH is lifelong, that remission isn’t a cure but a temporary abatement of symptoms. And now it’s back. Like I knew it would be but dared to hope it wouldn’t.

I’ll talk to Maria, Pike says. This shouldn’t happen in a group like this. Especially from an admin!

I type a few words so it looks like I’m responding, then message Analia. What should I do?

Emy has entered the chat.

1) can’t talk long because we’re making pasta 2) this guy is an ungrateful mofo who should feel lucky u stepped in 3) u should meet his mom.

That’ll make her seem like a stalker, Analia says.

no, meet his mom *with* him

I blink. What.

Log off, Skylar, Analia says. He clearly doesn’t appreciate what you did for him.

He threatened to tell the other admins!

meet his mom, Emy insists. pretend ur his gf for a day.

He could be a serial killer, Analia says.

meet in a public place! is it bad i think u should suggest it simply because he’s hot? She’s obviously already forgotten that he’s an ungrateful mofo.

I don’t know what to do. I understand why he’s uncomfortable. He might even leave the group. We’re striving to be inclusive—a guy’s perspective is rare.

And this group is my lifeline. I spend most of my evenings here. It’s the only place I can truly be myself.

I won’t allow anyone to threaten it.

What if I met your mom? I ask Pike.

Are you drunk?

Hear me out. You don’t want your mom’s ableist fantasies shattered. I would like to make up for putting you in a tough situation. So how about we pretend we’re together? I’ll make you look awesome so she’ll stop hovering.

Pike is typing.

I proposed it, I tell the girls.

Analia calms down first. I’ll sit in my car with sunglasses while you’re with him if necessary.

i will bring my sharpest knitting needles, Emy says.

I love you guys, I say with sobbing emojis. We’ve never even met in person, but they have my back more than anyone I’ve known in real life.

I head back to Pike’s latest message. The phone feels too bright now, and each new word stabs at my already aching eyes.

It’s not the worst idea. But if you don’t want me to talk to the other admins, we’ll need to do this for at least two months. Having a “serious” girlfriend for only one day won’t keep my mom off my back. And you and I will meet first because I’m a little creeped out by you, not gonna lie.

I’m screaming by the time I’m done reading.

You’re creeped out by *me*? Read what you just wrote, buddy. You want me to date you for *two months*!

I don’t want to date you. But you need to do this more than one time so I don’t have to pay a random redhead to be “Skylar King.”

I perk up a little. Ooh, there’s money involved?

No! It was your idea!

two months with this broody hot poet? Emy sends eggplant emojis. can *i* pretend to be skylar king?

Ugh, go back to your pasta, I say, wishing I also had a family to cook with me.

Hello? Pike writes. Don’t leave me hanging, Skylar. You owe me.

I glare at my screen. I’m trying to be nice here, but let me be crystal clear. I don’t owe you anything. You can’t make me do anything.

You’re right, he says. It’s just—argh. Argh? Another em dash? Is this guy for real? All I want is to erase the part of my life where my mom read the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written. But I can’t. This is the next best thing. Please.

What?? Now he’s the one begging?

I said I would meet you. But two months? That’s too long!

I’ve casually dated supermodels for longer than two months, sweetheart.

I rub my tired eyes. Okay? I know I don’t look like a supermodel, but… what does that have to do with anything? I ask him, then tell the girls: He told me he dates supermodels??

if i looked like him, i would too. Emy is a beautiful Italian woman with raven hair straight out of a Pantene Pro-V commercial, so I’m not sure why she thinks she can’t. But that’s a conversation for another day.

I meant that they’re pretty high maintenance, Pike says, and they still tolerated me. It’s not like we’d see each other every day.

But there’s still a problem. If you date supermodels, your mom will never buy that we’re together.

Why not? You’re pretty. I like pretty women.

So, he’s shallow. Wait: He said I’m pretty!?!?

*SCREECHES* THAT’S BECAUSE U R, Emy says.

Pike sends a raised eyebrow emoji. Is this the part where you tell me your profile pic is fake?

No. That’s me.

I can work with that. So, you’ll do it?

I hesitate. I’ll agree to meet to discuss details, and then we’ll see. My job will be demanding soon, and I’ve just come out of remission with my neurological disorder. I’m really overwhelmed.

He makes me wait an agonizing five minutes for a response.

Sorry to hear that. Sure, we can talk about the details when we meet.

And then you won’t show our convo to anyone? I ask.

If your performance is satisfactory.

Tears unexpectedly prick my dry eyes. I’m absolutely terrible with parents. I haven’t dated anyone in two years. With all my problems, there’s no way I’m going to make a good impression.

No worries, I write. I’ll be the best fake girlfriend ever!

Ignorant parents of kids who ski or snowboard are a pain in my ass. Half my job is wasted explaining why winter sports have value. But I’d rather deal with them than the people who recognize me. Element Ridge has been packed all week with both types of customers thanks to New Year’s sales, and I’m spent.

The latest parent, a white man in a North Face fleece, fiddles with the skis I’ve told him to buy, like handling them long enough will magically make him understand what he’s looking at. It won’t. “You’re sure these are good skis? I don’t want my son to be a Joey.” He waggles . . .