Chapter 8
Italian Heat
Playlist:
Cody Marrow: Beg Like You Mean It
The Killers: Miss Atomic Bomb
Val Gardena, Italy, December 19
éLISE
The finish area sits in complete shadow, the northern face of the Saslong cutting off any hope of sun this early in the day.
I stand in the VIP enclosure, my arms wrapped around myself, my expensive coat doing nothing to keep out the cold that seeps up through my boots.
The air bites at my face, sharp and merciless, and around me, sponsor executives and team staff watch the big screen replay Nico’s run for the third time, breath misting as they dissect split times like surgeons over a body.
“Point-zero-three at the second split.”
“Lost it in the Camel bumps.”
“Still, second place. Great result.”
On the screen, his skis carve perfect arcs through the Ciaslat section, body tucked so low he looks like part of the mountain. Then a tiny bobble in the Camel bumps—barely visible, a fraction of hesitation—and the clock ticks just a little too slow.
I shift my weight from one frozen foot to the other and watch people around me nod, satisfied. Points. Podiums. Brand exposure secured.
Down at the finish area, past the fencing and camera crews, Nico stands on the second step of the podium in his soaked race suit, champagne dripping from his hair, grinning like he owns the mountain even though someone else is standing higher.
By the time he climbs down, someone’s handed him a team jacket and a cap.
He’s zipping up when a print journalist steps in with a notebook, pulling him aside before he can even fully catch his breath.
Nico leans against the barrier, laughing at something the man says, wiping champagne residue from his jaw with the back of his glove.
Yesterday, I showed up at his hotel room after the Super-G wearing a dress I’d chosen specifically because it made my collarbone look like something worth kissing.
I’d kissed him first, tasted his surprise turn to heat, felt his hands drag me closer, his body answer mine…
and underneath it, that thin line of resistance.
So I’d leaned in harder, shameless in a way I don’t allow myself to be, trying to tip him over the edge.
He’s the one who stopped. Hands closing around my wrists, breath rough, eyes dark. No.
Not because he didn’t want me—my body had felt every argument to the contrary—but because he “needed to focus” for the downhill.
Focus over me. Over us.
I went for him, risked being caught, braved all my fears, just to be with him. And he said no.
Now he’s down there basking in camera flashes, and I’m up here with men in Eiswerk jackets who haven’t looked at me once.
His interview ends. A cluster of fans presses against the barrier, waving flags and phones. A young woman in an Austrian scarf calls his name.
He turns to her immediately.
She asks for a selfie. He leans in close, arm around her shoulders, says something that makes her throw her head back and laugh. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t calculate. Just tilts her phone, grins, and clicks.
Three seconds. Easy.
My fingernails dig into my palms through the silk lining of my gloves.
For a second, I picture myself doing that—stepping up to a barrier, asking for a photo, smiling without weighing every angle against the risk of a headline.
My father’s voice in my ear: I trust you’re not doing anything stupid, élise.
The girl in the scarf walks away, still grinning, checking the photo on her screen.
I stand perfectly still and hate how easy she made it look.
Nico finishes with the fans and scans the crowd. His eyes find me at the edge of the restricted area. Something shifts in his expression—expectation, maybe. He pushes through the barrier and heads toward me, still half lit by that media glow, the easy smile lingering.
He’s waiting for me to say something. Congratulate him. Tease him. Play the game.
“Second place,” I say. My voice comes out smooth, controlled. “Not bad for a poor boy from Salzburg.”
The smile dies.
I meant to tease, not cut, but it’s hard to tell the difference when my pride is still bruised from last night’s ‘no’.
His jaw tightens. The light in his eyes goes flat.
I feel the ice in my own words a heartbeat too late.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
A roar goes up from the crowd as another time flashes on the board. His gaze has already slid past me toward the team area, jaw still locked. If he heard the apology, he doesn’t show it.
His hands grip the barrier between us. They’re still shaking—knuckles scraped and red, fingertips white from the cold. Up close, I can see the fine tremor in his shoulders, the way his breath comes too fast, uneven. His pupils are still blown wide, black swallowing brown.
He looks wired. Fragile.
Raw.
“Come have a drink at the lodge,” he says. His voice is tight, stripped of the charm he gave the cameras. “Or wait for me at the hotel.”
It’s not an invitation. It’s a dare.
I tilt my head and let a small, sharp smile curve my lips. “If you’re not too busy entertaining your fan club.”
He exhales hard through his nose—half laugh, half curse—and steps back from the barrier. His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, something dark flickering behind the irritation.
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing back into the cluster of teammates and cameras.
I stay where I am. Arms wrapped tight around myself. Feet numb in designer boots. The executives beside me are already talking about the next race, voices blending into the background hum of the finish area.
No one notices when I slip out of the enclosure.
No one ever does.
***
I pull my phone from my pocket as I walk toward the parking area, fingers stiff from the cold, and type a message before I can think better of it.
Hotel. Give me twenty minutes.
I hit send.
Then I stand there in the shadow of the mountain, breath misting in the frozen air, and wait to see if he answers.
I wait in the hotel foyer until the noise starts to close in on me.
The place is a funnel of warmth and sound, wet boots squeaking on tile, ski jackets swishing, someone laughing too loudly near the bar.
Farther down the hill, the real après-ski is in full roar, bass thumping faintly through the glass doors every time they slide open.
Here, near the elevators, it’s quieter, but not quiet. People still look. People always look.
I’ve spent last ten minutes pretending I’m just another guest checking her phone.
Then I catch two men in team jackets glancing from me to the entrance and whispering, and I panic.
I step away from the armchair I’ve been pretending to sit in, cross to a shadowed stretch of corridor off the lobby, and pull out my phone.
Hotel. Hallway behind the elevator. First floor.
I hit send before I can add anything softer and plant myself between a fire extinguisher and a tasteful print of the Dolomites.
Not with the team. Not with the VIPs upstairs. Just hovering in the nowhere space with the sweet illusion of safety whispering in my ear; that if nobody sees us together, it somehow doesn’t count.
He takes twelve minutes.
When Nico finally turns the corner, his hair is damp and darker from the shower, curling at the ends.
He’s swapped the race suit for team sweats and a hoodie.
There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t match the lazy way he walks, the kind of stiffness that says he’s still replaying every gate in his head.
He sees me. His mouth curves.
“Princess.” Light on the surface, something sharp underneath. “Enjoy the show?”
I let my gaze travel down, deliberate, from the damp hair to the logo on his chest to the scuffed trainers. Then back up, cool.
“I especially enjoyed the part where you flirted with every girl who screamed your name.”
The smile drops a fraction.
He snorts. “Taking selfies is part of the job. At least those girls actually like me, unlike the ones who pretend we’ve never met.”
My stomach does a small, stupid twist. I keep my spine against the wall, chin lifted.
“Oh, forgive me. I forgot the golden boy’s feelings come with a fan-club clause.”
He steps closer, enough that I can smell soap and hotel shampoo under the trace of champagne.
“You’re the one with the clauses,” he says. “You disappear when I ask to see you, then show up when it fits your schedule and act like I should drop everything on command.”
“So sorry I disrupted your focus,” I say, voice like glass. “Silly me, thinking I was allowed to want you without scheduling it through your coach.”
His jaw tightens. “I needed that focus. That downhill could’ve gone either way, and you know it.”
“What I know,” I say, each word measured, “is that you pushed me away last night because you wanted to be a good boy for your team, and today you had no problem pressing yourself all over the barrier for every girl in an Austrian scarf.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“You think that’s the same thing?” He shakes his head. “Those girls get a picture and a story. That’s all. You—”
“Me what?” I cut in. “I get lectures about discipline while I sneak around behind every reporter who would drag my family name through tabloids with wild pleasure?”
He looks at me then, really looks, eyes narrowing.
“You think you’re the only one taking a risk?” he asks, voice low. “You show up, throw a grenade, and vanish. Everything is on your terms. I’m sick of it.”
“So that’s what this is about,” I say. “Control. You’re upset that you aren’t the one holding the leash.”
“Control?” He barks a humorless laugh. “You really think I’m in control here? You’re just a princess looking for a thrill, élise.”
The word lands like a slap.
“A thrill,” I repeat. “Of course. That’s all you think this is.”
“If the shoe fits,” he says. “You get bored in your glass castle, slum it with the downhill guy, and then go back to pretending you don’t know my name when Daddy’s in the room.”
The laugh that leaves my throat is sharp and ugly.