Chapter 9 #2
I don't care. I'm laughing too, shaking champagne out of my eyes, grabbing the nearest bottle and going after him.
The podium is slick with foam and melted ice, and I chase Matteo until he slips and nearly takes out Paco, the Swiss guy who finished third, who's standing there grinning like this is the best part of his day.
"Reiner!" he yells. "Not the eyes!"
Too late. I've already sprayed Paco right in the face, and he's coughing champagne and swearing in Swiss German, creative new insults that will probably get us all fined if the wrong microphone picks them up.
The rest comes in flashes after I step off the podium.
The true media hell comes loose. A sponsor rep clapping my shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise, journalists yelling my name like I'm the answer to a prayer they forgot they said, cameras so close I can see my own grin reflected in the lenses.
The Austrian flag waving somewhere in my peripheral vision, half the country trying to hug me through a fence.
Then I see her.
Not behind glass in the VIP area. Right here, in the center of my world.
élise stands a few meters away, hair damp and wild, coat spattered with what looks like beer someone splashed on her in the crowd. She's holding a regular beer bottle, fingers wrapped around the neck like she's claimed it as her own, like she decided she deserved to be part of this mess too.
My brain does that stupid thing it always does with her. It time-travels. Beer bottle. Her mouth. That Olympic night that turned into a myth in my head, champagne and skin and her shaking hands on my chest like she was trying to climb out of her own life.
I shove through bodies and noise and wet snow until I'm standing in front of her.
She looks up. Eyes bright, cheeks pink from cold and chaos, lips parted like she's about to say something sharp. For a second the finish area disappears, and it's just her and me and the way my heart still hasn't figured out we stopped racing.
"Is this yours?" I ask, nodding at the bottle.
"It is now," she says, voice dry as ever, even with beer in her hair.
I reach out and take the neck of it over her hand. Our fingers overlap, slick and cold. Her skin is warmer than mine, which feels insulting considering I'm the one who just threw myself down a mountain at ninety miles an hour.
She tips the bottle up and takes a sip straight from it. A drop of foam runs down the corner of her mouth, catches on her lower lip, and my body reacts like it just heard the starting beep again.
She notices. She always notices.
"So," she says, lifting her chin just a fraction, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, "downhill king. How do you plan to celebrate?"
My laugh comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Violently."
Her eyes flick down to my mouth and back up. "That sounds on brand."
I slide my wet hand to her waist, fingers finding the dip under her coat. It's not even a grab, barely pressure, but still she goes still in that way she does when she's trying not to show she wants something.
I brush a strand of damp hair back from her cheek, knuckles grazing her skin.
She inhales sharply, like I touched something tender.
For a beat we just look at each other, both of us thinking the same thing. Hotel room, lock, bed, no cameras. I could do it. I could take her by the hand right now and disappear into the chaos and let the whole circus choke on it.
Instead, I grin, because I'm an idiot and because the high in my veins is bigger than sex right now.
"First," I say, leaning in so only she hears, "I'm going to sing off-key and drown in beer. Then we'll see if you still want the king."
She blinks at me like I've spoken in a language she doesn't know.
"There is a party in the VIP pub," she says carefully, already picturing it. Velvet ropes and champagne flutes, and polished men in expensive coats. Her world.
"Not that one," I say.
Her brows knit together. "Then what—"
"The real one," I cut in, and my smile turns sharp. "Après-ski. Fans. Bad music. Strong schnapps."
Her face does something between horror and fascination.
I can practically see the thoughts racing. Recognized. Photographed. Father. Scandal. Cage.
"It's crowded," she says, which is her way of saying absolutely not.
"Exactly," I tell her. "At your parties, everyone recognizes you." I tilt my head toward the sea of drunk Austrians in cow-print hats and red-white flags. "These guys? They won't have a clue who you are."
She looks past me, scanning the chaos like she's searching for danger. For a familiar face. For the trap she's sure is waiting.
Then her eyes come back to mine, sharp and a little wild under all that polish.
"And you," she says softly. "Will you recognize me?"
I squeeze her waist once, quick, like punctuation. "Always."
The word lands between us, heavy enough to be dangerous.
I force myself to step back before I do something stupid and perfect in front of a hundred cameras.
"Come on," I say, jerking my chin toward the exit like it's nothing. Like I'm not still vibrating. "Party first."
Her fingers tighten on the bottle. She hesitates one more heartbeat.
Then she follows.
***
"Three J?gerbombs and whatever the champion wants!"
The shout comes from somewhere near the bar, and I don't even know who said it, but the whole place roars in response.
I push through the door, and the noise slams into me like a physical thing. Cowbells clanging, someone already butchering a Schlager song, voices layered on top of voices until it's just one big wall of sound.
“Raaaadler ist kein alcohol, Raaadler ist kein alcohol…” I sing with them as soon as I enter. My voice drowned in the crowd so I turned even hear how off-key it is.
The floor's sticky under my boots, and the air is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat and wood smoke from a fireplace that's working way too hard.
Red-white-red flags hang from the rafters next to old race bibs, some with names I grew up watching. The walls are actually sweating, condensation running down the wood paneling because there are too many bodies crammed in here and the glass protects the topless fans from the cold.
I grin so wide my face hurts.
"Nico!" A guy in a cow-print hat waves at me from a corner table, foam sloshing over the side.
Lukas and Martin are already here, sprawled at a long wooden table near the back, boots up on chairs, beers half-gone. The second they spot me, Lukas bangs his palm on the table like a drum.
"NI-CO! NI-CO! NI-CO!"
Someone shoves a beer into my hand before I even reach the bar.
"On the house," the bartender says, mustache twitching with a grin.
"Next one's on me," I tell him.
"Damn right it is."
I turn and nearly crash into élise.
She's standing just inside the door, coat still buttoned, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her eyes are scanning the room fast, flicking from face to face like she's looking for someone who might recognize her.
She flinches when a guy stumbles past her with a tray of shots.
I weave back through the crowd and hand her the beer.
"Drink," I say.
She takes it but doesn't.
"Nico, I don't think—"
"Nobody here knows who you are," I cut in. "Trust me."
She doesn't look convinced, but she follows when I head toward the table.
Lukas pulls me into a headlock the second I'm close enough, knuckles grinding into my skull.
"You beautiful bastard!" he shouts.
"Get off—"
Martin shoves a shot glass into my free hand. "To the king of Hinterstoder!"
I knock it back, still half-strangled by Lukas, and the schnapps burns all the way down. The little pear in the tiny glass almost dropping down before I chew on it.
The door opens again, and Thomas walks in.
He's moving carefully, weight shifted slightly off his left leg, but his face is open and loose in a way I haven't seen all last season. He's glowing, proud, like he just remembered what winning feels like.
I untangle myself from Lukas and meet him halfway.
We hug, quick and hard, then he headbutts me lightly and grins.
"You skied like you were on fire," he says.
"Learned from you."
"Bullshit. You ski like you're trying to fight the mountain."
"Maybe I am."
He laughs and claps my shoulder, and for a second it's just us, the noise fading into static.
Then Katharina slips in beside him, and the way she looks at him makes my chest tighten.
She's watching him like he's the only thing in the room. Her hand finds his arm, fingers curling around his elbow.
She doesn't even glance at me. For once, I'm not the one she's managing, and it's weirdly freeing.
I turn back to the table and catch sight of élise.
She's still standing near the wall, holding her beer with both hands, shoulders tight, scanning the room like she's waiting for someone to shout her last name.
She looks like a woman who checks her phone for threats, not for memes. If she survives one night in here without flinching at every notification, maybe she has a shot at surviving a guy who lives one bad edge away from netting.
I drain the rest of my drink and walk over.
"Come with me," I say, taking her hand.
"Where?"
"You'll see."
I pull her through the crowd toward the guy in the cow-print hat. He's swaying slightly, singing along to the music, grinning at nothing.
"Hey," I say, loud enough to break through. "This is élise."
The guy blinks, squints at her like he's trying to focus.
"élise," he repeats, testing it. Then he shrugs and raises his beer. "Nice to meet you, friend of Nico's. Prost!"
He clinks his glass against hers and turns back to his song without another word.
I look at her.
Her mouth is open, eyes wide, and I watch the exact moment it hits her.
He didn't ask for her last name. He didn't recognize her. He didn't care.
She exhales, long and shaky, and her shoulders drop.
"See?" I say.
She stares at the guy's back, then at me, and smiles.
Not the polished smile she wears in VIP boxes. A real one.
"Okay," she says quietly.
I take her coat. She lets me.