Chapter 10 #2
Katharina's jaw tightens. "You don't get it, do you? Your skis, your salary, and your…" She pauses, choking on the word like it tastes bad. "…princess? Same man signs checks for all of that."
The word hangs there between us. Princess. Not girlfriend. Not partner. Princess. Like I’m just another knight on her father’s payroll.
Heat climbs up my neck. "So what, I'm supposed to just—"
"I'm saying be smart," she cuts in. "You're twenty-two, and you think you're invincible because you won Kitz. Fine. But when sponsors decide you're more liability than asset, don't come crying to me about contracts."
She doesn't wait for an answer. Just turns and walks back toward the media center, heels clicking on the linoleum.
I stand there in the hallway, fists clenched, adrenaline from the race curdling into something uglier.
Everyone is telling me no. No mess. No feelings. No élise. On the very day, I proved I belong on the most dangerous hill in the world.
I gave the mountain everything.
Tomorrow night I get to have her.
I can handle both.
***
At least I thought so. I could not win the downhill on Saturday. Because Thomas is back to claim his throne, on his hill, in his hometown.
The place goes feral when he crosses the line and takes my lead away from me. Their hero returning. My hero, actually. It still tastes bitter, as I smile and clap and cheer in the red chair, knowing the cameras are aimed my way.
Then he comes to the red chair, grabs me by the shoulder, and pulls me into a hug that's half congratulations, half warning.
"Easy, Nico,” he says into my ear, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Breathe any closer down my neck and I might have to get even better to keep winning."
I laugh, but it's sharp. Inside, I'm a mess of contradictions; genuine joy that his comeback is crowned here, on this hill, and sharp, childish rage that it should have been mine. Both of them. Super-G and downhill. The whole weekend.
It should have been mine.
The silver gams is enough to put me in the spotlight on the most glittery evening of the season. Kitz Race Club party is the highlight of the season, with all the important people from around Europe, celebrities, politicians and rich schemers.
And I will be there with my princess, she said we should be the ones holding the pen. Not the press, not random would-be influencers taking photos and posting it with snide remarks. She says she knows what she’s doing.
***
By the time the team car drops me at the Kitz Race Club, the sun is already gone and the town has shifted into its second personality.
The fur coats are out in full force now. So are the diamonds. The drunk fans from the finish area have either passed out or moved to cheaper bars, and what's left is the other Kitzbühel—the one that smells like expensive cologne and old money and champagne that costs more than my first car.
Up there, the hill tries to kill you if you slip. Down here, they just sell you.
I step out onto the red carpet in a tux that fits too well to be comfortable. The bow tie is already annoying me. My shoulders ache under the jacket, my quads are still tight from two days of racing, and I feel like I'm wearing a costume.
Lukas climbs out behind me, adjusting his cuffs. "Smile, golden boy. This is the part where they decide if you're worth sponsoring or just worth watching crash."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
Thomas and Katharina are already inside—I saw them go in ten minutes ago when our car was stuck behind some oligarch's motorcade. Thomas in a perfect tux, Katharina in something simple and elegant that makes her look radiant. She isn't dressed for the room. She's dressed for him, and it shows.
I tug at my bow tie and head toward the entrance.
That's when I see Jacque.
He's standing just off the red carpet, hands clasped in front of him, wearing a dark suit that somehow makes him look both invisible and unmissable. Next to him is élise.
She looks like she was born in this room.
Her hair is swept back in a way that shows off the line of her neck, and the dress, silk, maybe, something that catches the light when she moves, skims her body like water.
Dark green, the color of deep lakes in winter.
It's cut just low enough to make my mouth go dry and high enough on the leg that when she shifts her weight, I catch a flash of thigh that shouldn't be legal in public.
Every other woman here looks like they're trying too hard. élise looks like she's not trying at all, and that's what makes it devastating.
When she sees me, her mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. More like a dare.
Jacque steps forward before I can move, his voice low and polite. "Monsieur Reiner. A moment, please."
He gestures toward the official photo area: backdrop, logos, a photographer with an FIS vest already waving us over.
I glance at élise. She's already walking toward the carpet, and I realize this wasn't an accident. This was choreographed.
Jacque gives me the faintest nod, then steps back, dissolving into the background like he was never there.
I follow her.
The photographer greets us like we're exactly who he was waiting for. "Eiswerk's golden boy and Mademoiselle Moreau, perfect. Right here, please."
élise slides her hand onto my arm before I can think, turns us both toward the camera, and smiles like this was always the plan.
She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume, and murmurs into my ear. "Smile. If we pose for them, it's not a scandal. It's a strategy."
The flashbulbs pop.
I smile. I don't know what else to do.
When the photographer waves us through, I look down at her. "You could've asked first."
"You're welcome," she says lightly. “That photo is worth more than your prize money.”
Before I can answer, she's already moving, hand still on my arm, steering me toward the entrance like I'm a show horse and she's taking me to the paddock.
élise doesn't hesitate. She walks straight past the VIP section, the tables with the minister's staff and the Red Bull execs and the old-money families who've been coming here since the Fifties, and heads for the back corner where the Austrian team is tucked away.
Thomas and Katharina are already seated, talking quietly. Lukas has his jacket off, tie loosened, a glass of champagne in hand. A couple of junior guys sit stiffly in their tuxes like they're waiting for permission to breathe.
When élise sits down next to me, the whole table shifts.
It's subtle. The way everyone straightens a little. The way Stefan; one of the tech guys from Innsbruck; goes red and fumbles his fork. The way even Lukas pauses mid-sip, like he's recalibrating.
She doesn't notice. Or she does, and she's used to it.
Lukas recovers first, grinning. "Well, well. Look at that. PR upgrade complete. Do we get royal table service now, or do we have to bow first?"
élise laughs, light and easy. "Only if you ask nicely."
I feel something tight and complicated coil in my chest. Pride, because she's here, sitting with us instead of the sponsors and the oligarchs.
Discomfort, because even here, surrounded by my teammates, my people, she doesn't quite fit.
She's too polished, too composed, like a queen visiting the provinces.
She crosses one leg over the other, the silk of her dress catching the light, and pulls out her phone.
"Don't move," she says to me.
I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth. "What are you—"
She's already angling the camera down. I follow her gaze and realize what she's framing: my legs stretched out under the table, tux trousers riding up just enough to show the edge of kinesiology tape wrapped around my calf, the faint purple bruise blooming along my shin, my feet propped on the low table like I own the place.
The shutter clicks.
She types something quickly, then shows me the screen.
The photo is already posted. Caption underneath: My golden gams.
Heat climbs up my neck, equal parts thrill and panic. She said my. Like I belong to her. Like this is real, not just a strategy.
But it's also traceable. Permanent. Out there for her father to see, for the press to screenshot, for the whole circus to dissect.
"You just did it again," I say quietly. "Without asking."
She looks at me, eyes cool and amused. "You're welcome. Now you're not just a racer. You're a story."
Across the table, Katharina's eyes flick to élise's phone, then to me. She doesn't say anything, but I can see the calculation in her expression.
Lukas raises his glass again. "To Nico. Fastest legs in Austria, now with photographic proof."
Everyone laughs. I force a grin.
But under the table, my hand finds élise's, and her fingers lace through mine like this is normal. Like we're not performing for an audience, neither of us invited.
***
My legs burn when we get into the room. Like we went miles in those black polished shoes not meant for walking.
élise introduced me to everybody, we paraded the carpets so that all reporters could get a shot of the golden couple.
Strategy she called it, but it was her turf not mine.
As much as I smiled at the jokes that were not funny, complimented the women who weren’t pretty, I still didn’t feel like I belonged.
But I tried, for both our sakes.
We didn't say goodbye to anyone. We just slip out a side door and into the cold night air, her hand in mine, the party noise fading behind us.
My hotel is a ten-minute walk, but we take the service elevator up to the top floor, where she stays. The suite door clicks shut behind us, and I breathe out for the first time all night.
Finally.
I yank off the bow tie and toss it onto the marble dresser. My shoes hit the floor next. "I'm not built for penguin suits."
élise laughs softly, kicking off her heels. They land with a soft thud on the carpet.
I flop onto the edge of the bed, tux jacket still on, and rub my face. "I nearly tripped over that minister. The one with the mustache."
"Minister Berger," she corrects automatically, unzipping the back of her dress. "He oversees the sports funding."
Of course, she knows that.
I watch the silk slide down her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She's wearing nothing underneath but black lace that makes my mouth dry. "You did handle it, though. No one dared ask me anything tonight."
She shrugs, stepping out of the dress, folding it carefully over a chair. "That's the point. When you own the room, there's no scandal. Just success."
I stand up, cross the room in two steps, and kiss her hard enough to cut off whatever she was going to say next.
No more talking. No more strategy. No more parade.
Her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding, tongue sliding against mine like a challenge. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I back her against the wall, the silk wallpaper cool against her bare shoulders.
"Fuck the party," I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the pulse beating there. Salt and perfume and her. "Fuck owning the room."
Her laugh is breathless, wicked. "Then own me."
I rip open my shirt—buttons ping off the marble floor. Her bra joins the pile next, lace tearing under my fingers. I shove her thighs apart with my knee, cup her through the panties, and she's soaked already, hips bucking against my hand.
"Look at you," I mutter, circling her clit slow and firm until she whimpers. "All polished princess out there. Wet little mess for me now."
"Nico—" Her voice cracks, hands clawing at my belt.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding inside her panties, two fingers thrusting deep. She's tight, clenching around me, dripping down my hand. "Not yet. You don't get to come until you beg for it."
She moans, head falling back against the wall, hips grinding shamelessly against my fingers. "Please. Nico, please—"
I curl my fingers, hit that spot inside her that makes her shake, and slow my rhythm until she's panting, desperate. "Louder."
"Fuck me," she gasps, eyes glazed, body trembling.
And I do. But when it’s over, she doesn’t curl onto my chest whispering soft things about the bubble. The tenderness, the closeness from Hinterstoder is gone. It’s like the polished party with all its ministers and sponsors took it away from us.
No, I took it away from us.
And all that remained was lust and passion. I wonder if her soulless, glittery world would ever let us be anything else.