Chapter 6
The Chase
ZLATA
By the time I reach the bottom station, my legs barely remember how to be legs. They do what they’ve done all day—edge, absorb, steer—but my head is still somewhere above the trees in a swinging metal box.
I skid to a sloppy stop by the racks and have to plant my poles for a second, breathing hard.
The snow around the base is a churned-up mess, loudspeakers barking something in German about wind and closures.
People are streaming toward the gondola exit and ski bus signs, hoods up, goggles on.
The whole resort feels like it’s exhaling in one big, annoyed huff.
My phone has been buzzing in my sleeve pocket for the last two pylons. I finally shove my glove off and fish it out. Two messages from Eva, one from Anna.
Where are you, racer girl? Wind is killing our vibe. Planai is shut, we’re back at the bottom chalet.
Come drink with us before they kick us onto the bus.
Of course, they’re already in a hut. Of course.
I thumb back a quick reply.
On my way. Had to ski down. Need to change boots first or I’ll kill someone.
I slide my phone away, hook my skis into the rack with a clack, and dig my boot bag out from under a row of other anonymous backpacks.
The little changing corner by the rental shop is packed with kids, parents, and one guy trying to balance on one foot while ripping his boots off like they’re on fire.
I squeeze into a strip of bench, flick my buckles open properly, and immediately regret every life choice that led me to buying ski boots several flexes stiffer than an ordinary woman would even consider.
Getting them off is a fresh new hell. The plastic is stiff from the cold; my calves are already swollen from skiing and—from other activities. I brace my hands on the back of the bench and pull, heel stuck, shin screaming. A low, involuntary groan escapes me.
“Come on,” I mutter through my teeth. “You let me ski like a racer girl; you can let go now.”
One boot finally pops free with shooting fresh pain through my foot that was threatening to cramp.
I almost punch myself in the face with the effort.
My socked foot hits the rubber mat and I could weep with relief.
The other leg still feels like it’s encased in concrete.
I lean forward, forehead briefly resting on my knee, and for a second I’m not in the noisy boot room at all.
I’m back in the gondola. His arm around my back. My hand on his chest. His voice in my ear: Be greedy. The way my body answered like it had just been waiting for someone to say that.
Heat floods my cheeks; I’m very glad my face is currently hidden by helmet and buff and the general chaos.
I drag my focus back to the boot and attack the second one.
It takes two full-body heaves, another strangled noise I hope nobody hears, and then it gives.
I yank my feet free and stuff them straight into the soft, forgiving normal boots like they’re a life raft.
I sit there a moment longer, bent over my laces, heart doing that stupid jumpy thing again.
What the hell just happened?
Mountain. Storm. Sad, hot Austrian. My hand. His. My god.
The tannoy crackles again about closing lifts and last runs; someone’s kid is crying because they dropped their glove; a group of Dutch guys is already singing Schlager off-key outside—normal resort chaos. I wiggle my toes in the blessed space of my regular boots, square my shoulders, and stand up.
Okay. Race boots off. A wilder version of myself shoved as far down as she’ll go, at least for the walk across the snow. Time to find my girls, pretend I’m a sane person, and see how much of this I’m actually brave enough to say out loud.
***
The chalet at the bottom is already fogged up, every window a blur of breath and wet gear. I push the door open, and a wave of heat, fryer smell, and cheerfully stupid après-ski music rolls over me.
Eva spots me first. She’s at a high table near the window, jacket half off, hair escaping from under her hat, cheeks pink from whatever she’s drinking. She lifts her glass like a flare.
“There she is!” she shouts over the noise. “Our abandoned racehorse!”
Anna turns too, softer wave, a smile that says she’s already clocked I’m not entirely okay, even if I’m upright.
I stomp over, shuffle my way into the corner of the table, and only then do they look down.
“Wait,” Anna says, eyes dropping to my feet. “Are those… actual shoes?”
I glance down at my blessed, ugly snow boots. “Shocking, I know.”
Eva taps her own still-buckled rental boots on the footrest with a clang. “Traitor. Real racers die in their shells.”
“If my boots were as loose as yours, I’d still be in them,” I say, half-joking, half-deadly serious. “Mine are currently listed as a weapon of war after two hours in a freezing gondola. And if I’m going to get drunk, I’d like to retain circulation below the knee.”
“Fair,” Anna concedes. “You look like you could use a drink.”
The waiter appears as if summoned. Eva gestures grandly at me. “Our champion needs something strong. She just survived The Windpocalypse.”
“Half the lifts are shut,” Anna adds. “We thought they’d have to rappel you out of a chair.”
“I got down,” I say, which is technically true. “Mostly in one piece.”
The waiter rattles off options in English, knowing we are tourists. Without overthinking it, I ask for a Weizen beer in German. And, because my nerves are still doing slalom gates in my ribs, “And a Williams Schnapps, please.”
Both their eyebrows shoot up in perfect synchrony.
“Wow,” Eva says. “Emergency measures.”
“Was it that bad?” Anna asks, tone shading into concern. “Being stuck?”
“It wasn’t… ideal,” I say. “High entertainment value, though.”
They exchange a glance over my head. I know that look. It’s the one that says we’re worried, but we’re not sure if you’re ready to talk yet, so we’ll joke first.
“Poor thing,” Eva says, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Trapped above the trees in a tin can while the mountain tried to shake you off. Ten out of ten, would cry.”
“Are you okay?” Anna asks quietly. “That kind of thing can be really scary.”
The waiter sets the beer down, then the schnaps—pale gold in a little tulip glass with a little pear pierced with an Austrian flag. I wrap my fingers around it; the smell hits my nose, sharp and sweet.
“I mean, yes,” I say. “Scary. Wind. Creaking. Existential dread. The usual.”
They both nod, the way you nod when someone confirms your worst imagination. I take a breath, tip the schnaps back, and feel it burn a hot, clean line down my throat.
“But also,” I add, setting the empty glass down carefully, “remember how I said I could never ask a world champ for his dick?”
Eva chokes on her beer. Anna blinks.
“Zlata,” Anna says slowly. “Please tell me that sentence is not theoretical.”
“Turns out,” I say, feeling my mouth twist, “I can.”
Eva slams her glass down so hard some beer sloshes over the rim. “No. Absolutely not. You did not.”
I can’t help it; I start laughing. It comes out a little high, a little hysterical. “I really did.”
Anna’s eyes go huge. She glances around, then leans in so far her ponytail dips into the peanut bowl. “You did what, exactly? And please remember there are other people here when you answer.”
“We’re calling him sad, hot Austrian,” I say. “For… anonymity reasons.”
Eva fans herself with a napkin. “Sad, hot Austrian is in town, we know. That was the whole TED talk in the car, remember?” She lowers her voice, but not nearly enough. “Are you telling me you got stuck in a lift with him and then—” she makes a vague, obscene gesture with her hand “—asked for his—”
“Eva,” Anna hisses. “Volume.”
I press my lips together, trying not to grin and failing. “Look, if you wanted a calm, coherent debrief, you should have booked a spa, not a ski chalet full of tourists.”
“Zlata,” Eva says, abandoning the pretense of subtlety entirely. “Start from the beginning, or I am going to climb over and shake you.”
I take a long sip of beer, buying time. The first hit of alcohol settles the schnaps in my stomach, takes the sharpest edge off the adrenaline crash.
“Fine,” I say. “We got stuck. Just the two of us. Properly stuck. Wind, cabin swinging, the whole horror movie soundtrack.”
Anna winces in sympathy. “That sounds awful.”
“It was… intense,” I admit. “At first, it was just fear. Then we talked. About racing. His racing. My races.” I hear my own voice soften. “He actually listened.”
Eva props her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming. “Of course, he listened. You had him hostage.”
“No, I mean… he asked questions. Real ones. About the Czech Masters and edge angles and my stupid, tiny results. Like it mattered.” I stare into my beer for a second. “I’m not used to that.”
Anna’s expression shifts, something more careful moving in. “Not used to… being listened to?”
“Not about skiing,” I say lightly. “Anyway. There was talking, and then there was… not so much talking.”
Eva lets out a tiny, delighted squeal. “You absolute menace.”
“It just… happened,” I say, which is a lie, and we all know it. “We were cold, we were scared, the world shrank to about two square meters of plastic. It felt like… not real life. Like some weird side quest where nothing counts.”
“And?” Eva prompts. “Side quest details, please.”
I don’t give them everything. I’m not about to narrate where exactly his hand was when I forgot my own name. But I tell them enough—the way I ended up in his lap, how deliberate he was with his hands, his fingers. How I got down, and the lift crew spoiled the party for him.
Anna listens with that quiet, intent face she gets when she’s assembling a puzzle. Eva covers her mouth more than once, eyes huge, then drops her hand to whisper, “You finally did it. You asked for the dick.”
I snort. “Technically, my hand asked first. My mouth needed a minute to catch up.”