Chapter 11 #4
My phone buzzes just as Eurosport cuts to my sad, hot Austrian in slow-mo.
For a split second, my stomach dives—parents again?
Anna?—then I see the name and the tiny preview of his face, damp hair, a blur of silver trophy behind your shoulder.
Heat blooms in my chest first, then that stupid low flutter I’ve been politely ignoring since the gondola.
I swipe the notification open with fingers that suddenly feel less like mine and more like a teenager’s.
FAB: Slalom tourist did okay today.
FAB: How did Pec treat you? Survive the Masters circus?
I snort at “tourist,” then zoom in on the selfie.
The contrast to my day makes me grin. I flip my own camera, push damp hair back, and on impulse grab my crumpled race medal ribbon from where it’s steaming on the radiator.
It goes back on over the ancient hoodie like some kind of idiot crown.
Couch, cat tail at the edge of the frame, medal crooked around my neck.
Click. I send it before I can decide it’s not enough.
ZLA: Masters circus did not kill me.
ZLA: Lines much less sexy than yours, but I stayed in the course twice.
ZLA: Also, slalom tourist looked disgusting on that last combo, in a good way.
The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.
FAB: Did you actually wait at the top of the turn, as we said?
I roll my eyes at the replay on TV—him, exploding through the same combo like it offended him personally—and type back:
ZLA: So, patient, I almost bored myself. Ruts still tried to murder me.
FAB: That’s racing. Proud of you, racer.
The word sits on the screen like a warm stone.
ZLA: If you were here, I’d make you watch me and point out every mistake.
I hit send, before I can dress it up.
FAB: If I were there, we’d start with video and end with you not being able to walk tomorrow. From skiing. Mostly.
Heat hits hard and low enough that I have to take a sip of rum-tea just to have something to do with my mouth. I picture Eva’s face if I ever show her that line and decide I won’t. Not yet.
ZLA: Big talk, Baier. Pec might kill you. It’s a different kind of venue.
FAB: You know, I don’t like you talking down your races.
FAB: Masters are real races, you just don’t get paid for it like I do.
I shake my head at the phone. Of course, he doesn’t get it.
ZLA: In Austria, they may be, not ours.
ZLA: We’re just a bunch of ski nerds who like to chase each other’s tails.
FAB: You know I hate that self-humiliating talk of yours.
That lands sharper than I expect. I blow out a breath, watch the cat’s ears twitch at the sound.
ZLA: It’s not that, I’m proud of myself. You just don’t understand.
Before he can argue, I open my gallery and let the evidence talk.
One by one, I attach photos: the tiny P-marked lay-by half buried in slush—fifteen euros to park and five minutes uphill with skis on my shoulder.
The pub with racers half-changed inside, plastic tablecloths, steam on the windows.
The start hut wedged between trees, tourists shuffling past in rental helmets, my “warm-up” lane a snake through terrifying weekend chaos.
The podium shot: me on a wobbly chair, Johann and his Polish friend flanking me in ancient national-colors suits, both grinning like pirates.
A close-up of my tricolor medal and the bottle of supermarket wine, already half wrapped in a plastic bag.
The raffle loot—Lidl energy drinks, a manicure set, and a poor guy standing there with the mountain bike, who has no idea how to get into his tiny city car.
Finally, the car park full of people scrambling in thickening snow, skis on roofs, exhaust hanging low.
This is our circus, I caption the last one, and hit send.
He goes quiet long enough that I start wondering if I overshared. Then his reply arrives.
FAB: Johann is my hero.
I bark out a laugh, scaring the cat off my lap.
ZLA: You should have seen him climbing up the chair in ski boots.
FAB: I would not climb up the chair in ski boots.
The mental image of him eyeing that wobbly Ikea-reject throne like it’s a death trap makes me grin so hard my cheeks hurt.
ZLA: The others helped him; he wasn’t alone there. You know, his is the most crowded category.
FAB: The chair is the best podium, a challenge of its own.
ZLA: We usually have some podium. Today, there was no time. Everybody was hurrying to get home because of the snowstorm. Some guys live five hours from the resort. My three hours seem like a walk then…
FAB: Was it bad?
I stare at the question, feel the drive shiver back through my shoulders. The wipers, the trucks, the wind shoving the car sideways.
ZLA: Honestly, I’m more proud of myself for the driving part than the racing part.
FAB: You should be.
FAB: And I’m glad you’re ok.
Something old and raw in me perks up at that.
The part that spent seven years driving Peter home from clubs because a “club owner has to drink with his clients,” taking the wheel every holiday because “I’ve had a beer, babe,” getting my every late brake and bad merge dissected until I could thread a car through black ice in my sleep.
That part wants to spill all of it now, bathe in clean approval from someone, from the man I admire.
I feel the urge like a tug and deliberately let it pass.
He’s not my therapist. He’s the man I want to get naked with in a gondola. Different job description.
ZLA: How was Kitz?.
He answers with a voice note this time—low, tired, amused—talking about the chaos, the flower ceremony.
ZLA: Have to be up at 7:00 to teach verbs to corporate managers who don’t want to be there.
FAB: Leaving the speed kids in Garmisch for the week and heading for Reiteralm. If our technician plays that horrible playlist again, I might retire on the spot.
I snort into my tea. The image of a world champion held hostage by pop remixes is too good. My fingers move before my dignity can stop them.
ZLA: Retire all you want, as long as you keep posting topless training reels. Some of us have needs.
Dots. Pause.
FAB: If I knew my reels were part of your… coping strategies, I would have filmed them very differently.
Heat drops straight between my legs. The cat jumps off my lap with a scandalized chirp, as if he can smell the hormones. He probably can.
ZLA: Careful. Talk like that, and a girl might start asking for custom content.
FAB: You think I wouldn’t?
The room feels suddenly too small—just me, the buzz of the phone in my hand, steam on the windows, his voice still warm in my ear from the note.
ZLA: I think you’re two countries away and still managing to make me think more about your thighs than my lesson plan.
FAB: Fuck the lesson plan. Which verb are you teaching first thing tomorrow?
ZLA: Conditionals
And I add an English sentence.
ZLA: If I hadn’t booked that gondola. If you weren’t this distracting. That kind.
FAB: If I were in Prague, you’d have a much better example for “If I hadn’t…”.
My pulse stutters.
ZLA: If you were in Prague, there’d be no lesson tomorrow. Or I’d be teaching “present perfect continuous” with very vivid real-life examples.
FAB: Present perfect continuous?
ZLA: You know. Like… I can’t walk because Fabio has been…
I leave the sentence open on purpose.
The dots appear, disappear, reappear. When his next message lands, I feel it before I read it.
FAB: Fabio has been thinking about that gondola, which means he’ll have trouble getting to sleep.
My skin prickles like I’m back in that cabin, jacket zipped over both of us. This is insane. It’s also exactly what I wanted when I told Eva I was done being the sensible girlfriend in the corner.
ZLA: Go to sleep. You have to put up with the young guys at breakfast tomorrow. We’ll see each other soon enough.
FAB: You have to terrorize the corporate managers into obedience. Goodnight, Golden Girl. Can’t wait.
The nickname sits under his name like a little glowing brand.
I put the phone down on the coffee table and stare at the ceiling.
On TV, Kitz is looping itself again—crowds, cowbells, him or the Swiss guy who won in slow-mo.
Somewhere in Kitzbühel, the man from my posters is lying on a sagging hotel mattress, thinking about me, desiring me, wishing I were there.
The feeling is intoxicating, and a part of me refuses to believe it.
I pick the phone back up, scroll once through the evening—his damp hair and trophy, my medal and couch, Johann on the chair, the messages that slid from skiing into filth without ever quite losing the edge of respect.
Then I lock the screen, tuck the phone under my pillow like a teenager, and let the alcohol in my mug lull me into oblivion with cowbells and his voice tangled together in my head.