Chapter 5
Diligent Ants and Nosy Sponsors
Playlist:
DJ ?tzi: Live Is Life
Lily James: Andante, Andante
Beaver Creek, USA, November 24
Thomas
The course inspection's underway.
I close my eyes to trace the line I've chosen.
I'm used to winning Super-Gs. And Birds of Prey? It's one of the best. I love it here in Beaver Creek.
It's not just the layout. It's the rhythm. The upper section flows like it was built for skiers who think while they fly. Clean, aggressive lines, no need for recklessness. If you know what you're doing, it can look effortless. And that's always the goal.
I push off and let the skis run, edges loose, just enough to feel what kind of mood the snow's in today.
Early December. Cold enough to harden in the overnight freeze.
The surface has that dry, chalky bite you only get in North America.
Grippy, but punishing if your wax isn't dialed.
Most techs hate it. Roman adjusts. Doesn't even blink.
The snow rasps under the side-slip, dry sound, like sand on glass.
There's a slight compression coming up. Looks like nothing now. At speed, it kicks. I mark it. Three turns later, it rolls into that long left-footed traverse where time disappears if you're late on the entry. Everyone knows it. Only the ones who win remember it.
Wind worries the fence; the netting hums left to right.
Lukas is ahead, side-slipping the pitch like he's still waking up. He stops at the traverse and calls back over his shoulder.
He rubs his knee once, casual as a habit. "If you're ahead of me here today, I'll buy you a beer." I grin. "You'd better start saving."
Martin laughs behind me. "Don't bait him. He's already pretending to be humble."
He tips his chin like there's a camera on us. "Save the humility for the mix zone."
We group up near the netting—me, Lukas, Martin, Niko. Quiet now. Just watching. Calculating.
Niko breaks the silence. "Wind'll hit just above the traverse. You'll feel it push left."
Martin nods. "And the surface glosses out below the breakover. If they don't reset, it'll be blown apart by the end."
We always talk like this. Clipped. Clean. No fluff. Inspection isn't for bonding. It's for building the run so precisely in your head that your body doesn't have to guess.
Roman waits near the coaches' fence, arms crossed outside the netting. No clipboard. No goggles. Just watching.
I skate over. He doesn't speak right away. Then, just: "You happy with this pair?"
I nod. "Feels right."
He nods once.
Roman knows his job. And he knows me. He tilts his head a millimeter—our code for keep the pair.
He watches every step I take during inspection—one frown, one eyebrow twitch, and he'll switch the setup without me saying a word.
If something's off, he'll fix it in five minutes. I owe most of my results to that man.
We ski slowly to the base and stop. Just standing. Looking up. Nothing more to see.
The sun's just touching the trees above Birds of Prey. A perfect, brutal morning.
Exactly how I like it.
The others head to the lift. I stay behind, breathing it in for one more minute.
A soft voice near my ear. It makes my shoulders tense before my chest loosens.
“You ready to go?”
I don’t turn. “No time for media quotes.”
But I’m already smiling. I’m always happy to see Katharina. That’s the problem.
Because happy isn’t what wins races. Happy makes you reckless.
"Of course," she says, nodding. "I took photos from the inspection, and I'm heading out. Just wanted to wish you luck."
"In that case, thanks," I say, turning toward her.
She's looking up the slope. And there it is, just a flicker, in her eyes. Apprehension.
Is she worried about me?
Adorable.
"I have never seen it from this angle," she says, looking at me, trying to hide the worry.
Like she's trying to be brave for my sake.
I am the hero conquering a dragon. Well, an eagle in this case. The Golden Eagle.
I stand a little taller with pride.
If I had feathers, I'd be puffed up like a damn peacock.
"It's Super-G. We won't fly that far on the jump," I say with a half-smile. "Wait for tomorrow."
Smug. A bit more arrogant than I meant.
"I guess," she says, smiling faintly. "Be safe. I know you will be. It just… looks scary."
"Don't worry, honey," I say, giving her a wink. "We're trained to make terrifying look sexy."
She looks like she might kiss me, then changes her mind. Just pats my arm and turns to leave.
I watch her go. Still smiling when I catch Niko making a face.
I guess I deserved it; I'm still smiling like an idiot.
"Jesus, Kern. Want us to give you a minute alone?"
I roll my eyes and tug off one glove. "She started it."
"You winked."
"Professionally."
He snorts. "Sure. Just don't get distracted mid-run. Helicopter rides here are expensive."
I bend to check my boots, but the grin stays on.
"I won't," I say. "I'll think about the podium. She'll be watching."
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll carve it so clean the whole hill forgets to breathe.
As long as she does.
And I did as I said in the race.
I knew it before the final split.
The skis felt light. The line came to me like I'd already run it. Even the icy compression near the pitch—smooth, easy. Every turn gave energy back.
That doesn't happen every day.
I crossed the line, glanced up.
Green light.
Full second ahead.
The crowd exploded. I'd just taken out the local favorite. His run was solid. He might still end up on the podium with me, so they'll be happy. But for now, I owned it.
I waved at them, grinning. I love the crowd. And they love me.
Then I saw her.
Katharina, in the finish zone. Press badge clipped to her jacket. Not cheering. Not waving. Just watching.
Our eyes locked.
And there it was again—that flicker. The one that doesn't belong to a media coordinator.
She's relieved I made it down. And proud that I won.
She smiles and shakes her head slightly.
And that smile says it all.
That I'm unbelievable.
The only one in the world.
God, this is the best way to win a race.
I let myself stare for a second too long before turning away.
I unclip and sling my skis over my shoulder.
I'm halfway to the team zone when I hear the voice behind me, playful and sharp.
"Want us to give you privacy with your finish-line girlfriend?" Martin calls, voice all velvet and headlines.
I laugh and shake my head. "Cut the trailer, Martin."
"She was definitely watching you, though," Niko adds with a smirk. "Like, intently."
I don’t answer. Just bend to recheck my boots. The grin’s already back on my face.
Because some days, skiing is about the win.
But today, it’s also about the way she looked at me like I was something more.
I picture her smile again and feel a jolt low in my body, sharp as the edge bite in the pitch. God, I want to pull her close, press her against the snow fence, taste the laugh still caught in her throat.
That’s the thing about adrenaline. It never stays in your legs. It climbs higher, hotter, looking for somewhere to burn.
It used to scatter anywhere. Now it just goes straight to her.
Every damn time.
***
Katharina
There's something eerie about watching a man win when he already expects to.
Thomas didn't punch the air. He didn't roar or throw his head back.
He crossed the line like he'd just finished a long sentence in a language only a few people understand.
And I understood it.
But I'm here to work, not to enjoy the view.
The win means chaos: press clippings, sponsor content, shuffled timelines. My phone buzzes nonstop, and headline drafts whirl in my head.
"ZWE wants a finish zone shot in fifteen."
"Where's the lead quote?"
I answer everything. Clip instructions into folders. Text Brenner. Fire off a reminder to Niko to stop photobombing every polished team shot. Thanks to him, half the inspection photos are useless.
It's only later, at the hotel lounge, when I finally let myself breathe.
That's when Felix from ZWE Energy finds me.
"You're doing a great job with the boys this year," he says, swirling something orange in his glass. "They're all so… focused."
Smile. Nod.
"I didn't realize they were giving comms roles to such young people. Bold choice."
Another smile. Tighter this time.
"You must be used to charming them by now. Especially that Thomas guy. He listens when you talk."
My tone stays neutral. "He listens because he's a professional."
Felix leans in slightly. Too confident, too much cologne. "Must be hard to keep things strictly professional on tour. Or do you set your own rules?"
I shift the tablet in my hands. "Excuse me, I need to confirm the press schedule."
"Of course." He smirks. "Book time like everyone else, right? But I feel like I deserve special treatment, considering who I represent."
I angle my tablet toward the corridor, already planning my exit line, when a light touch lands on my shoulder.
Thomas.
Calm. Casual. Effortless.
"Hey," he says, eyes on me, tone easy. "Brenner's asking about the morning slot. Kat, got a sec?"
I don't reply. Just nod and let him steer me out of the moment.
As we walk away, Felix calls after us, "Guess I'll have to schedule in advance next time!"
Thomas doesn't look back. "Exactly," he says.
We pass the mixer tables and slip into the corridor near the stairwell.
Finally, quiet. Just the low hum of distant voices and the soft thud of carpeted steps.
I exhale. Not dramatically, just enough to let my lungs catch up with my spine.
Thomas walks beside me like we've done this a hundred times before. Same pace, same rhythm. He doesn't press. Don't joke.
I stop at the far windows, where the peaks glow faintly under the afternoon light.
He waits, half a step behind.
I don't turn right away.
Then I do.
Arms crossed. Steady voice.
"You didn't have to step in."
“I know.”
"I had it under control."
"You always do."
The silence that follows feels almost honest.
So I ask, "Then why?"
He shrugs. "You looked like you shouldn't have had to."