Chapter 6
Unspoken Things
Playlist:
Zac Effron, Zendaya: Rewrite the Stars
Robie Williams: Can′t Stop Christmas
Reiteralm, Austria, December 5
Katharina
He's still in his race suit as we sit in the lounge.
I pretend not to get distracted by the way the slim, flexible material hugs his muscular frame, just within my reach across the table.
The sun is warming us, so we sit outside.
Reiteralm in Schladming is where the racers come to train.
Although it's not that high, the locals know how to prepare the terrain well enough to attract world-class skiers.
They even advertise it on their website:
Meet your heroes and get some autographs.
The skiers are a major attraction. Luckily for them, training usually happens early, before the tourists peel open their eyes over their first morning coffee.
I sip mine and finally decide to speak. He carved out time between sessions to give me answers. Let's not waste it.
"So, what I need," I begin, "is something that makes you human. You were human enough as a youth—partying, making dumb videos with your friends, saying inappropriately weird things. But you calmed down. Which is good."
"Is it? Because you all act like it's a tragedy that I'm not a rogue anymore."
"Are you a rogue?" I raise my eyebrows. "Does it hurt you to behave?"
He thinks for a moment. "I don't think about it. I didn't change the way I live because of the press or the image. I want to win. And to keep winning at this level, you need discipline—mental and physical."
I sigh. As I feared. A perfect answer from a perfect role model.
"But I guess I could throw a party and let someone film it for a tabloid, if that's what you want," he adds dryly.
He is smug about it, but I can see the idea appeals to him. Like he could escape all this by getting drunk with friends.
"Do that if you want. But that's not what I need. One scandal doesn't make you human. Not unless it becomes your habit. And you can't afford that."
"You're the communication wizard. You tell me."
"I'm trying. But I need to know your weakness. So I can shape it to your advantage."
He thinks hard. I almost pity him. He's really trying. It's endearing.
"I don't know shit about skis," he says finally. "Is that good enough?"
I try not to smile, because even his flaws come wrapped in that maddening charm.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Well, most of the good guys know how to recognize a good ski, pick the right one for the terrain, and tell the difference between waxes.
I don't. I go down to the workshop, talk to Roman and his guys, bring them beer and coffee to show I appreciate them, but I don't pretend to care about their job.
Lukas is always there, discussing wax with his techs. Niko likes to relax by helping them. They wouldn't let me touch anything. I'd screw it up."
"That's interesting," I say, frowning. But not quite helpful. Not yet.
"The marketing guy from Vektor was furious with me," he laughs suddenly. "We were shooting a commercial in the workshop. I was supposed to inspect a ski, act like I gave a damn. And I didn't even know how to look at it. I mean…how does one tell if a ski is any good?"
"That's a good story," I sigh. "We'll use it in an interview. Maybe make a reel. Introduce your tech crew, and you'll tell this story to show how dumb you are. And how competent they are. We'll shoot it with Roman beside you."
"Great," he grins.
"But it's not enough."
I hate to disappoint him, but it's just another perfect trait. A superstar athlete who praises his technicians and admits he'd be lost without them. So very him. So very perfect.
"How about my right knee? It hurts," he offers.
"You scared it could become a problem?"
"Every time I feel a hint of that pain, I panic."
Finally, something I can use. My fingers tighten on the keyboard before I realize it.
"Amazing," I say, already typing notes on my laptop, ideas spinning.
He watches me closely. I stop and look up.
"I've never told anyone, you know," he says, frowning. "Show at least some… emotion."
I blink, suddenly ashamed. I nod, letting the concern creep into my expression, slowly overtaking the professional detachment. I have to act a little. But only a little. Because he's opening up, and I respect that.
"I've never had a serious injury before,” he continues. “No operations. No long recoveries. But I've watched Lukas go through it. Others too. It wouldn't be that easy for me if the knee gave out."
"Thomas, I—"
"See?" he blinks, shaking off the thought. "This kind of talk messes with me. And tell me, is it good for a focused racer to think about his weakness while getting ready for a race?"
"I get it," I nod. "It's my job to work with these ideas. Not yours."
I shut my laptop and slide it into my bag. Outside, I see the guys waving. Break's over.
We walk out in silence.
"Finally got your private moment?" Martin purrs, like he's narrating a trailer.
Lukas doesn't even slow down. "Not private. There were witnesses."
Martin grins. "As if that's ever stopped either of you."
"I do care about image," I say, smiling. "And what's more, I care about his image. And yours, by the way. So I might schedule a meeting with each one of you."
"Yeah, it's tough," Thomas says. "She'll question you about your weaknesses, your childhood traumas…"
"I'm scared of snowcats," Niko says out of the blue.
We all stare. Even the breeze seems to pause.
Lukas, deadpan: "Jesus, Niko." Then softer, to me: "Don't use that one."
"What? They're creepy," Niko says, dead serious. "And once I saw one run over a kid on my junior team."
"What?!"
"He survived. The snow was soft. We just had to dig him out. But sometimes I have nightmares where I get run over by a snowcat."
"That's definitely something you could use, Kat," Thomas says.
"I don't think I want to," I answer.
It’s absurd, and honest, and strangely perfect. And moments like this remind me why I love this circus. Even when certain images haunt my nights and make me wake up hot and sweaty.
Not talking about snowcats, though.
***
Val d'Isère, France, December 11
Thomas
Val d'Isère start hut. Always feels more like a confession booth than a starting gate.
The snow crunches under my boots as I jog in place, trying to keep the blood moving.
Up here, above the Face de Bellevarde, the wind slices through layers of clothing like it has something to prove.
Cold stings my nostrils with every breath.
This start area's tight, shadowed by trees, and weirdly quiet.
No view of the slope from here. Just nerves, steel, and routine.
Tenth place after the first run. Not a disaster for most, but a terrible result for me. I had to shut myself out completely to avoid hearing all those questions.
"What happened to Thomas Kern?"
"Is he sick or something?"
I roll my neck. Shake my arms out. Try to shake off the real reason I skied like shit on the first run.
Katharina.
She was standing behind the fence, exactly where she shouldn't be. Arms folded, eyes unreadable, jaw set like she was trying not to care. But she watched. She always watches now.
And I saw her just before the steep, and I let my mind slip for one goddamn second.
Boom. Line drifted. Inside, ski chattered. Scraped my way through the pitch like I was back in junior nationals, trying to survive.
And then I beat myself up for the next twenty gates, because apparently I ski worse when I'm trying not to think about her than when I let myself want her.
Footsteps. A tech sticks his head into the hut.
"Thomas? Kat's calling."
I blink. "What?"
"Katharina. She's holding the phone…Niko's to give you a report. He's down by the red chair."
I laugh, a single stunned exhale. "Of course he is."
I take the phone. My glove nearly fumbles it.
"Thomas," Niko's voice comes fast, a little too loud, on the line. "Listen. The groove in the compression is deeper now. Tight left footer after the second delay…everyone's getting tossed. If you trust it, use it. If not, edge early. Your call."
I nod, even though he can't see me. "Got it."
But my mind is somewhere else.
She’s with him. Next to the red chair. The one that should’ve been mine. Holding the phone, passing on information. Doing her job.
And all I see is her hand holding the phone like a thread that runs from her to me, invisible and electric.
I almost laugh. This is how I lost the first run. By letting her in where she didn’t belong. Letting her pull me offline.
Two racers for me and nine to go. I have two precious minutes to pull myself together.
I do what my mental coach drilled into me: don’t fight the distraction. Don′t battle with your thoughts, accept them and then decide with your rational mind - do I use them or will I lose because of them?
So I grip the thought tighter. I don’t fight it, I fold it in. Let the current run through me, not against me. Every athlete has their trick. Some picture the crowd, some picture the clock. For me, right now, it’s her.
Her eyes steady as a gate judge, daring me not to drift.
And her mouth, soft, not hard, like she’s waiting for proof.
Like if I deliver now, she’ll finally stop holding back.
It’s not nerves buzzing through me, it’s heat.
The kind that makes you want to drive straighter, faster, harder.
Because winning isn’t just about the clock.
It’s about earning the look that says you’re her hero.
Conquer the hill. For her.
Now, that feels better.
Heat builds low in my chest. Not rage. Not nerves. Drive.
I roll my shoulders once, twice. Set my poles.
Close my eyes.
Driven, but focused.
I'm at the gate.
The beeps start. Five… four…
I set my poles. Breathe slowly.
Three…
Her face. That look she gave me in Solden.
Two…
She's watching. I know it.
One.
Go.
From the moment I launch, I stop thinking.