Chapter 6 #2
My skis slice through the top section like they've got something to prove. Aggressive edge angles. Straight line through the first delay gate. No correction. Just fire.
I attack the pitch like it owes me money.
The compression's coming. I drop low, trust the groove, and ride it like it's a rail. Bounce out fast, clean, and borderline reckless.
Every turn after that is instinct. Risk stacked on risk. The kind of skiing that either ends with a podium or in the nets.
But I don't crash.
I fly.
And when I cross the line, I know.
I hear the roar before I see the screen.
-0.92. First place.
I bend over, hands on knees, heart pounding. Not from exhaustion. From disbelief.
That should be good enough to fix the mess from my first run.
Unless the rest of the guys pull a miracle, there's no way to beat this run.
Fastest second run; I claw back from tenth place.
And I know damn well why.
Not just to prove I'm still the guy. Not just to send a message to the field.
I wanted her to see that.
And winning always felt good. Winning for her feels like flying.
The finish zone is a blur of noise and movement. FIS techs. Cameras. Coaches yelling into radios. Then I see her.
Katharina. Tapping her phone.
She locks her eyes with mine.
And for one second, before she schools her face, I see it.
Pride.
Not professional satisfaction. Not sponsor-friendly contentment.
The real thing.
Heat slams through me harder than the run ever did. My chest heaves, my thighs burn, sweat stings my eyes. I’m wired and restless, like I need to move, need to grab hold of something, or someone, to burn the adrenaline out.
I sit down in the red chair, still shaking from the run, shaking Niko’s hand like I didn’t just put the world on notice. We remain together across the finish zone, invisible thread still buzzing between us.
Winning always felt good. Winning for her feels like flying…and falling at the same time.
Then my phone vibrates.
I check the screen.
Kat: "It almost looked like you wanted to impress some girl. Wouldn't want to be the reason you finish in the nets."
I stare at the message, then back at her across the fence line.
She's not looking.
Not anymore.
I type back.
Me: "Didn't know you cared."
She doesn't reply.
But I catch the ghost of a smile flicker across her mouth as she walks away.
That's enough.
That's more than enough.
***
Katharina
The finish's fun zone lives up to its name. I can feel the booze taking effect and just go with it. It's been a long time since I felt this relaxed, this free.
I know I'll regret it tomorrow. The work I ditched, the alcohol I drank. But I wouldn't miss this for the world. Thomas deserved this. I knew he was sorry I wasn't there to celebrate his last win in Beaver Creek. Not that he'd say so, but I could tell.
We're friends after all, aren't we?
Niko shows up with a round of beers and a wine for me. Lukas and Martin stayed in Reiteralm to prep for the next speed weekend, and the slalom skiers present in Val d′Isére already left to get some sleep before the slalom tomorrow, so it's just us.
"Do you think that girl in the corner might fall for a guy who finished sixth?" Niko asks, nodding toward a tall, lean blond across our table.
"I don't know, buddy," Thomas says, grinning. "How's your French?"
"I guess I'm about to find out."
And just like that, he takes my glass of wine and strolls off.
"Hey, that was mine!"
"Sorry," he calls back without turning. "I need an offering."
"And what about me?"
"You're taken already, aren't you?"
I stare at him, mouth slightly open. Thomas laughs and gets up.
"Don't worry, Kat," he says. "I'll get you your wine."
"Okay, I want—"
"I know what you want."
I shake my head, trying not to smile, but I can feel it creeping up. I look after him with a lovestruck grin… until I remember where we are. How drunk I am. How drunk he is. The smile fades.
"You know," Thomas says when he returns, handing me my white wine. Precisely the one I like. "I'm glad you care about me not ending up in the nets."
"And I'm glad you wanted to impress me," I grin back.
"I did," he says, and for a second, he's earnest. "You know, Kat, I'll tell you a secret."
"I'm not sure I want to know."
"I'm telling you anyway."
"Go on then, but remember you can't unsay what's been said."
"I love the way you look at me when I win. When I nail it. When I do what I do. That look — from you — it's so damn sexy."
His finger brushes the back of my hand. Too light to call it anything, but enough to make me shiver. I grip my glass tighter, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. It's too warm in here. That must be it.
He keeps talking, gently tracing up my wrist, my forearm. It's not much — just fingertips and alcohol and tension — but it's dangerous.
"I know you're impressed by my skiing," he says softly. "Not just because I have a globe. Not because of the media crap. You get it. You're impressed by what I do."
His touch is featherlight, nothing overt, but somehow it short-circuits my ability to breathe properly. I swallow.
"Come on, Kat," he says, a slow grin forming. "Can't you just admit it turns you on?"
His finger slides over my shoulder, just barely grazing my neck. His skin is warm, smelling faintly of snow and sweat under the alcohol. I want to lean in, breathe deeper, but I grip my glass instead.
"Because that's why I'm so good this season. You're my drive. I keep thinking, maybe if I ski even better, you'll finally drop the act and tear my clothes off."
"That…" I exhale shakily, taking his hand gently and pulling it away from my skin, "is the sexiest thing anyone's ever told me."
He raises an eyebrow as I let go of his hand.
"But, Thomas," I say quietly. "As much as I'm attracted to you — as much as I desire you — I can't. We can't."
My body’s already made the opposite decision, leaning closer, pulse hammering, but my career has louder claws.
"You think too much," he mutters, looking away. There's a flash of disappointment, maybe even anger, behind his eyes.
Well. A man gets pissed when seduction doesn't work.
"Thomas, look at me," I say, forcing him to meet my gaze. I might be tipsy enough to admit things I'd usually swallow whole, but he needs to understand.
"I'm not playing games. I'm not pushing you away to be interesting. I just…"
"Why then?" he asks, blunt and direct. "Why not do the thing everyone around us probably assumes we've already done?"
"Because it could ruin everything I've worked for."
"How so? Plenty of women working with male athletes end up in someone's bed."
"Exactly."
He's silent. Then:
"I mean, dating — why are we only talking about sex? We could be more."
His grin falters, and for a second I see it: he means it, more than he probably should.
"No. We can't."
"Why not?"
"You've got globes to chase," I say with a sigh. "You don't want the mess of a relationship."
"Doesn't have to be serious. Could just be fun."
I'm too drunk for this conversation. And honestly, I'm running out of reasons.
Why am I fighting this?
I could have him — even just for a while. A fling. A secret affair. He clearly wants it.
But no affair is worth what I'd become in the eyes of the ski world.
"Come on, guys!" Niko bursts in. "I was giving you some privacy, but this is taking too long."
He pulls up a chair and plops down between us, slinging an arm around Thomas.
"If I'm not getting laid tonight, neither are you, buddy."
"The blond didn't appreciate your French?" I ask.
"She didn't," he groans. "And her bull of a boyfriend almost bit my head off. So I'm staying right here."
"Thanks, buddy," Thomas says, patting him on the back a little too hard.
"You're a real friend."
Niko winks at me — and I know how true that is.
Because tonight, his timing just saved me from myself.
***