Wengen, Switzerland, January 12
We moved to Wengen for the following speed events.
I arrived on Monday, following the slalom in Adelboden. The guys were already deep into prep for the super-G on Friday and the downhill on Saturday. Training runs started on Tuesday. A busy schedule, as always.
I didn't actively avoid Thomas. Nor, I thought, did he avoid me.
Still, the silence felt intentional.
I've been feeling guilty about texting Matteo. I got drunk that night in Adelboden and said too much, flirted too openly. And the texting didn't stop. I knew the Eurosport offer was a stunt.
When I met the manager in Bolzano, it was evident from the first handshake: she was only meeting me as a favor to Italy's golden boy. There was no job offer. I came back a few hours poorer, a little more jaded, and with one vaguely useful contact.
But Matteo was relentless. Charming. Effortlessly flattering in the exact moments when Thomas was stone-faced or gone.
I still don't understand how things got this far off track with Thomas Kern.
Before Christmas, it wasn't just sex or flirting—we were close.
Closer than I expected. Every glance carried something charged but tender, too.
I felt seen. I knew he cared, even if he didn't say it outright. And the tension... God, that tension.
I still feel it sometimes. That night in Val d'Isère when he touched my arm—just one finger tracing my skin like he was drawing a map for himself. If Niko hadn't walked in, we would've ended up in bed. I know it. I would've let it happen.
And afterward, I wanted to let it happen again. Wanted to drop the restraint the moment the tour restarted.
Even though going home reminded me of why I swore never to date an athlete.
But I realized that Maddie might have been right. Maybe a little fun was exactly what I needed.
And then Bormio happened. His ridiculous jealousy and possessiveness. Like I was his, like he could decide who I talk to, even when my career was at stake.
That reckless, suicidal run that made me want him and fear for him in the same breath.
I wanted to tell him how much I cared that day, but I tried, and he shut me out.
Cold. Silent. There were moments I started typing messages I never sent.
I wonder if he did the same. But maybe he didn't, because for him, I am just a fangirl.
A pair of pretty, admiring eyes to fuel his motivation.
In France, he said I was the reason he raced so well like I was just a good-luck charm. Something pretty to keep him focused. Something replaceable. In Adelboden, he practically called me a crazy fan.
That sting still lingers.
It cracked something in me. And slowly, Matteo filled the gap.
I know I'm playing a dangerous game. Matteo is an athlete, too. He′s maybe even more arrogant than Thomas. If being with Thomas meant living in someone's shadow, Matteo doesn't even pretend otherwise. His women are accessories. He just expects them to shine when he needs them to. I know that much.
Still, I'm a challenge to him. With Thomas, I don't know what I am anymore. A tool? A distraction? Something to keep his blood hot before the start gate?
And when I finally stopped giving him that fuel, he turned sullen. Clipped replies. Tight jaw. Avoidant eyes.
All this, just when I was ready to give him everything I've wanted for us since October.
It's the downhill day in Wengen.
I sit on a café terrace tucked just behind the finish zone, a half-empty espresso cooling in front of me.
The race plays on the big screen inside.
Behind the glass, the crowd roars, but out here, I have just enough quiet to breathe.
I don't have to be part of the action to do my job, not always.
I am not sure I could do so today, not with the turmoil of emotions raging in my head.
The Lauberhorn downhill is a beast. Longer than Bormio. Faster than Kitzbühel. It stretches from the high ridges above town all the way to this sleepy Alpine village, winding through forests and gliding sections and jumps that feel like they were designed to test belief, not just balance.
The skiers have to endure painful 2 and a half minutes. Imagine holding a squat position for so long, with bumps and jumps hitting your feet, making the lactate in your thighs burn so hot that every brain cell screams at you to give up. That's how they feel.
That's how Thomas Kern feels at this very moment. Though his precise line does not give a hint of the pain he must be feeling. He is as smooth as always.
He flashes across the final interval. He's fast. Not winning-fast, but fast enough to stay on the podium. The split lights up green but barely. His skis chatter through the S-bend above the finish, holding edge by grit alone.
When he crosses the line, he throws his head back, not in celebration.In exhaustion. Lauberhorn does that; it makes you empty all the reserves of strength and will. Even if you are Austria's golden boy.
I breathe out. Relief, maybe. Gratitude. He's safe. He skied well. He made it through another monster course.
But none of that undoes the sting from Adelboden.
The way he made me feel small with one sentence. The way I poured myself into wanting more—only to be reminded, again, that I'm the one who always cares too much.
I watch and write as the race unfolds, smiling for myself, seeing Lukas in the red chair. He made it, he earned it, and I know that Thomas is happy for his best buddy. Maybe even happier than he would have been with a win.
The camera cuts to the leaderboard:
Lukas is first.
Thomas is in third.
And Matteo sandwiched between them in second, wearing that smug, unshakable smile like he's exactly where he planned to be.
I smile despite myself. Not for the leaderboard. For the way Matteo makes things simple—chosen, visible. It's pleasant. Yet, it isn't heat.
It's a dumb comparison, and I hate myself for making it.
But with Matteo, I don't question every glance. I don't leave the conversation wondering if I imagined the whole thing. And when he flirts, it's simple. Clear. He sees me, and he lets me know it.
It's easy because you don't care. Not really.
I hate that smartass reasonable voice in the back of my head. It voices concern in the exact moments when I am finally ready to be reckless.
Twenty minutes after the podium moment, my phone buzzes. The waiter is clearing my cup when Matteo's name flashes across the screen.
Matt: “Still thinking about that Veltliner? If not, I know a place with better wine. And better company.”
I stare at the message, thumb hovering.
Then I remember Thomas's line. Crazy fan. Nearly killed herself for a chance at a date.
It shouldn't still be burning. But it does. Because I believe it wasn't just a joke. I think that's how he sees me. Or how he wants to keep seeing me.
I type.
Me: “When and where?”
The reply is instant.
Matt: “Seven. I'll pick you up.”
I slide my phone into my pocket and lean back in my chair.
The sky above Wengen is bright blue. The snow along the rooftops sparkles like spun glass. Everything is clean, crisp, and full of promise.
And for the first time in days, I don't feel like I'm waiting for something that will never come.
A voice in the back of my mind whispers:
Dating athletes now?
Shut up.
I deserve a bit of fun.
Don’t I?
***
Thomas
The pub in Wengen is packed, music blaring, beer flowing, and someone already standing on a table yelling something in Swiss-German I can't make out.
Lukas is glowing in the kind of way only a win can do.
First place, finally. Martin snagged fifth.
I held onto third. Three of us in the top five. The team has earned this night.
But I don't feel like celebrating. I feel like something's missing, but I just can't figure out what.
Who am I kidding? I know exactly who I am missing.
And here she is.
Katharina slips through the door with the kind of quiet presence that still turns heads.
Her hair's curled loose, a shade more effort than usual.
No team jacket. No sneakers, but heels. Lipstick, subtle, but enough to make my pulse spike.
She's not dressed to be just another team rep tonight. She's dressed to be seen.
She walks over to Lukas and clinks his beer with a soft smile.
"Congrats, boys. That was fun to watch."
She turns to me. "You too. Good skiing."
I nod. That's all I can manage. My chest tightens.
She glances at her phone, then back at Lukas, and then nods at me. "Just a reminder—you've got that interview in an hour. Leitner will drive you both. Try not to show up tipsy."
Lukas raises his hands. "Hey, no promises. But we'll make it."
Martin nudges him. "She's dressed up. That means what I think it means?"
Lukas whistles, low. "Someone's got a hot date."
She doesn't deny it. Just gives them both a look that says: behave.
She turns and walks off. I follow her movement without meaning to. Out the pub door, down the street. And there he is.
Bellini. Waiting in front of the hotel, leaning against the stone wall like a man who knows he looks good in the streetlamp glow.
The moment she reaches him, something in me snaps.
I slam my beer down and leave Lukas mid-toast. The glass doesn't break, but it startles the table. I don't care.
Lukas lowers his voice, captain-calm. "Mate, save stupid for after my social posts are scheduled."
I empty the glass in one long gulp, feeling the raised eyebrows more than seeing them.
So, she wanted us to behave?
Even when she doesn't?
We′ll see about that.
Three hours later, I am sobering up in the lobby.
I survived the interview without throwing up.
Lukas was sober enough to nudge me when I almost swore live on TV.
The media crew was thrilled. I imagine my slurred one-liners will be circulating all socials and turned into memes that will entertain for weeks.
How's that for too polished and too perfect, Miss PR wizard?
But the lights are off now. The studio buzz is gone. And I'm alone again.
The hotel lobby is half-dark, warm in a way that doesn't touch me. The clock above the fireplace ticks too loudly. The fire crackles like it's mocking me. I sit too still in the leather chair, tea going cold in my hand. The chair groans every time I shift. My neck aches.
I tell myself I'm just decompressing. Just riding the after-race high. Just letting the buzz wear off before I go to sleep. To improve my recovery.
But I'm kidding myself. I'm waiting.
We came back from the studio after ten. The boys clapped me on the back. Lukas handed me water. No one said a thing about her. But they knew as they left me in the lobby.
And I keep waiting here.
Half past ten.
Eleven.
I picture them in some candlelit restaurant, wine glinting in her glass. Him brushing her wrist with his fingers. That soft laugh she gives when she's not trying to impress anyone. Her coat slipping from her shoulders as they head up to his room.
I picture them in his bed.
His mouth on her neck, his fingers in her hair, the arch of her spine. Her breath catching.
The sounds she made with me.
Every second past midnight hammers that image deeper. Still no message. No knock. No fucking key in the lock.
I want to believe she saw through him. Saw the slick moves, the easy, perfected charm. I want to believe she walked away.
But it's getting late.
And that hope is thinning.
I close my eyes.
All I see is her. His sheets. His hands.
That look she gave me—like I was gravity and fire and home—all twisted into something that isn't mine anymore.
My hands are fists. My jaw's locked so tight my teeth ache. My whole body feels like a fuse burning down to nothing.
I get up.
Go to my room.
And try not to think about the only thing I can think about:
Matteo Bellini is fucking my woman.
***