Thomas
The anthem plays. My chest is rising and falling like it can’t decide whether to keep breathing or explode.
I stare straight ahead, chin up, boots anchored to the podium's highest step. There’s steam rising from the crowd.
Thousands of flags. Faces blurred with the tears in my eyes.
I hear the roar, feel it vibrating in my sternum, but it’s like I’m wrapped in glass.
Like I’m watching myself from outside my own body.
I did it.
I won the Hahnenkamm.
I won at Kitzbühel.
The Golden Gams trophy is mine. And for a second, it’s not about points or seasons or contracts. It’s about the kid who stared at this hill with frozen fingers and stars in his eyes. It’s about my mother wiping her own tears on her jacket, about my father nodding like he knew all along.
They’re here. I see them. Right front row. My mother’s hand over her mouth. My father’s eyes shining like ice.
And I see her.
Katharina.
Tucked just behind the sponsor barricade. Press badge slung around her neck. Trying to look busy.
I smile at her. Can’t help it.
Because right now, I’m not angry. I’m high. I’m on fire. I’m untouchable.
Let her be what she wants. Let her choose clean lines and clever flirts and safe little dinners. I’m not here for her.
I’m here for this.
The hours after are a blur of noise and velvet ropes.
“Thomas! One quote for ORF?”
“Thomas! Over here! With the President!”
“Can we get you to hold the logo, just—”
Smiles. Handshakes. Flashbulbs.
Arnold Schwarzenegger claps me on the shoulder like we go way back.
“That run,” he says. “Pure Terminator shit.”
I laugh. Half-drunk on adrenaline. “I’ll take that.”
And behind the ring of lights, I catch her watching. Katharina.
Her gaze skims over me, but she doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t smile. Just nods to someone on the phone and walks toward some TV production van.
She looks small today. Small and professional. Like even her spine decided to bend a little.
Funny. She used to shine so brightly it pissed me off.
Now? She blends in. Doesn’t meet my eyes. Keeps her voice low and her posture perfect.
And some cruel bastard in me likes it.
Because after Wengen? After that night? It does serve her right.
Let her feel what it’s like to be on the edge of something she can’t have. Let her wonder.
The girls who crowd me now don’t wonder. They smile like they’re already halfway into my bed.
One of them hands me a napkin with a number on it. Another wants a photo. Another bites her lip when I say her name back to her.
Katharina passes ten feet away. Pretends not to notice. But I see the flicker.
I used to crave that flicker. Used to chase it.
Now?
I’ll enjoy her being in this position, too.
The tux feels tighter than it did this morning. The Kitzbühel afterparty is funky, expensive, shiny, and impossibly posh. We all bring our suits on the tour for this very evening. But we are not used to it, feel a little like penguins in summer.
Martin claps my shoulder, voice rough with pride. “You did it, mate. You gave them something to remember.”
As we enter the posh party lounge, they are everywhere — celebrities, models, and expensive girls trying to look like ones.
We’re seated near Anton Fuchs, the legend himself. Three-time Kitz winner. He grins at me like he knows exactly what I’m feeling. Like we are old buddies. And maybe we are, I entered the legendary club today.
“First Gams tastes the sweetest,” Fuchs says. “Second proves you meant it.”
The tables glitter. Literally. Laughter that sounds like champagne flutes clinking. And champagne flutes, no ordinary sparkling wine, the real stuff. Not that I would tell them apart. But tonight I am setting out to pretend that I do, that I actually belong here.
And then I see Katharina.
Dark dress. No heels. No time for makeup. She’s here for work, not pleasure. Talking to the event team, tapping on her phone, taking notes.
She doesn’t shine in this room.
And maybe that shouldn’t feel good.
But it does.
Because when she congratulated me earlier, just a murmur by the sponsor wall, she looked at me like I was myth made flesh. She tried to hide it. But it was there.
And it used to turn me on; that restraint, that fire she tried so hard to snuff. Now it just pisses me off. Now, it’s a game I’m not in the mood to play anymore.
She wants Matteo? Let her have Matteo.
She does not want Matteo? Then let her make up her damn mind.
She wants to be the Ice Queen? Fine.
The glittery girl beside me leans in. Her heavy perfume hits me.
Katharina glances over.
Our eyes meet, her gaze shifts to the blonde next to me.
A pang of guilt runs through me. I almost call after her, my hand twitches as if trying to reach her.
But she looks away and walks off.
Apparently, I am not worth the fight.
That wakes me up. I′m done trying, done chasing the shadow of Hintertux.
***
Katharina
I should’ve worn different shoes.
My flats squeak against the parquet like mice. My little black dress doesn’t look little enough in this room full of diamonds and sparkling makeup.
I didn′t make time for a make-up.
I’ve been coordinating since dawn. My phone has 28% battery and 14 unread messages.
I was hoping, stupidly, for one moment with him.
To tell him, I stopped breathing when he took off over the Seidelalmsprung. To tell him he looked superhuman when he landed. To say I was proud. That I cared.
That I still do.
But he’s surrounded. Laughing. Louder now. Touching arms, tossing back champagne, letting glittery girls toss themselves at his shadow.
And I?
I’m not there.
He glances my way.
And does not say a word.
***