Val Gardena, Italy （South Tyrol）, February 4, 2026
Katharina
The stadium pulses with light, each burst brighter than the last, as if the night itself is crackling under pressure.
Spotlights slice through the alpine air, sharp and ghostlike, sweeping across the crowd like they’re searching for something sacred.
The cold is real, biting at cheeks, threading under scarves, stiffening breath into clouds. But it doesn’t matter.
Because beneath the layers and the frost, the crowd radiates something hotter—excitement, almost feverish. The kind of charged energy that crackles across your skin and makes you forget your fingers are numb. It’s not warmth exactly. It’s something else. Something bigger.
The Olympic Games are beginning.
And I am here, part of it all.
From the moment I realized that I would not march under the torch, lacking the talent to become an Olympic athlete, I dreamed of writing Olympic stories. To watch it live from the first row, pen and paper in my hand.
The little girl dreamt of pen and paper, and the grown-up woman is here despite everything, not with a paper notebook but a laptop on her lap. Ready to shine with her words, nonetheless.
Drums thunder from the arena floor, echoing through my ribs like a second heartbeat. The smell of fireworks still lingers in the air, smoke and metal, mixing with the scent of snow and thousands of bodies leaning forward at once.
I sit shoulder to shoulder with Maddie, tucked into layers that still can’t quite stop the chill.
“They really don’t hold back, do they?” Maddie murmurs, her eyes catching the light as she watches the dancers below, their sequins sparkling like ice flakes in a snow globe.
“It’s the Olympics,” I say, half-smiling. “This is them holding back.”
She chuckles. A swarm of drones flickers into the sky, blinking into formation, first a skier mid-jump, then the five Olympic rings. The crowd roars. I clap with them, enjoying the moment, but mentally taking notes of every detail.
We’re halfway through the Olympic opening ceremony. Cameras sweep the crowd. Flags wave. Performers whirl in elaborate choreography that probably took six months and three broken ankles to perfect.
Maddie leans into my shoulder, clutching a paper cup of glühwein. “So, which country’s uniforms are giving you hives?”
I smile without turning. “Your Americans with the faux-denim and neon trim. They look like rejected backup dancers for a '90s boy band.”
She snorts. "You’re brutal. But right."
Below us, the final stage of the ceremony begins: the Parade of Nations.
Delegations are lining up to enter the stadium.
The athletes are tight in formation, half-nervous, half-starstruck.
Phones in hands, ready. Because who enjoys a moment nowadays?
What kind of experience would that be if you cannot make a reel out of it?
“Bet you a bottle of Moet we spot Bellini first,” Maddie whispers.
“I’m not looking for Bellini,” I say coolly.
She gives me a long side-eye. “Right. You’re not looking for the smirking Italian with thighs carved by God and a history of drama with your not-boyfriend. Of course not.”
I sip my tea. “I’m focused on the Austrians. Media obligations. Hashtag team unity.”
“Uh-huh.” She stretches, shoulder bumping mine again. “You know, for someone who says she’s in control, you’re blinking like you walked into the wrong confession booth.”
“I am in control.”
Maddie pauses. Then, softly, “And Thomas?”
My heart doesn’t skip. It lunges. But I don’t flinch.
“Thomas is… taken care of.”
I say it evenly. Lightly. As if I didn’t feel his hand on my skin less than forty-eight hours ago. As if I didn’t whisper his name into the ski room wall while trying not to break something with the force of my need.
Maddie watches me. Too smart for her own good. “And you’re fine.”
“I’m excellent,” I say, smiling as I spot a single Angolan athlete waving her flag and jumping for joy. “We have a deal. Clear terms. No complications.”
“And no feelings?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She blinks. "Wait—you have feelings?"
“I have excellent boundaries,” I correct.
“Sure. That’s what all the girls say when they’re falling in love with a man who skis like a god and fucks like the mountain’s watching.”
“Maddie—”
“—and looks at you like you’re the only calm in the chaos. But yes. Excellent boundaries.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Because I see him.
Not Thomas, yet. But the Austrian team has begun to assemble just inside the entrance tunnel. Red and white jackets. Familiar postures. Camera-ready smiles.
My body tightens in anticipation.
The stadium cheers as the announcer welcomes Austria. We are in Northern Italy, and the Austrians are friends here. Sure, competitors, but closest to friends, any country can be, even closer than the rest of Italy.
And there he is.
Thomas Kern.
Flag-bearer. Chin up, stride smooth, posture just arrogant enough to earn the roar that greets him.
I don’t try to fight the smile tugging at my mouth. How could I? He looks... magnificent. Not in a made-for-camera way—but in that effortless, annoyingly Kern way. Like he was born for this kind of light.
He scans the crowd, eyes unhurried. Not looking for anyone. But somehow I know—he knows. I’m watching.
And for once, I don’t mask it. I just watch.
“All right, fine,” Maddie mutters. “That man could carry the torch and me in one arm.”
I let out a laugh—quiet, surprised. “Please. He’d do it, smirking, then act like it was no big deal.”
She glances at me sideways. “You’re not even pretending to be unaffected.”
“I’m not,” I say, eyes still on him. “I’m just choosing to appreciate the view.”
She watches me for a beat too long. “You’re glowing, babe.”
“Don’t ruin it,” I say. But I don’t deny it.
***
Val Gardena, Italy (South Tyrol), February 4, 2026
First Olympic race, super-G
I love Val Gardena. I have seen it shine with a Christmas vibe during the December races. I have enjoyed the sun and warmth in April during my spring skiing holidays. Today, it′s the Olympics, and it feels strangely cozy here.
With more cameras than ever, the small town is buzzing with flags, colors, and fans.
Drones fly over our heads, and security measures are strict.
In regular World Cup races, you can walk anywhere carrying anything; now, fans are checked and scanned in every area, including the mix zone where I am sitting, which is guarded by armed forces.
Still, the place feels familiar.
It gives the false perception that we will face just another super-G today. Three training sessions have passed with superb weather. Today the sun is shining, the sky is blue. It looks like the Italian organizers paid for the weather. Maybe, they did.
This is a Catholic country; it would not surprise me if the Pope himself were to serve a Mass for the fine weather during the Italian Olympics.
“The course looks great,” Jonas says beside me, his voice a little tense.
“It always does here,” I agree. “Can you imagine the Italians wanted the Olympic downhill in Bormio?”
“I sure can. Bormio is Italian, Val Gardena is Tyrolean. These guys hate each other′s guts.”
“I′m glad they found agreement, then, for our guys′ sake.”
“Well, South and North Korea managed to cooperate to make the Olympic idea come alive. It would be a shame if the Italians and Tyroleans were worse sports players.”
“True,” I agree, and we both go silent as the first racer skates out of the gate.
An American, Andrew Seaton, skis the course, and I take notes.
My hands are shaking, and I try to pretend that it is from the cold.”
***