Katharina
Thomas
Up here at the top of the Ciampinoi mountain, the race is about to start.
Niko is pacing, Lukas is staring at the sky, and Martin…
…is building a snowman.
“Really, man?” I ask, pointing at the snowman′s giant dick made of a wooden stick.
“It′s Bellini, don′t you see?” he smirks.
“Did I hear my name?” Bellini strides our way. His broad camera-ready smile a little tight.
The nerves of the home Olympics got to him.
I′m pleased.
He eyes the snowman with an amused expression: “My dick is prettier.”
“I have never seen it,” Martin shrugs, but Bellini is already turning away.
“Hey, Matteo,” I call after him. “Good luck, man.”
“You too, Kern,” he nods.
“Time to get ready,” I say. “Good luck, guys.”
I bump fists with all the guys, clap the back of the closest youngster, and enter my pre-race routine.
I plug my ears, play the Tyrolean music, and start my warm-up.
The same routine I've gone through since my junior years. This race is no different; it cannot be. If I let the Olympic drama get in my head, I′m done.
I told Katharina in the morning.
She watched me eating the cereal, those beautiful eyes worried sick. She touched my arm lightly, afraid to ask how I felt. I felt like kissing her at that moment, ignoring that stupid deal of ours. Because she respects my needs, she does not push; she does whatever I need at every moment.
And still, she cares.
But I cannot afford to care too much, not about the Olympic gold, the weight of glory, the medals. They all expect me to win, to demolish the competition at my very first Olympics. And I know I can do that.
But only if I treat this super-G like any other. I have won here twice already in my career. I know the mountain inside out; I know the bumps, the tricky, curvy Ciaslat section that suits my skiing. The entire course is tailored to fit my style.
What could possibly go wrong?
It′s time; I haven't watched the racers before me. I cannot; I need to remain in this flow.
No distractions.
Just one. The image of Katharina′s eyes, as she pulls the gold medal hanging on my neck, and drags me into her bedroom.
Katharina is no longer a distraction. She′s the drive.
She belongs in my inner world; she′s part of my routine.
I raise my foot, letting Roman clean the snow and ice from it, then click into my skis and check the perfect setup. Nod to Roman, put on my goggles, strap my poles.
I′ve got this.
It′s my turn.
Beep, beep, beeeep.
I skate out of the gate, and my pole catches underneath my ski.
Shit!
I almost stumble, my concentration slipping.
No time to think this through; I have to play catch-up.
The first three turns are far from perfect. I know the light would be red.
I look for the straight line, but everything feels wrong today. A compression hits me, and I catch an edge, nearly falling over.
My legs are burning more than ever. Because I need to find balance, I work against the slope and struggle.
The G-forces hit me hard as I enter the turny Ciaslat section; the rhythm is off. I know it.
I try to ignore the panic creeping in my throat. I messed up.
The last turn is perfect, and I get into the tightest possible tuck to glide over the final jump and into the finish. But I know the damage has been done.
I′m panting, bent over my knees, breathing hard, not daring to turn around and look at the scoreboard.
I don′t need to see it, I just want to be gone, out of here.
Waving my hand and forcing my frozen lips into an apologetic smile, I turn around the stadium to greet the crowd. I even give them a shrug, showing that I am even a better loser than a winner.
But I never look at the board, I don′t want to see it.
Don′t want to see how much I screwed up my first Olympic race.
And inside, I feel hollow.
***
Katharina
The finish area is a furnace of noise; cowbells, horns, clapping hands slapping against padded jackets.
Flashbulbs pop in the cold dusk, catching on helmets and goggles and Bellini’s endless grin.
Matteo looks like he’s never lost a race in his life, drinking in the chants of his name like communion wine.
And Thomas?
He’s perfect. Fist-bump, shrug, the smile of a man who supposedly doesn’t care that his Olympic debut went sideways in the first ten seconds.
“Matteo deserves it,” he tells the reporters in three languages. “No one skis this hill like him.”
I watch from the side of the mix zone, notebook open, recorder humming in my palm. The others believe him—why wouldn’t they?
But when he passes close, his eyes glance off mine. Flat, distant. His jaw muscle flickers. He doesn’t slow down.
At dinner, the room is heavy with steam and chatter. Plates clatter, glasses clink, jackets hang crooked off the backs of chairs. The air smells of roasted meat and garlic and the sharp edge of Chianti. Everyone’s flushed and loud, laughter bouncing off the low wooden ceiling.
Niko is halfway through another story, his hands flying, the table roaring as Martin cuts in with an impression of the physio. Beer foams over the rim of someone’s glass, caught by another round of laughter.
It should feel warm. It should feel safe.
But beside me, Thomas hasn’t touched his food.
He cuts at the bread, the knife scratching at the crust more than slicing.
He laughs when Niko delivers the punchline, even clapping his shoulder like he means it.
From across the room, you’d think he’s fine.
From here, I see the hollowness in every movement.
I can’t stand it.
When the waiter sets down another bottle of wine, I lean toward him, keeping my voice low.
“Press keeps asking about the stumble at the start. I filtered most of it, but there’s one Austrian outlet I couldn’t avoid. Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll do it.” He doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry, I know you’d rather—”
His eyes flick up then, sudden, sharp. “Don’t apologize.”
The word sticks in my throat.
“You’re doing your job. My job is this.” He gestures vaguely—the noise, the laughter, the press. His voice is calm, too calm. “So stop fussing over me. I can take it.”
The laughter at the other end of the table swells again, covering the silence that settles between us.
My fork slips against the plate, a sharp scrape that makes me flinch. I grip the stem of my glass too tight, the wine trembling in the bowl. When I finally look up, his eyes are already on me — steady, searching, as if he’s caught the crack before I can hide it.
And then Martin leans across the table, grinning, his cheeks red from wine.
“Hey, Kern—no shame in letting Matteo have one. You’ve still got the downhill. Our girl here will write you back into glory again, right Katharina?”
I manage a small smile, trying to appear professional and neutral. “Of course, ’cause he’ll win.”
The table laughs with Martin’s joke. But Thomas doesn’t. His fork stills. His head tilts, just slightly, like the words snagged somewhere deeper than I meant.
He leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine. His voice is low, meant for me alone.
“What if I′m not the golden boy anymore?” he says, rough around the edges. “Still want me?”
His fork presses too hard, scraping porcelain. A flicker crosses his face. Not arrogance, not anger. Something smaller, shakier, like he’s bracing for me to laugh, to leave. Like he’s asking a question he already fears the answer to.
My breathing stills.
“You like me loud when I win. What about when I don’t?”
I turn to him slowly. The candlelight catches on his cheekbones, sharpening the lines of his face. He looks harder tonight. Angrier.
“Don’t mistake standards for shallowness,” I say slowly.
He lets out a dry laugh, tips his glass, watching the wine swirl.
“I don′t know, Kat, maybe I’m just saying it plain. I ski, I win, I please you. Take the winning out…” He shrugs, the motion stiff, jerky. “…what’s left of us?”
The words hit like cold water, soaking through. I want to reach for his hand, to anchor him somehow, but I don’t. He’d hate me for it. Pity would be poison.
So I sit in the sting, pen pressed to paper, filling the page with nonsense lines just to keep my hand moving.
Around us, Niko slaps the table with another laugh, Martin launches into a new impression, and the others roar. The sound crashes over us, a tide of cheer and noise that makes our silence feel sharper, thinner, more fragile.
Thomas leans back, sliding into the laughter as if nothing had happened. His smile is back in place, easy and practiced. He even throws a glance at Jonas and lifts his glass in mock salute.
I stare down at my page, the scratches running into each other until they blur. My chest is tight, my breath shallow.
The air is stifling, yet I feel cold, like the draft from the open door just brushed through me alone.
Because I am afraid he is right.
Do I really know this man? Have I not fallen for an icon, a golden skier on a pedestal?
When that is gone, what are we really?
The hallway is quiet after the storm of dinner, just the low hum of the heating vents and the muffled clink of dishes being washed in the kitchen. My boots scuff against the wooden floorboards as I slip out, my head still buzzing with his words, too sharp to fade.
I almost miss him. He’s standing further down the hall, half in shadow, his jacket slung over one shoulder, head bent like the ceiling lamps are too bright for him. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll just walk away. Pretend I’m not here.
“Thomas,” I say.
He stops. Slowly, he turns his head. And when his eyes find mine, there’s no anger in them. Just longing, sadness, pain. It guts me more than his cruel words ever could.
His jaw works once or twice, like he’s about to speak but swallows it down. His hand twitches at his side, starting toward me, then curls back into a fist. The silence stretches, heavy, aching. He just stands there, caught between reaching for me and disappearing into the dark.
Another step, and still he doesn’t move.
My hand hovers uselessly at my side. Every instinct says comfort him, steady him, but pity is the last thing he’d accept.
So I do the only thing left. I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It’s light, just the brush of my mouth against his. But the moment his lips part, it deepens—hungrier than I meant, more desperate than either of us admits. He responds instantly, pulling me closer by the waist, his breath hot and uneven, like he’s been holding it all night.
When I break away, my lips still tingling, I lean into his ear.
“I still expect you to win.”
For a second, he’s stone still. Then his hand curls tighter at my back, and the faintest ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. When they meet mine, his eyes aren’t soft—but they’re alive again.
He exhales, long and low, as if the weight on his chest has eased by a fraction. Questions linger between us—about what we are, about what’s left when the winning is gone—but he lets them slide away for now.
Tomorrow, there’s an Olympic downhill waiting.
And Thomas Kern intends to win it.