Chapter Four #2
When the starter finally called Isaline’s number, memories of splintered bone, torn ligament, and two stolen Olympic chances slammed into her.
For a split second, her mind raced with all the ways this could end on her back instead of on her feet.
She quickly drove the heart-wrenching thoughts down into the tips of her skis and stepped to the wand.
The beeps started their merciless countdown.
Four. Three. Two. One. Her poles dug in, her shoulders stacked over the tips, and her breath locked tight in her chest. On the final drawn out beep, she sprang out of the start like she’d been shot from a cannon.
The world dropped away into steep white.
The first turn came at her like a wall. Her edges bit, chattered, and then held.
Wind clawed at her suit. The gates rushed up in a red-blue blur.
Every brush against her arms was a sharp reminder: stay on your feet or spend four more years watching because someone else slid into your place.
Midcourse, the snow turned mean. It was polished hard into ice by thirty racers before her.
The next pitch rolled over steeper than she remembered from inspection.
She hit the transition a heartbeat late, and her skis skated sideways.
It was a tiny skid that flashed her a memory of bone snapping and sky flipping.
Her stomach lurched, but her legs did what they’d been trained to do: pressure, angle, trust. The edges caught again, screaming over the icy surface.
She let the fear burn itself out in her quads and drove harder.
Every gate she cleared was another fist in the face of all the times her body had tried to take this away from her.
Isaline’s skis vibrated against the packed snow as she pushed through the final gate. Her body folded into a tuck so tight her quads screamed. The finish line streaked toward her. She held the position until the last possible beat, then straightened as the timing beam caught her.
The crowd noise reached her first. It was a roar that felt bigger than the usual polite applause. Then the board flickered as digits and letters assembled themselves into a verdict.
SENN flashed green at the top.
Below it, HOLLIS sat in second.
The margin was small—hundredths of a second—but in downhill, hundredths were more like continents apart.
Isaline stopped hard, snow spraying from her edges. Her chest heaved as she stared at the board, waiting for it to shift, to correct itself, to admit a mistake. It didn’t. Her name stayed where it was, stubborn, bold and green, and impossibly real.
A grin cracked her composure wide open.
She ripped her goggles off and blinked against the sudden brightness.
The Swiss coaching staff erupted from the fence line.
Matthias stood motionless with his face stretched in a wide grin.
Her brother was already halfway toward her with his fists in the air.
The cameras swarmed and microphones thrust forward with voices overlapping in German and English.
“Isaline, how does it feel?”
“Did you know you had the best time?”
“What does this mean for your Olympic chances?”
She couldn’t answer yet because her breath wouldn’t cooperate.
The adrenaline sang through her veins like an opera singer.
It was the same fire that had carried her through the compression and into the final pitch when her legs had wanted to quit.
She’d skied the run Matthias had drawn out for her, perfect and committed.
But she’d also skied with her own inner confidence that had nothing to do with her father’s legacy.
Isaline glanced toward the leader’s area.
Blaire had already vacated the chair, standing off to the side with Tess and Jordy.
Her posture was composed, and her face was neutral.
She was the model of professional grace in defeat.
But Isaline caught the quick flick of Blaire’s eyes toward the board and the tightness around her mouth that hadn’t been there a minute ago.
Their gazes locked for half a second. There was no warmth. And clearly, no acknowledgment of the night that still clung to Isaline’s skin like a deep purple bruise. Just the cold, hard facts of the result between them.
Isaline let her grin spread wide and fierce. She turned back to the cameras and finally found her breath.
“It feels very, very good,” she said with her soft accent.
More reporters swarmed before Isaline could fully click out of her bindings.
Microphones jabbed toward her face while cameras pressed close enough that she could see her own reflection in their lenses—flushed, grinning, victorious.
She answered in smooth, practiced phrases: grateful for the team, proud of the work, focused on execution.
The words came easily because they were true, even if they only told half the story.
Behind the glare of lights, Matthias was standing with his arms crossed and tears filling his eyes.
Reto was bouncing on his toes nearby and still punching the air like a kid who’d just watched his favorite team score.
Their relief was palpable, thick enough to taste.
This win wasn’t just hers. It was theirs too—proof that all the comebacks, all the physiotherapy sessions, all the mornings when her knee had screamed and her heart had begged her to quit, had been worth it.
A journalist asked about the pressure. Another asked about her father’s legacy.
She deflected both with warmth, never letting the cracks show.
Inside, her chest felt too small to hold everything that was fighting for space: joy, vindication, exhaustion, and the stubborn ache left by Blaire’s dining hall indifference.
When the first rush of interviews thinned, Blaire approached. Her face was composed as her gloved hand extended in the universal gesture of sportsmanship. Up close, the control in Blaire’s expression was flawless—no anger, no warmth, just neutral professionalism.
“Enjoy it, Senn.” Blaire’s voice was steady. “My place is usually on top, in case you forgot.”
The corner of Isaline’s mouth twitched. She shook Blaire’s hand, the same hand that had mapped her body hours earlier and felt the firm pressure of her grip.
“I had a good coach.” Isaline nodded toward Matthias, then let her gaze settle back on Blaire. “And a very motivating training partner last night.”
The insinuation hung in the cold air between them. For half a breath, brightness flickered in Blaire’s ice-blue eyes. Maybe it was surprise, or possibly irritation, before her expression shuttered. She stepped back, nodded once, and walked away without another word.
Isaline watched her go. The sting was deep and sharp. She forced herself to turn back toward the cameras and smile like the win was enough.
On the podium, the Swiss flag rippled behind her as she stood on the top step.
Blaire took her spot with her posture perfect and a half-smile on her face.
Cameras flashed in bursts of white light.
She held a crystal trophy in hand, heavy and real and hers.
From the outside, it was everything she’d fought for: the Swiss darling on top in her own backyard, the American legend still close, still dangerous… but in second place.
In her heart, the moment felt twisted. She was elated—this result all but cemented her Olympic spot—but Blaire’s distance clanged against the high like a wrong note in a perfect song.
It wasn’t that Isaline had expected declarations of love or promises of a relationship.
She’d just thought the woman who had come apart against her mouth, who had gasped her name in the dark, might show one twinkle more of recognition.
That night, alone in her room, Isaline set the trophy on the nightstand.
It gleamed under the lamp, proof of what she could do when she let herself want something enough to risk everything.
Her phone buzzed with a notification. An Olympic Federation email confirmed what she’d already known: her Olympic nomination was official.
She looked at the screen, then at the trophy, then out the window.
For a long moment, it was like her entire life unspooled there in the yellowed hotel paint: early mornings in empty gyms, night flights in economy with her knees jammed against the seat in front of her, the stink of wax rooms and cheap coffee, the physio tables where she’d gritted her teeth through rehab while other women raced.
Two shattered qualifying dreams, two seasons spent watching opening ceremonies from her dad’s sofa with her father’s old Olympic poster looming over the television.
Fundraisers where she’d smiled and poured wine for people who thought “skiing” sounded like a hobby, not a life.
All those years of visualizing the gate drops, the flags, the ringed logo at the bottom of the screen—and now, finally, the first part was real.
She was going. The gold medal was still a fantasy, but the door to that world had opened, and her name was on the list.
Blaire Hollis could ignore what had happened between them all she wanted. The Olympic Games were coming. In the Olympic Village, on that mountain, there would be nowhere left to run from what they’d started.