Chapter 7
Italian Shade
Playlist:
Imagine Dragons: Radioactive
Charlie and the Church: Fighter
Val Gardena, Italy, December 18
NICO
The Dolomites look fake.
Pink light on rock faces, blue sky too clean, the Saslong carving a white scar down the mountain like someone took a knife to the forest. From our hotel in St. Christina, you can see the slope right out the breakfast window, the TV version and the real thing overlapping in my head.
I hitch my skis higher on my shoulder, boot bag thumping against my back as we walk the steep street to the lift. Lukas is complaining about coffee strength. Martin is trying to decide whether the Italian ladies will like his hat.
I’m quiet.
Beaver Creek feels both far away and right under my skin. Birds of Prey, the eagle, the crash, the one-ski finish, the fight on my phone after.
I shove her into the back of my head.
New hill. New weekend. Use it.
Super-G here is my chance to prove Beaver Creek wasn’t a one-off miracle with an American bird and a lucky landing. This is starting to feel like my discipline. My thing.
“She’s pretty, huh?” Martin says, jerking his chin toward the hill. “Not as dramatic as your American girlfriend in Beaver Creek, but still.”
I snort. “You talking about the slope or the women?”
“Both,” he grins.
Lukas nudges me with his elbow. “You ready for the Italian fan club, or are you still busy with the American one?”
Something in my chest tightens for half a second.
“As long as someone’s cheering when I’m on the podium,” I say, easy and light. “You two can have whoever’s left.”
They laugh. I let them.
élise has been… present but not really there since Beaver Creek. Two polite texts about branding. Can Eiswerk count on you to wear the new helmet in Alta Badia for Italian coverage? Please repost the Super-G win with the correct tags; it’s good for the brand.
Nothing about us. Nothing real.
Fine.
She doesn’t get to follow me into the start gate.
The air grows colder as we ride up, first the gondola and then the chairlift. At the top station, we unload into the athletes’ area. Servicemen have already laid out the skis, edges gleaming. The Saslong drops away beneath us, quiet and waiting.
I roll my shoulders. Free skiing, inspection, warm-up. That’s all I need.
The rest stays at the bottom.
***
The inspection’s already done by the time the real nerves kick in.
The line is in my head. The rolls, the blind bits, where the snow talks back. Now it’s just about switching the body on.
In the warm-up zone, I loop a resistance band around a fence post and step into it.
Side-steps, monster walks, glute kicks until my hips burn and my legs feel like they belong to me again.
Then I drop the band, jog a short loop in my race suit and jacket, knees high, arms loose.
A few bouncing jumps in place, feeling the snow under my soles.
Two, three short sprints on the flat to spike my heart rate.
Heart thumping. Breath warm in the cold air. Muscles humming.
This is the part that never lies. You either did the work or you didn’t.
Out of habit, my hand goes to my pocket. My fingers close around the phone, smooth and heavy, full of things I cannot afford to think about.
I don’t turn it on. For a second, I just stare at the black screen.
I walk over to one of the servicemen and hold it out. “Here. If I ask for this before I’m down, tell me to fuck off.”
He laughs. “Gladly.”
He tucks it into his own jacket. It feels like giving away a limb and a distraction at the same time.
It feels like handing over a vein; no French princess, no sexts, no little green dot to hide behind. If I want a high today, I have to earn it from the clock.
For now, there is only the hill.
***
At the start, the world narrows.
Bib three.
I slide into the gate area, skis creaking on the ramp, light a little flatter up here than it looked from below. The course crew moves like ghosts around us, slipping the track, brushing the start wand.
Leitner’s voice crackles in my ear through the radio.
“Niko.”
“Here.”
“Beaver Creek proved you can win big,” he says. “Now prove you can do it again without needing drama.”
The word drama stings. As if I planned the net, the one-ski circus, the headlines.
My jaw tightens, then I let it go.
“Copy,” I say. “Clean. Fast.”
I plant my poles, feel the grooves in the start ramp under my skis.
Tunnel vision slides into place.
Green.
I explode out of the gate.
The Saslong is different from Beaver Creek.
The snow isn’t icy glass; it’s harder, grippier, the kind that rewards precision.
My edges bite clean and the first roll opens beneath me like a trapdoor.
I commit, tips hunting forward, body low, and the mountain gives me speed instead of punishing me for asking.
The gliding sections come fast. Long stretches where the skis just run, terrain pouring under me like water. I stay tucked, tight, aerodynamic, feeling the wind tear at my suit. No chatter. No hesitation. Just speed building, compounding, a freight train I’m steering with my hips and ankles.
The Camel Humps hit me in a sequence: bump, air, land; bump, air, land.
I don’t overcook it. I take measured air, nothing flashy, landing exactly where I planned in inspection.
The compression hits my quads like a hammer, but I stay over the skis, absorb it, explode out. No drama. Just doing the job.
Into Ciaslat, the terrain rolls and I carve through it like I’ve done this a hundred times. Early pressure, late release. The line is clean, almost elegant. My body remembers what to do without asking permission.
This isn’t surviving.
This is belonging.
I rail the final pitch, tuck the finish jump, and cross the line in a spray of snow that tastes like metal and victory.
I look up.
Green. Comfortably green.
First.
Relief hits first, then joy, cleaner than Beaver Creek, less shocked, more natural.
I throw my arms up, ski tips together, let out a sound that’s half yell, half laugh. My legs are burning, but I feel like I could do it again right now.
***
When I reach the red chair, Katharina is already at the fence, grinning, holding out the radio. I take it, breathing hard, heart slamming.
“Reiner to top,” I say into the static. “Snow is fast, consistent. Light’s good. Ciaslat bites if you’re late. Camel Humps are clean. Send it.”
Lucas’s voice crackles back. “Copy. Good work.”
I hand the radio back and slide into the red chair.
Leader’s seat.
This isn’t a fluke.
This is two Super-Gs, back-to-back. Two for two this season.
I lean back in the chair, breathing slowing, a grin still plastered on my face.
Okay, Reiner. You’re not just the kid who got lucky with an eagle. You’re actually good at this.
The thought sits there, solid and real, as the next racer crosses and slots into third.
Still green. Of course it is. I don’t even feel nervous, ’cause I know it’ll take a miracle to beat my time.
***
The podium in Gardena is smaller than the one in Beaver Creek but somehow louder.
Italian cowbells clang like church chaos, flags snapping in the cold wind, red, white, and green mixing with Austrian red and white.
The crowd is packed tight, pressed right up against the barriers, close enough that I can see individual faces grinning up at me.
It feels more intimate, less stadium and more festival.
I stand on the top step, anthem playing, and let myself feel it.
Second speed win. Back to back. Super-G leader.
The high is there, sharp and boyish and real, but it doesn’t knock me sideways the way Beaver Creek did.
This time I expected it. This time, I earned it without taking unhealthy risks and a miracle landing. This time it feels like mine.
The trophy is heavy and cold in my hands.
I grin for the cameras, throw an arm around the Swiss guy in second, and wave to the crowd.
I pop the champagne like a pro, like I’ve done it a thousand times, and we spray each other like idiots, sweet liquid sticking to my neck as we clink bottles and take a sip.
The crowd roars at our little show, and I lift my bottle toward them.
For the first time, I feel like I belong here, at the top of the podium.
Back in the dining room of our hotel, I finally get my phone back.
The screen lights up like a slot machine.
Team group chat is blowing up with fire emojis and champagne GIFs.
A voice note from my mom that’s probably her crying happy tears again.
My dad’s text is short: Solid. Clean. Keep it up.
Three messages from the Eiswerk rep, one from my fan club, and one from some energy drink I don’t even remember signing with.
I scroll through it all, half-smiling, not really reading.
I’m looking for one name, and I hate myself for it.
Nothing.
My jaw tightens.
She watched Beaver Creek. She texted me after. And now? Two speed wins in a row, and the woman who made me turn down hotel-hallway sex can’t spare one word. Not even a lazy ‘Congrats’.
I shove the phone into my pocket, then pull it back out thirty seconds later like an idiot.
The irritation sits hot under my ribs.
I can almost feel her hands on me, the way she’d whisper something filthy in French against my neck, the way she’d make winning feel like foreplay.
My phone buzzes.
I check it too fast.
It’s Martin.
Don’t be weird.
I raise my eyes and see him watching me with an amused expression.
“Whoever you’re checking for, screw her,” Martin says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face. “You need to get laid, buddy. Plenty of fans down there who’d volunteer.”
I force a grin, light and easy. “Can’t. Downhill tomorrow.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about the rules?”
“Had to grow up at some point,” I say, shouldering past him toward the hallway.
He laughs, but I can feel his eyes on my back.
***