Chamonix, France, February 7 #2
I elbow him in the ribs. He laughs and reaches around me, his chest warm against my back, and takes the knife out of my hand.
"Watch," he says, and demonstrates, quick, confident cuts that turn the onion into neat little pieces in about ten seconds.
I hate that it's attractive.
"Show-off," I mutter.
He grins, sliding the cutting board toward the pan. "You can stir."
We work in the cramped space, bumping hips and elbows, him adding garlic and oil while I try not to let the onions burn.
He keeps reaching past me for things, the salt, the pepper, the bottle of wine I opened and have been steadily drinking from, and every time his arm brushes mine, I feel the heat of him through his shirt.
I guess, we rich girls, miss out on the cooking foreplay. Also, the cramped spaces are hot, our spacious halls don’t do us justice.
I steal a piece of cheese from the block he's grating.
He catches me mid-chew. "Hey. That's my protein."
"You have an entire block."
"And I need it. I'm racing, not lounging around stealing cheese."
I steal another piece just to watch his face.
He shakes his head, grinning. "Unbelievable."
***
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting on the couch with bowls of pasta balanced on our knees, legs tangled together, the TV on mute in the background.
It's good pasta. Simple. The kind of thing I haven't eaten in years because every meal at home is plated by someone in whites and tastes like obligation.
This tastes like us.
I twirl another forkful, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's already halfway through his bowl, eating with the single-minded focus of someone who burns six thousand calories a day and treats food like fuel.
Then he looks at me and throws one arm around my shoulders.
“Look at us,” he says softly. “Like a proper couple, right?”
I smile.
“I was scared at first,” he admits. “But you waiting here for me… it’s like I have something to look forward to. Something to come back to.”
“When I get a job,” I laugh, nudging him lightly in the ribs. “That might ruin your fantasy, though.”
His hand stiffens on my shoulder. The smile drops. He goes back to eating in silence.
I hadn’t meant to ruin the evening. I didn’t expect the job remark to land like that.
“Not that I have an inbox full of offers,” I add. “After Eiswerk ended, I went through some listings and realized I’m not really qualified for anything.”
He sighs and sets down his fork. “You don’t have to rush. I earn enough.”
“I have to get a job sooner or later,” I say, frowning.
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it—defensive, brittle—something I feel even before he speaks again.
“Also,” he says, grin widening in that deflecting way of his, “imagine the tabloids if the Moreau princess had to work because I can’t buy her dinner. I’d have to move to Antarctica.”
I don’t laugh.
His grin falters.
“It’s not about tabloids,” I say quietly. “Why would I sit on a couch all day waiting for you to bring me food?”
“You have your influencer contracts,” he says with a shrug. As if that’s enough.
“No.” My eyebrows lift. “First, some of them were cut—maybe after my father pulled some strings. Second, that’s not a real job.”
“Find new deals. We’re a power couple now, trending—you said so. Monetize it.”
“We’re a power couple, Nico,” I say slowly. “I was nothing without my father, without my last name. If our relationship is my only source of income, then I’m nothing without you.”
“You don’t need to monetize anything, élise,” he says sharply. “Don’t act like you’re doing this because I can’t provide.”
“Does this have something to do with what my father told you?”
I frown. It sounds exactly like something my father would say.
“I just want you to be happy.” He spreads his hands defensively. “Go get a job if you want—but you don’t sound happy when you talk about it. So why do it if you don’t have to?”
“Nico,” I start, stopping myself before I grind my teeth. “I don’t want to go from his leash straight into being your… house pet.”
Nico sets his bowl on the coffee table. “You’re not a pet.”
“That’s what you want me to be!”
“You’re you. That’s the point,” he says, his voice sharper now.
“I don’t want you to be anything. I like that you’re here.
That you chose this—” he gestures at the flat, the pasta, us “—instead of whatever five-star bullshit you could be doing in Salzburg. But from what you’re saying, it sounds like it’s not enough. ”
I look at him. At the defensiveness in his shoulders. The flash of something raw in his eyes that he's trying to cover with indignation.
That it’s not enough.
That’s what he's scared of, that he’s not enough.
I set my own bowl down. Carefully.
"I'm not saying you're not enough," I say, softer now.
"I'm saying I want to be more than decoration.
I spent years at jobs appointed by my father, pretending to work while it was father's way of keeping me visible and powerless.
Eiswerk was the first job with responsibility, on his leash, but still, I worked. I want that again, this time for real."
He exhales. Looks away.
"You're not decoration," he mutters.
"Then let me be something else."
Silence.
He rubs the back of his neck, jaw tight. "Can we not do this right now? I've got Chamonix in three days, and my brain's still half on the hill."
I see it then—the way he's folding the conversation up and putting it away. Not dismissing it. Just... postponing it. Deciding it's too big to hold when he's already holding the weight of the next race, the next training block, the next expectation.
I don't push.
I pick up my wineglass instead. Take a slow sip.
"Fine," I say. "After Chamonix."
He looks at me then, surprised. Grateful.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He reaches for me. Pulls me closer, bowl forgotten, hands sliding up under the hoodie I stole from his drawer.
"You're not decoration," he murmurs against my mouth.
I kiss him back, tasting wine and garlic and the lie we're both pretending is true.
His hands are in my hair now, tilting my head back, and I let him. Let the conversation blur into heat and breath and the press of his body against mine.
It's easier this way.
For now.
***
Chamonix, France, February 7
NICO
Chamonix is cold in a way that bites.
Not the clean, dry cold of Reiteralm or Schladming. This is wet Alpine cold, the kind that seeps through your gloves and settles in your bones. The kind that makes your face ache even before you've clipped into your skis.
I'm standing in the start area for the giant slalom, bouncing on my toes to stay warm, watching the course workers putting the safety netting into place. The set looks brutal, tight, technical, unforgiving. Classic Chamonix. They don't hand out points here. You earn them.
Around me, the usual pre-race hum. Radios crackling. Coaches muttering last-minute line adjustments. Servicemen checking edges one more time, fingers moving with the kind of precision that comes from a thousand race mornings just like this one.
I should feel ready.
I am ready.
But there's a weight sitting on my shoulders that wasn't there in Beaver Creek, or Kitzbühel. Something I can't name. Something that makes my jaw tight and my hands restless on my poles.
I think about home for half a second, her curled up in my hoodie yesterday morning, stealing the last of the coffee and complaining about the taste. The way she kissed me at the door before I left, hands fisted in my jacket like she didn't want to let go.
It makes me smile.
Then I shove it into the box where feelings go during race mode and lock it.
Focus, Reiner.
The beep sequence starts.
Three. Two. One. Green.
I explode out of the gate, attacking the first pitch with everything I have. Edges bite. Skis carve. The rhythm should come easy, it always does in GS, but today it feels like I'm half a beat behind the metronome.
First combination: I come in too round, miss the direct line, and have to fight to reset my angle for the next gate. It costs me speed. Not much. But enough.
Fuck.
I adjust. Drive harder into the next section. The course is steep here, technical, demanding perfect timing on every edge change. I'm hunting the line, but I can feel it slipping like trying to grab water.
Midway through, there's a rut carved deep by the guys ahead of me. I know it's there. I saw it in inspection. But I'm a fraction late reacting, and the ski catches the edge of it, jerking me off balance for a heartbeat.
I recover. Barely.
But now I'm fighting. Chasing instead of attacking. Reacting instead of dictating.
I cross the finish line and immediately know it's not good.
The time flashes on the board.
Safe points. Solidly mid-pack. Nowhere near podium.
Nowhere near what the Austrian press expects from the silver Olympic medalist.
I skid to a stop in the finish corral, chest heaving, and tear my goggles off. My face is hot despite the cold. My hands are shaking, not from adrenaline, from frustration.
Thomas finishes a minute later, slots in two places above me, and gives me a sympathetic look I don't want.
"Tough set," he says.
"Yeah."
I don't say anything else.
***
The mixed zone is a blur of microphones and cameras and questions I answer on autopilot.
"Nico, what happened out there today?"
I flash the grin. Easy. Practiced. "Spaghetti legs. Chamonix doesn't forgive hesitation, and I hesitated. That's on me."
"Do you think the focus on speed events is affecting your technical skiing?"
"Maybe. Or maybe the set just kicked my ass." I shrug, keep it light. "Either way, I'll do better next time."
"Next up is Saalbach. Are you worried about—"
"Nope. Saalbach is where it counts. This was just practice."
The joke lands. A few laughs. I wave, smile, and extract myself before anyone can dig deeper.
***
I'm alone now, carrying my skis back to the team cabin, boots crunching on packed snow. The sun is setting behind the mountains, turning the sky bruised purple and gold. Normally I'd stop to look. Normally I'd feel something.
Today I just feel annoyed.
It's fine.
It's fine.
Chamonix is just Chamonix. A tech race on a brutal course in the middle of a speed-focused season. Nobody expects me to podium here. Hell, most the speed guys skip it entirely.
So why does it feel like I just failed a test I didn't know I was taking?
I shake my head, adjust the skis on my shoulder, and keep walking.
Saalbach is where it counts. Train harder. Focus more.
I'll figure it out.
I always do.
I pick up my phone.
French Princess. I smile. I saved her under that name the moment she texted me in Solden.
Haven’t changed it. Wouldn’t change it.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Hey," I say, and just hearing her voice makes something in my chest loosen.
"Hey yourself." There's a pause. "Good race."
I huff a laugh. "Liar."
"I'm not—"
"You watched it."
"Of course I watched it."
"Then you know it was shit."
Another pause. Softer this time. "You made points. You stayed upright. It wasn't... shit."
But it wasn't good either. She doesn't say it, but I can hear the careful shape of the words she's not using. She's learned enough about ski racing now to know when I'm chasing and when I'm attacking. Today I chased.
"French TV commentary was hilarious, though," I say, switching lanes before she can press. "They kept calling me 'le jeune Autrichien audacieux,' like I'm some kind of daredevil instead of a guy who just missed his line."
She laughs. Light. Real. "The young audacious Austrian. That sounds like a compliment."
"It's French for 'reckless idiot.'"
"Still sounds better in French."
I grin despite myself. "Everything does."
Silence. Not uncomfortable, but I can feel the weight of something unsaid sitting between us like a third person on the call.
"What did you do today?" I ask, needing to hear about her, needing the image of her in my flat to fill the space where the race didn't.
"Oh." She sounds surprised. "Not much. Coffee. Read for a bit. Took a walk."
"In the snow?"
"In the village. It's... quiet here."
Too quiet, I think, but I don't say it.
"You should've come," I say instead. "Chamonix is pretty. Very French. You would've hated it."
She laughs again, and I can picture her curled up on my couch, legs tucked under her, that little smile she gets when she's trying not to look pleased.
"Maybe next time."
"Yeah. Maybe."
Another beat of silence.
I almost ask her—did you look at jobs today?—but the words stick in my throat. Because if she says yes, then I have to deal with what that means. And I don't want to deal with it. Not now. Not when I'm already carrying Chamonix disaster like a stone in my gut.
Don't be needy. Just ski faster.
"Nico?"
"Yeah?"
"You okay?"
I roll my shoulders, adjust the bag. "Yeah. Just tired. Long day."
"Go get some rest."
"I will."
"And Nico?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm here. You know that, right? I'm not going anywhere."
Something tight in my chest loosens. She knows what I need to hear without even looking at my face. And I love her for it.
"Yeah. I know."
"Good."
We say goodbye. I pocket the phone and head toward the bus.
Thomas is already on board, headphones in, staring out the window. I slide into the seat across from him and lean my head back against the window.
She's not going anywhere.
Laurent said she'd come running back. But she won't.
She's waiting for me. In my flat. In my bed.
Once Saalbach goes well, everything will settle.
I'll fix the skiing. The rest will follow.
It always does.