Chapter 14
Keeping Her
Playlist:
The Killers: The Way It Was
Imagine Dragons: Bad Liar
Reiteralm, Austria, February 10
NICO
We're at the dinner table when I see it.
Not because she tells me. Because it's on my phone screen. Her Instagram story. A shot of two coffee cups at a polished wooden table, mountains in the background, the kind of artfully casual photo she's good at. The location tag reads: Schnepf'n Alm.
I look up. She's twirling pasta on her fork, focused, like nothing happened.
"You had lunch with your mom today?"
She doesn't look up. "Mm-hmm."
"At Schnepf'n Alm."
Now she looks up. "Yes."
"You didn't mention it."
She sets her fork down. "I'm mentioning it now."
"After you posted it on Instagram."
Her jaw tightens. "What's your point, Nico?"
I don't know what my point is. Just that she met her mother, Katherine Moreau, the woman who sent her packing with two suitcases and a guilty look, and didn't think to tell me until I saw it online with the rest of her followers.
"How was it?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"Fine. We went to Schnepf'n Alm. It was nice."
Schnepf'n Alm. The most expensive restaurant in Reiteralm. White tablecloths, wine lists that require a sommelier, the kind of place where a slice of bread costs more than a normal person’s groceries.
Of course.
Something must show on my face because she narrows her eyes. "I couldn't take Katherine Moreau to some ordinary pub."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to." She picks up her wineglass, takes a sip, sets it down harder than necessary.
"And before you ask, no, she didn't pay.
My father forbade her to pay for anything I eat.
So, I had to cover it myself. I had to ask the waiter to split the bill.
" Her voice drops. "It was embarrassing. "
A year ago, hell, a month ago, I might have felt a flicker of satisfaction at that. The princess embarrassed by being ordinary. Having to split a bill like the rest of us.
Not anymore, but still, there’s something uglier than that swelling in my chest.
I shove the monster back, reach out, stroke her cheek with my thumb. Try to smile. It comes out faint, distant, but I'm trying.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That sounds... hard."
She softens slightly, leans into my hand for a second, then pulls away. "It's fine. It's just... I don't know. I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd look at me like that."
“Like what?” I ask, voice barely a whisper.
"Like you don't know whether to enjoy watching the princess get embarrassed, or feel bad that you couldn't take me there yourself."
The words hang between us.
I open my mouth. Close it.
Because she's right. I don't know which one I feel. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
I pull my hand back. Pick up my fork. Twirl pasta I'm not hungry for anymore.
"I'm not annoyed," I say finally.
"Good."
"But maybe next time, just... tell me. Before Instagram does."
She doesn't answer. Just picks up her fork and goes back to eating.
***
An hour later, I'm at the table with my phone open to the team itinerary. The federation is bussing us to Saalbach, hotel covered for racers and staff. Standard procedure. Easy.
élise is on the couch with her laptop, scrolling through something. She glances over.
"When do you leave for Saalbach?"
"Thursday morning. Race is Saturday."
"Hmm."
She goes back to scrolling. I watch her for a second, then, without really thinking about it, say, "You should come."
She looks up, surprised. "To Saalbach?"
"Yeah. It's close. You can hop on a train, or drive, and stay the weekend. I'd love having you there."
Her face lights up. Actually lights up, the way it used to in Hinterstoder, in Wengen, before everything got complicated.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I mean, I'll be busy with training and media, but... yeah. Come."
She's already pulling up train schedules before I finish the sentence. "Okay. Let me see what's available."
I grin despite myself, turning back to my phone. This is good. This feels right. Her at my race, in the crowd, waiting for me in the finish. The way it's supposed to be.
Ten minutes later, her smile is gone.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Hotels." She's frowning at her screen. "Everything near the race venue is either booked or... expensive."
"How expensive?"
She tilts the laptop toward me. The cheapest option is 280 euros a night. For a room the size of a closet.
I blink. "For one night?"
"It's World Cup weekend. Everything's inflated."
I do the math in my head. Two nights, maybe three if she stays through Sunday. That's close to 900 euros. Just for the room.
"I can cover it," she says quickly, reading my face. "It's fine. I want to come."
"You shouldn't have to pay that much to watch me ski for two minutes."
"It's not just about the race. It's about being there. With you."
Something warm flickers in my chest, but it's drowned out by the cold calculation already running in the back of my mind. 900 euros. Plus her train ticket. Plus food, because she's not eating stadium pretzels for three days.
"Let me at least cover the hotel," I say.
"Nico..."
"I'm not letting my girlfriend sleep in a hostel while I'm in a snobbish race hotel."
She hesitates, then nods. "Okay. Thank you."
I open my banking app. Scroll to the balance. It's fine. I won enough prize money this season to book a holiday in the hotel. I can cover this.
"Actually," she says, still scrolling. "There's a cheaper option in the next valley over. Zell am See. About forty minutes by car."
"Forty minutes?"
"It's not that bad."
"You'd have to take a bus every time you wanted to come to the venue, or drive every day."
"I don't mind."
I do, though. I mind the image of her waiting at a bus stop in the cold, or driving away after we say goodbye, in the middle of the night.
And a cold terror grasps my throat at the idea of media finding that out, of her father’s cold smile as he sees the article.
"Just book the close one," I say. "I'll cover it."
She looks at me. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. It's fine."
It's not fine. But I don't know how to say that without admitting something I'm not ready to admit.
She clicks through the booking page. Enters her card info. Pauses.
"Wait. Shit."
"What?"
"I clicked the wrong dates."
I lean over. She's searched Thursday to Saturday. But the race is Saturday. She'd have to check out the morning of the race.
"Okay, so search for Saturday night."
She's already clicking through, searching. Her face goes pale.
"There's nothing available Saturday night."
"What do you mean nothing?"
"I mean sold out. Completely. Every hotel within twenty kilometers."
I stare at the screen. She scrolls. Every listing shows the same thing: No availability.
"Maybe I can get you into the team hotel. They sometimes have overflow rooms..."
"Nico, don't."
"Or I can ask Katharina if..."
"Nico." Her voice cracks. "Stop. It's fine. I'll just stay home."
She’s just being reasonable. And I hate it. She shouldn’t have to be reasonable. Not about money, not about hotels and trips. She never had to. And now under my watch she has to.
She closes the laptop. Stands. Walks to the sink and starts washing her tea cup even though it's already clean. I stay at the table and watch her standing at the sink. Her shoulders tense, and suddenly it all feels like a weight I can’t carry.
“You give up the time with me so easily?” I ask pointedly.
Because if I don’t say something, my feelings will crush me.
She turns to face me slowly, eyes cold. “What exactly are blaming me of, Nico?”
The hell like I know.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Perhaps that you go on looking or demand I ask the federation about spare rooms or…”
“It’s just a weekend, Nico, you have enough on your plate without arranging my expensive trip.”
There it is, the true reason behind it all. She thinks I have enough on my plate.
“Let me be the judge of that,” I reply cooly.
“No, I won’t,” she shoots back. “We’re a couple, we’re in this together. That’s why I wanted to get a job, to be useful.”
“Shut the fuck up about that job already!”
She takes a step back eyes wide, before narrowing her eyes.
"You’re mean, and it is not because of the hotel,” she says, voice like ice. It’s colder than I remember from our first meetings, it’s the Moreau voice.
"Then what is it about?" I ask.
"You’re mean because I met my mother and my family saw me having to split the bill.”
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. You couldn't take me to lunch with my mother. You can't get me to Saalbach. So now you're lashing out because you feel like you failed, and you're making it my fault for even wanting to be there."
I open my mouth. Close it.
She’s not wrong. I wasn’t here to help her with the mother, I couldn’t fix Saalbach, and now I’m trying to win the argument instead of the race.
And I don't know how to fix it.
She shakes her head, turns back to the sink. "Just... forget it. I'll stay home. You focus on your race."
I sit there, hands flat on the table, jaw tight, watching her wash the same clean cup for the fourth time.
Behind me, the fridge hums. The radiator clanks.
I can't fix the hotel. I can't take back what I just said. I can't make her mother's lunch less embarrassing or the LinkedIn tab disappear from her screen.
But there's one language we both speak. One thing that's always worked between us.
I stand. Walk over to the sink. Slide my hands around her waist from behind.
She stiffens. Doesn't turn around.
"élise."
"I'm not in the mood."
"Come on." I press my mouth to her neck, right where I know she likes it. "Don't be like that."
She sets the cup down. Hard. "Like what?"
"Cold."
"I'm not cold. I'm angry."
"Then let me fix it."
She turns in my arms, looks up at me. Her eyes are sharp, guarded. "You can't fix this with sex, Nico."
"Maybe I'm not trying to fix anything." I lean in, brush my lips against hers. "Maybe I just want you."
It's not entirely a lie. I do want her. I always want her.