Chapter 14 #2
But I also want the version of her that melts under my hands. The one who forgets to be angry when I touch her the right way. The one whose desire I know how to own, even when everything else is slipping through my fingers.
She doesn't kiss me back. Just stands there, staring at me like she's trying to figure out what I'm doing.
"Nico."
"Yeah?"
"This isn't going to work."
"What isn't?"
"You being an asshole and then trying to seduce me into forgetting about it."
I pull back slightly. "I wasn't being an asshole."
"Yes, you were."
Silence.
I slide my hand up her side, under the hoodie she stole from me. Her skin is warm. She doesn't stop me, but she doesn't lean into it either.
"Come to bed," I murmur.
"I don't want to."
"Liar."
Her jaw tightens. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't act like you know what I want right now."
But I do know. I know her body. I know the way her breath catches when I touch her ribs, the way her eyes go soft when I pin her wrists above her head, the way she forgets everything else when I make her come.
I lean in again, mouth against her ear. "I know exactly what you want."
She shoves me back. Not hard. Just enough to create space between us.
"No," she says quietly. "You know what I used to want. When this was simple. When we were just two people who couldn't keep their hands off each other."
"We still are."
"Are we?"
She looks at me. Really looks at me. And I see something in her eyes I don't want to see.
Doubt.
"I'm not yours, Nico. I'm not the thing you get to use to prove something to yourself."
The words land like a punch.
I drop my hands. Step back.
She watches me for a second, then turns and walks to the bedroom.
The door stays open.
And something in me snaps.
"So that's it, right?" My voice comes out louder than I mean it to. "I used to be the thrill. Your little rebellion. Now that I'm not a thrill anymore, I'm not desirable."
She stops in the doorway. Doesn't turn around.
"That's what this is really about, isn't it? You miss the version of me who was dangerous. Who was forbidden. Now I'm just... what? The guy who can't afford to take you to Saalbach?"
Silence.
"élise."
Nothing.
She walks into the bedroom. And this time, she closes the door.
Not a slam. Just a soft, final click.
I stand there in the kitchen, hands empty, chest heaving, and the words I just said hanging in the air like poison.
***
The start gate at Saalbach feels different.
Not bad different. Just... heavier.
Maybe it's the altitude. Maybe it's the fact that anti-doping officers pulled me out of my bed at 5 AM and dragged into their room to make me piss in a bowl. I’ve done this before. But not twice in one month, they rarely target one athlete so soon after one control. Unless someone tells them to.
I shudder. Would he? He wouldn’t endanger his star athlete, but I’m clean and he knows it. So, the doping control is just a nuisance, a way to show me he can mess up life if he chooses so.
Or maybe WADA just targets me, because I am that good. Perhaps they got a call from some other federation, from the Swiss, maybe, they hate us enough to sink that low.
Still, it’s difficult to focus with that on my mind.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my legs. They feel... fine. Not electric, not buzzing, just fine. Like they showed up for work but forgot why they're here.
Good pressure, not bad pressure, I tell myself. This is what you wanted. This is what champions do.
The starter counts down.
I punch out of the gate hard, maybe too hard, and the first few turns feel like I'm skiing someone else's skis. My edges bite, but there's no flow, no rhythm. Just effort.
The course drops into a blind compression, a roll where you have to trust the terrain because you can't see what's on the other side. I know this section. I've skied it a hundred times in training.
But today, I take the direct line.
The one that's faster if you nail it. The one that's a disaster if you don't.
I send it.
For half a second, I'm airborne. The crowd noise cuts out. There's just wind and speed and the sick, weightless thrill of being untethered.
Then I land.
Wrong.
My tails hit first, my weight slams backward, and suddenly I'm fighting the mountain instead of riding it. My hands flail, my skis chatter, and I'm backseat, leaning so far back I can taste my own panic.
The gate comes at me like a fist.
I twist, barely make the gate, and somehow—somehow—I stay upright.
The crowd gasps. I hear it even through the wind.
I carve back into the fall line, but I've lost time. A lot of it. The rest of the run is just damage control, scraping together whatever speed I can find, trying to look like I meant to do that.
I don't.
When I cross the finish line, the clock confirms it: mediocre. Not last. Not close to first. Just... there.
I skid to a stop, chest heaving, legs burning. The cameras are already on me. I force a grin, wave at the crowd, and skate over to the team area.
Lukas gives me a clap on the shoulder when I leave the corral. "Looked wild out there."
"Yeah," I say, still catching my breath. "Tried a new line. Didn't stick."
One of the coaches nods, tight-lipped. "We'll talk about it later."
Translation: What the hell were you thinking?
I don't have an answer.
***
The mixed zone is a circus.
Microphones, cameras, reporters with their fake-concerned faces. I lean into it, because that's what I do. Grin wide, shrug it off, make them laugh so they don't ask the real questions.
"You almost lost it on that compression—what happened?"
"Honestly? I got a little too excited. Thought I'd try the shortcut. Turns out it's short for a reason." I laugh. They laugh. Problem solved.
"Are you worried about the Super-G globe heading into the next races?"
"Nah. Just warming up. Gotta keep the fans on their toes, right?"
More laughs. More cameras. I'm good at this. I've always been good at this.
But when I finally escape, when I'm alone at the fence with my skis propped against the mesh, staring out at the course, the jokes don't work anymore.
I know what happened out there.
I wasn't skiing. I was forcing it.
Trying to buy speed with aggression. Trying to prove something that can't be proven by throwing myself at the mountain harder.
I grip the fence, knuckles white.
I'm skiing like a guy trying to buy something he can't afford.
The thought lands like a punch.
I shut it down. Shake my head. Grab my skis.
Tomorrow's another race. Another chance.
I'll fix it then.
***
Reiteralm, Austria, February 15
éLISE
He's on the floor when I get out of the shower, resistance band looped around one ankle, ice pack strapped to his knee with a neon-green wrap that looks like it came from a children's hospital.
He's counting reps under his breath. His face is tight, jaw clenched, and every time he extends his leg, I see the flicker of pain he's trying to hide.
"How's the knee?" I ask, toweling my hair.
"Fine."
"Nico."
"It's fine, élise. Just a little beat up. Happens."
I don't push. I've learned not to push when he's like this.
I sit at the table with my laptop, the screen glowing in the dim light of the flat. Outside, the mountains are black shapes against a darkening sky. Inside, the radiator clanks, the fridge hums, and Nico grunts through another set.
I pull up the tab I've been staring at for the last two days: Vektor's careers page.
Senior Crisis Communications Consultant–Salzburg.
It's perfect. It's exactly the kind of role I was trained for. High-stakes, high-visibility, the kind of work that would make my father's jaw tighten because he'd know I didn't need him anymore.
I read the description for the third time, my finger hovering over the "Apply Now" button.
Behind me, Nico swears softly and drops the band.
"This equipment is garbage," he mutters, sitting up and yanking the ice pack off. "Half the gym is broken, the wax tech is an idiot, and the federation keeps changing the travel schedule like we're cattle."
I don't turn around. "You said the gym was fine last week."
"Yeah, well, last week I wasn't skiing like I've forgotten how to turn."
I close the laptop. "You didn't forget how to turn. You just—"
"I skied out, élise. In a downhill. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
I do know. I watched his second Saalbach race. I sat in this flat, alone, the TV on in the background, watching his bib number appear in the start gate. I watched him launch down the course, carving through the first section with that reckless confidence that used to thrill me.
Then I watched him miss the gate. The camera stayed on him the whole time, following as his skis went wide, as he fought to recover, as he realized too late and skied straight through. His name flashed red on the leaderboard. DNF. Did Not Finish.
The commentators replayed it. Over and over. The moment he missed the gate, skis chattering, his body fighting for control he didn't have. They called it "uncharacteristic" and "unfortunate." I called it terrifying.
I wanted to call him. I didn't.
"It happens," I say quietly.
"Yeah, to rookies. Not to me."
He stands, limping slightly, and grabs a water bottle from the counter. He drinks half of it in one go, then leans against the sink, staring out the window like he's waiting for the Alps to apologize.
I open the laptop again. Stare at the job posting.
"I'm thinking about applying for something," I say.
He doesn't turn around. "Yeah? What?"
"A crisis consulting role. In Salzburg."
"Salzburg’s far."
"No, it isn’t. It’s one hour drive.”
"Still far."
"Nico, I need to work."
"So, work." He says it like it's nothing. Like I'm asking permission to go to the grocery store.
"I am. I'm telling you I found something I actually want to do. And I’m not asking your permission."
"Okay. Great. Just... don't apply to Red Bull or any of the Italian brands. The federation would lose their shit."
I stare at his back. "That's your response?"