Chapter 3 #2
Her breath fogs the space between us. Up close, her eyes are lighter than I thought—hazel, maybe, with a green ring that catches what little light there is.
“Wind hold,” I say, nodding toward the cable. “Happens. They’ll start it again once they’re sure nothing falls off.”
“Comforting,” she says dryly. The corner of her mouth lifts, just a little. It lands somewhere low in my stomach.
I tilt my head. “Not a fan of gondolas?”
“Not a fan of dangling.” She taps her glove lightly against her knee. “But I like skiing more than I hate this, so.” A small shrug.
“Fair enough,” I say.
For some reason, my mouth feels a little too ready to keep going, to fill the quiet she’s perfectly happy to leave alone.
“You’re here for the day?” I ask. “Holiday?”
She hesitates, just a fraction. “Sort of.” Her gaze flicks to the skis in the rack and back. “A long weekend.”
She strings the explanation out, then seems to hear herself and clamp down. The break between her mouth and her eyes is fascinating.
“With friends?” I try to keep it casual.
“Yeah, they’re having some après-ski fun already. I…” Another tiny pause. “I wanted to use the clean slopes for some GS turns. It will be crowded during the weekend.”
She gives more detail than I asked for, then seems to regret it halfway through. The over-explaining and the little stumble don’t match the efficient way she swung those skis into the rack. It makes me want to poke at the gap.
I nod toward the rack. “Those are not some commercial GS skis. And that’s a wild radius for ‘some turns.’”
Her shoulders hunch a millimeter. “I… do some races,” she says, eyes back on the floor. “Hobby stuff.”
There it is again—the reluctance, like the word sticks in her throat.
“You race,” I say. “You’re a racer.”
“Not a real racer,” she replies quickly. “Just a hobby.”
I shake my head. “You race, you’re a racer. Period.”
That makes her look up, properly this time. For a second, it feels like she’s seeing me—not the face from TV, not the name on the start list, but the guy who actually believes what he just said.
She narrows her eyes, and a smile lights up her face. “Okay, I’m a racer, if you must.”
The way her face opens on that admit-defeat smile does more for my mood than any clean training run would have today.
But then she sighs. “But my racing is…nothing like… this.” A quick, vague gesture in my direction, like she’s waving at the whole World Cup circus, not me.
There it is again, that tiny distance. She’s not squealing like a fan, and she’s not pretending she hasn’t recognized me either. Just… filing me under “separate category” and refusing to poke it.
It shouldn’t bother me. It does. I’ve spent a month wishing people would treat me like I’m normal. The first one who does, and my ego immediately throws a tantrum. Great.
“What kind of a little?” I push, gentler than I would with a journalist, more curious than I’d like to admit. “Local races? Club racing?”
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Masters, usually. Some regional stuff. Giant slalom, mostly.”
Her voice lifts on the word like she can’t quite help it. It does something annoying and pleasant to my pulse. There’s nothing sexier than someone who clearly wants the same stupid blue and red plastic sticks I do, especially when she’s pretty.
That’s when it clicks. She’s not just shy; she’s embarrassed to call herself a racer in front of me. It’s ridiculous that anyone would feel small next to me, when half the time I feel like I’m faking it. Ridiculous and, somehow, weirdly sweet.
“GS is a good choice,” I say. “Smart people’s discipline.”
She huffs out a laugh, genuine this time. It scrapes against my nerves in a good way. “Is that how you sell it to the speed guys?”
“That’s how I sell it to myself when they get the better weather,” I admit. Her laugh widens, and suddenly I want to see what her face looks like when she laughs without holding it back.
“So,” I say, nodding at her boots. “Your boots are Lange, I know that brand. But the sweethearts in the rack? That brand is not familiar…”
“Lusti are Czech,” she nods. “They don’t export them much, as far as I know. But I genuinely love them, the best quality for the price.”
“You’re from Czechia. I knew it!”
“You’ve been listening to me talking on the phone?”
“And trying to figure out the language,” I say, mouth tugging up. “Don’t tell me you don’t do that.”
“Yeah, everybody does that.”
Suddenly, there’s silence, and the cabin swings as the wind gets worse. It’s getting cold inside. She sits on her hands to keep them warm, and shrinks a little in her seat. I only have a Lycra race suit under my jacket, but for some reason, I feel warm enough.
Yeah, Fabio, you and a pretty girl in one cabin. No wonder you feel like the seat is heated.
“Your friends told you something?” I ask, breaking the silence. “About why we stopped?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “They just said all lifts stopped. But no further info.”
“I’ll find out,” I say, more confident than I feel. I’m the star at this training base; if anyone’s going to get answers for her, it should be me.
I take off my helmet, place it on the bench, and pull out my phone. I dial the head coach. If anyone knows anything, it is Leitner.
“Hey, Roland, I’m stuck in a gondola. Any idea what’s going on?”
“Bad weather,” he says. “The resort’s shutting down. It might take a while.”
“Right,” I say slowly, not wanting to ask outright about what it means. Not when I know she listens to every word I say. “But they’ll restart the Preuggner jet, right?”
“No idea, Fabio,” Leitner says. “I’ll find out what I can and give you a call, ok? Hang in there.”
“Don’t see how I have a choice.” I end the call and look up at her.
Her eyes are wide. This is bad, she knows it, I know it. I paste on something like a cocky hero smirk anyway.
“They say we should hang in here,” I say.
She lets out a sound that’s more head-shake than laugh. “Are you playing a hero?” she asks. “Or are you truly not concerned?”
“I am concerned.” I shrug. “But we’re not falling down, and I’m stuck in a cabin with a beautiful woman, so why worry?”
Her eyebrows jump. “Isn’t that some kind of harassment?”
“I’d call it gallantry.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, quick and surprised. It rolls through the cramped space and sits warm in my chest.
“Seriously,” she says, sobering a little. “You have more experience in the Alps. Has this ever happened here?”
I pretend to think hard. “When I was a kid. A big gondola in Hintertux stopped because of the wind. We hung there for three hours until they pulled the cabins down.”
“Three hours,” she repeats, like she’s testing the weight of it.
“This is not a glacier,” I add. “It won’t come to that.”
“Pity,” she murmurs.
My eyebrows go up. “Pity?”
She meets my gaze, a spark of mischief there now. “I have Fabio Baier all to myself. What would any fan give to have a full three hours?”
That lands lower than it should. “What would you want to do with those three hours?” I ask before I can put the brakes on it.
Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, and I swear there’s a flash of something naughty before she pushes it down. “You could give me some special inside info,” she says, a little too fast.
I huff out a breath. “What would you like to know?”
“I…” She falters, then shakes her head. “Actually, nothing you haven’t already said on TV.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m more interested in you.”
“Me?” Her eyebrows tilt up.
“Yeah.” I lean back a little, trying to look casual and not like my pulse just jumped.
“My life’s all over Instagram, and you can watch me live on TV any weekend.
Nothing new there. But ten minutes ago, I had no idea there’s a ski brand I’ve never heard of that makes decent GS, and now I’m curious how you use them. ”
She studies me for a second, like she’s checking if I’m making fun of her. “Okay,” she says slowly. “What would you like to know?”
“Let’s start with your name.”
“My name?” she echoes.
“Fair enough, since you know mine.”
The cabin suddenly feels too small for how curious I am.
“Do I now?” Her eyes sparkle, that playful edge coming back. I feel myself grinning.
“Okay.” I peel off a glove and hold out my hand. “Fabio.”
She smiles, slips off her own glove, and takes it. “Zlata.”
Her skin is dry from the cold, knuckles a little rough.
It feels real in a way the manicured hands at sponsor dinners never do.
A faint tremor runs through her fingers as our palms touch.
Her eyes, though, are steady on mine. Not just a guy, then.
Whatever this is, it’s a moment for her.
That old fan-girl energy I’ve been too tired to care about suddenly feels…
good again. Maybe it depends on the girl.
“Zlata,” I repeat. Her name sits warm on my tongue. “Like ‘golden’?”
“You know Czech?” Her surprise is genuine, and her smile widens.
“Any athlete knows ‘gold, silver, bronze’ in every language,” I say.
“Really?” She frowns, teasing. “How about…Korean?”
“Geum, eun, dong.” I throw her a sideways, cocky smile. “PyeongChang was good to me.”
She drops her gaze to our joined hands, and I realize I’m actually disappointed when she pulls hers back, fingers slipping out of mine. Cold air rushes into the space where her skin used to be.
She looks out the window for a beat, expression going distant. Then she takes off her helmet and carefully places it on the bench. Her golden hair comes out in two braids, which is sexy in a way I cannot quite grasp.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She exhales, then looks back at me. “I just realized I’m sitting in a cabin with an Olympic silver medalist. And a world champion.”
“Oh, please,” I say automatically, but it still hits somewhere deep. I’ve heard the titles a thousand times in interviews; they sound different here, in her voice.
“It’s like it was fate,” she adds, half joking.
“Now might be a great time to ask for a selfie,” I offer.
“I already have that,” she says.
“Wait, we’ve met?”
“Yeah. An hour ago, at Steieralm.”
Guilt punches me right under the ribs. I’ve already leaned closer to her once today and somehow didn’t see her at all.
“Now I’m embarrassed,” I say.
“It’s okay.” She gives a small sigh. “It must be…bothersome. You're trying to focus, and people want a piece of you everywhere you go.”
“Well.” I think about it. “It’s part of the deal. I get it.”
“But you’re tired of it,” she says quietly.
“No.” Too fast. I catch myself. “Just…today was a bad day. I’m sorry.”
“Bad week?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Is it rude to ask about your last races?” She winces a little. “You know, out of fan interest.”
“Not as rude as I was to you, apparently,” I say.
She shakes her head. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it.”
“It’s not that.” The words feel heavier than I’d like. “I just…struggle a little right now.”
“You’ll get by,” she says, simple and certain. “You’ll get the globe. I’m rooting for you.”
She goes quiet after that, chewing on something in her head. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“Honestly,” she says, “you’re my secret crush, you know?”
Heat punches low, fast. My cock takes the news a lot more literally than my brain does.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” She gives a half-laugh. “I follow all the World Cup guys. I’m a big fan of ski racing. But I like you the most.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “That’s…something.”
“It’s embarrassing to admit,” she goes on, “but we’re about to sit in a gondola forever, and then we’ll never see each other again. So, what happens in a cabin stays in the cabin, right?”
She says it lightly, but the look in her eyes says a lot more than reels and selfies. There’s a new steadiness in her voice now, riding on top of the fear. It’s that mix—nerves and nerve—that gets under my skin.
“And honestly…” Her voice wobbles, just a touch. “I’m freezing, and it’s getting darker, and I might start to panic any minute now, so anything that takes my mind off the possible rescue is a fine distraction.”
This is insane—wind hold, ex texting, bad training day—and yet the sharpest thing I can feel right now is the urge to hear what sound she’d make if I bent my head and tasted the cold skin at her throat.
My phone buzzes again, slicing through the thick air.
“Yes?” I bark into it, a little too sharply. Roland’s voice crackles in my ear.
“Fabio,” he says, “they’re working on pulling the cabins down slowly. The wind’s getting dangerous, but they have it under control. It might take a while.”
“Okay,” I say, and hang up.
“So?” she asks.
“Coach says it might take a while,” I say. “But we should not…panic.”
She lets out a long breath and shivers.
I start shrugging out of my jacket.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“You’re freezing.”
“But you have nothing but the race suit under that.”
“And expensive thermo underwear. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not taking your jacket,” she protests, “unless you’re using it too.”
“Like we cuddle,” I mutter, half a joke, half invitation I’m not sure I mean to make.
Then I tell myself what the hell and slide over to her bench, close enough that our knees knock. The contact is small and stupid and sends a spark straight up my thigh.
I lift the open jacket and hook an arm behind her back, palm landing on the solid line of her ribs through all the layers, and pull her in against my side.
She comes easily, fitting along with me like we’ve done this before.
Her hip presses into mine; my body notices immediately, even if my brain is still pretending this is only about warmth.