Chapter 7
Not a Fan of Almost
FABIO
I finish the last run of the block and let my skis slide instead of carving all the way to the lift.
Roland is down by the fence with a radio and a face that says he has opinions about my line; I give him a quick nod, a later gesture, and drift past the training lane instead of straight into the queue.
The plan, if you can call it that, is simple: cool down, let my legs flush out a bit, and just happen to be in the right place to see one particular pair of GS skis come down the hill.
Then I see her, and my chest does a small, stupid thing.
She’s coming down a wide red, not pushing race pace but not tourist cruising either.
Solid stance over the outside ski, hip working into the turn, upper body quiet.
She uses the whole width of the slope—no defensive little wiggles, just committed edge-to-edge, attacking the fall line like it’s hers to play with.
It’s not World Cup good, but it’s definitely above average.
Better than some B-team kids I’ve watched this week.
I glide off to the side and let myself just watch.
She hits a slightly icier patch, and I see the skis bite instead of chatter.
There’s a tiny adjustment—pressure tweak, timing correction—and she’s back on it, no panic, no flail—technical precision, not luck.
My coach’s voice pops up automatically in the back of my head: Outside ski, always. She’s got that part burned in.
Something warm and sharp slides in under my ribs.
This is what hooked me first: the cabin, even before the jacket sharing and the way she said Gran Risa, like it was a person she’d argued with.
The way she talks about skiing is the way she actually skis—serious, precise, a little bit wild at the edges.
As she gets closer, I can see the details: Lusti skis, calves driving the boot, helmet slightly scuffed. She looks like she belongs here, on this hill, more than half the rich tourists in smart outfits wobbling around on skis that cost one normal person’s month's salary.
My brain, helpful as always, offers up other images of her, not on snow.
Knees braced on the cabin floor. Hands on my chest. The way her mouth felt when she took me into it like she’d been planning it for years. The first rough sound that tore out of her when my hand slid to the slick spot, exactly where she wanted it.
I exhale hard, forcing my shoulders to drop. The cold air stings my lungs.
It would be easy to blame that whole ride on the situation.
Storm, fear, stopped cable—that cocktail can make anyone do stupid things.
I’ve had more than one mental coach tell me that people show their craziest selves under pressure.
Not that I am a fan of mental coaching, as coaches keep reminding me since Alta Badia this season.
But watching her now, balanced over her edges with that mix of competence and joy, I know it wasn’t just the storm.
If it were, my heart wouldn’t be speeding up just because I see her tip into another turn.
I wouldn’t have rearranged an entire training block to be standing here at 10:25, waiting to catch one more glimpse before riding a gondola at exactly 10:30 with exactly her.
She carves the last few gates of the public corridor like they’re a set only she can see, then lets the skis run for the final pitch, straightening into a fast, controlled glide past the lift queue.
For a second, she’s level with me. She doesn’t look over—goggles on, buff up, focused on the flat ahead—but my body reacts like she did. A little jolt, low and insistent.
I let myself coast after her, keeping a few meters back. No need to catch up, no need to call her name. We made a plan. Bottom station, 10:30. Gondola.
My legs are cooling down, but everything else in me feels keyed up, sharp. I’m not entirely sure whether that’s good for my racing head or a disaster waiting to happen.
Either way, I’m about to find out.
By the time I slide into the lift maze, she’s already clicked out, skis over her shoulder, heading for the gondola entrance. I keep just enough distance not to crowd her, helmet in my hand, goggles still on. No need to invite recognition before I even get in the cabin.
The clock above the turnstiles flicks to 10:29. Close enough.
I let a couple of families funnel into the next two cabins, then angle my shoulders so I end up right behind her at the barrier. She turns as the gate beeps; even with the buff and goggles, I know it’s her.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Her voice does that small dip I remember from the storm—half shy, half amused. “You’re on time.”
“For this?” I shrug. “I’d be early.”
The next cabin swings in empty. I step in, slot my skis into the rack, and stand to one side so she can follow. The doors slide shut with that soft, final thump, and the station noise falls away as we lift off the platform.
For a few seconds, we just stand there facing each other, each with our gear in our hands, like strangers sharing a lift. It’s ridiculous, considering I know exactly how she sounds when she forgets to be quiet.
“How was your morning?” I try, because someone has to say something. And take off my googles, because I need to see her with my own eyes.
“Good,” she says. “Snow’s nicer than yesterday. Fewer near-death experiences.”
“Always a plus,” I say. The cabin sways slightly; our boots bump.
The small talk hangs in the air for a moment, thin and useless.
We both know why we’re here. Outside, the ground drops away; pylons slide past. Inside, the space between us feels very small and very charged.
She places her helmet on the bench, and for a moment, disappointment hits me because her hair is loose, not in those two cute braids.
One day, I’ll ask her to wear them for me.
She takes one step closer, enough that the tips of her boots nudge mine. Her hand comes up, gloved fingers catching lightly in the front of my suit as the cabin gives a little sway. She could use the movement as an excuse. She doesn’t. She stays there, holding on.
I can see her eyes now through the goggles—dark, steady, no panic. Just intent.
“This is weird,” she says quietly. “Pretending we’re just… sharing transport.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m not great at pretending.”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. Then her hand tightens, and she tugs me down the last few centimeters.
The first kiss hits like a reset. All the jittery anticipation, all the trying-to-act-normal, burns off in one clean flare.
Her mouth is warm and sure, buff pushed down, as she leans in harder.
My hands find her waist on instinct, gloves shoved on the floor, fingers spanning the padded jacket, pulling her closer until her chest is pressed to mine.
There’s no storm this time, no stopped cable, no sense of the world ending outside. Just the two of us and the steady hum of the line. If anything, that makes it more intense. She’s not doing this because she thinks she might die. She’s doing it because she came here wanting it.
She breaks the kiss just long enough to shove her gloves down and throw them on the floor. Her eyes are huge, pupils blown. “We’re idiots,” she says, breathless.
“Probably,” I agree, already leaning back in.
I get her zipper halfway down before the cabin lurches over a tower, a reminder that time is not on our side. Somewhere up ahead, the middle station is waiting to ruin this.
She drags the zip down the rest of the way; I slide my hands under her jacket, over the curves I kept replaying all night in my head, feeling the shiver that runs through her at the first touch.
Outside, the towers keep ticking past. Inside, the clock might as well not exist for all the attention either of us is paying it.
This time, she’s less frantic than in the storm.
Still hungry, but there’s a deliberateness to it now.
She kisses me like she’s memorizing me—angle, pressure, the exact spot on my lower lip that makes me suck in a breath.
Her fingers dig into the back of my neck, then roam down over my shoulders, across my chest, testing, learning.
I can feel her smile against my mouth when I groan. “Like it?” she murmurs, breath warm on my lips.
“Very,” I manage. Understatement of the century.
The cabin rocks gently as we pass a tower; the cable hum shifts pitch for a second. Some professional part of my brain notes it automatically—pylon count, distance to the middle station—but the rest of me is busy with the way her ribs expand under my palms every time she drags in a breath.
I let one hand climb higher, feeling the strap of her sports bra under my fingers, the quick, sharp shiver that runs through her when my thumb brushes the side of her breast. Her answering kiss turns messier, more urgent; she makes a small, needy sound into my mouth that goes straight to my cock.
She gets her own back quickly. Her hand leaves my chest, slides down the front of my suit, fingers hooking in the zip, testing how far she can go before the fabric gives. Even through all the layers, my whole body tightens in anticipation.
“Careful,” I say against her mouth, half laugh, half warning. “We only have so much time before—”
Another tower glides past the window, closer now. The hum deepens as the cable dips, a reminder of where we are and what’s coming. I ignore it. So does she.
Her hand slips inside my suit, finds the heat of my undershirt and the hard lines of muscle beneath. When her fingers splay over my stomach and start to move lower, my knees honestly threaten to give out.
“Zlata,” I breathe.
“Mm?” She doesn’t stop.
If the lift company decided to shut down the entire line right now and leave us swinging for another hour, I think, wildly, I wouldn’t even be mad.
The middle station only really exists again when the cabin begins to slow. She breaks the kiss on a soft curse, forehead dropping briefly to my chest. I close my eyes for a second, fighting the urge to bang my head against the window.
“Of course,” I mutter. “We should have known better.”
We’re both breathing like we’ve just finished a second run. Jackets hanging open, hair skewed under helmets, hands still half under each other’s clothes. And now, whether we like it or not, the ride is about to have an audience.
We yank ourselves back together as the cabin noses into the middle station.
She drags her zip up with fumbling fingers; I haul mine closed, shove my undershirt back into place. Her buff goes over her mouth, my helmet goes on, and goggles down. We look like two people who just sprinted up a flight of stairs and are pretending they didn’t.
“Perhaps, nobody comes in,” she offers, smiling guiltily.
By the time the doors slide open, we’re seated again, a respectable gap between us. My pulse is still on race-start levels.
The platform slides past for a second, empty, and hope flares—maybe we get lucky, maybe no one—
“Come on, Hansi, this one’s fine,” a woman says, and two older couples shuffle into the cabin, stamping snow off their boots. They fill the remaining bench, all poles and bright jackets, and the soft rustle of ski gear.
I angle my body out of habit, trying to conceal the worst of my situation. It’s pointless. One of the men peers at me through his glasses, head tilting.
“Excuse me,” he says. “You look very much like that racer… Fabio Baier?”
I give him the small, media-trained smile. “That’s me.”
His wife lights up. “Really? Oh, we watch every race. The big slalom at home, the one with the night lights—so exciting.”
“Schladming,” I say automatically. “Yeah, that one’s intense.”
“Could we take a photo?” he asks, already fishing for his phone.
“Sure,” I say, because of course I do. I stand carefully, turn just enough, and hold my breath as he frames the shot. My thighs are burning for a whole new reason now, every muscle locked.
“Thank you, thank you,” he says. “Good luck with your next race.”
“Thanks.” I sit back down, pretending my heart isn’t still trying to punch out of my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with results.
They start chatting about which pistes are too steep, what the snow was like yesterday. I answer in short, polite bursts, the way I always do. Meanwhile, across from me, Zlata is half-hidden behind her buff and goggles, shoulders shaking the tiniest bit.
She looks like she’s going to choke on a laugh.
I’ve never resented a selfie more in my life. Here I am, doing the polite ghost routine while the woman who just had her hand under my suit five minutes ago sits three seats away, cheeks still pink, coat zipped up to her chin, pretending we’re strangers.
Under the bench, something taps my boot. Once. Deliberate.
I tap back.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
The couple falls into that lift silence people get when the view takes over. The cabin hums back up to speed, trees moving below us like a conveyor belt. Every sway reminds me of where her body was a minute ago. Every pylon we pass is one fewer I get to spend in this suspended, ridiculous, almost.
By the time the top station comes into view, I already know this can’t be the pattern. Not for long.
When the doors finally open and everyone spills out into the bright, cold air, I wait until we’re just out of earshot of the older skiers. Then I catch her arm lightly, just above the glove.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say, low.
She freezes, turns, hurt flickering across her face before she’s had time to hide it. “Oh.”
“I don’t mean that,” I say quickly. “I mean… this.” I gesture vaguely back at the gondola. “Half-finished, rushing, hoping nobody gets in with us. I’m not built for almost with you.”
Her eyes search mine, some of the stiffness draining out of her shoulders.
“So, what are you built for?” she asks.
“Something that doesn’t swing on a cable,” I say. “Maybe starts with dinner. Maybe ends somewhere with a bed and a door that locks. But not… only this.”
The wind whips a strand of hair out from under her helmet; she tucks it back with a hand that isn’t quite steady. For once, she doesn’t have a comeback ready.
“Think about it,” I add. “I’ll be around.”
I clip into my skis and push off toward the training lane before I can say anything stupider. Behind me, I can feel her eyes on my back all the way to the first gate.