Chapter 15 #2
Patrollers and coaches are shouting, skis carving up to me, but it all comes through muffled, like I’m underwater. I unclip, get to my feet, and nod that I’m fine. Physically, I am. My body will walk away from this without a bruise worth mentioning.
That’s not where it hurts.
As I ski slowly down the side, course workers already resetting the gate I took out, the real ache settles in somewhere behind my ribs.
I know exactly what was in my head when I came over that roll, exactly how much space I wasted on everything except the next turn—on Zlata’s messages, Maria’s dig, Vincent’s voice, the mystery girl narrative I didn’t ask for but created anyway.
No broken bones. No torn ligaments. Just a clean DNF on the result sheet and the cold, solid knowledge of what’s been gnawing at me all along.
***
Thomas Kern is slouched in the lobby armchair, suitcase by his shin, scrolling his phone when I drop into the seat next to him. My race bag hits the floor with a dull thud.
“Hey,” I say, nudging his leg with my boot. “Rookie win today. Nice work.”
His head snaps up, face splitting into a grin he tries—and fails—to tone down. “Yeah, not bad, huh?”
“Not bad,” I echo. “You owned that second run. Proper stuff.”
The grin softens into something almost shy.
“Means a lot, coming from you,” he says.
“You know… considering who dragged me through my first World Cup race without letting me cry in the finish.” There’s real respect in his eyes, under all the usual cockiness.
But at this moment, it just doesn’t reach me.
“Please,” I say. “You cried. You just did it behind the service cabin.”
He laughs, color high in his cheeks. Some of the tension in my chest eases for a second.
Then his look sharpens, taking in my still-half-zipped suit, the dried snow on my shins. “Nice acrobatics from you, by the way.”
“Thought I’d give the TV guys something to work with,” I say.
He chuckles, then lowers his voice a little. “Look, man, I heard… things. Tabloids. Ex on TV. Mystery girl in Reiteralm. You’re a scandal once again, respect. Just so you know, I’m on your side. They should all leave you alone, we’re skiers, not some freaking politicians.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He pockets his phone. “And relax. Women, tabloids, whatever—they come and go. They don’t fit into our lives anyway. Not really.” He says it like gravity.
I stare at the floor for a beat. “They get to me,” I admit finally. “That’s the problem. I lose focus.”
Thomas snorts. “Yeah, well, that’s on you. I never thought to mentor the great Fabio Baier, but you’re overthinking it. If Lena dumped me mid-season, sure, I’d sulk. But I’d still ski. That’s the job.”
“You’ve got Lena waiting at home,” I point out. “That’s the difference.”
He grins, unbothered. “Exactly. That’s how it should be—one girl, far away, not messing with the training plan.
No woman actually fits into a racer’s life.
If there were, I’d marry her on the spot.
” He laughs. “But that’s not how this works.
We’re always gone. They either deal with it or they leave. ”
“I thought I’d found someone who might actually fit,” I say before I can stop myself. “Not into the schedule, but… into everything.”
He barks out a laugh. “See? That’s your mistake right there. Rom-com brain. Find yourself a Lena: low-drama, likes you even when you stink, doesn’t care about the circuit, admires you, is happy to be the rockstar’s woman. Be happy, ski fast. Simple.”
He stands and grabs his suitcase handle. “Anyway, enjoy the slalom tomorrow. Try not to die before I can beat you again.” He claps my shoulder—quick, warm—and heads toward the sliding doors, rookie win in his pocket, future clean and straight in front of him.
I stay in the chair a moment longer, watching his reflection disappear into the glass. For Thomas, it really is that simple—women on one side, racing on the other, neat line in between.
For me, the line has never been neat.
My life has always been a mess off the hill. Maria shouting, someone new in my bed, unread messages stacking up. Before, it was just background noise. Luca pulled me into the start gate and flipped the switch for me. Skiing was the clean part.
Now Luca’s gone, I’m the one everyone watches, and suddenly the noise isn’t staying outside the net. It’s leaking in. Into inspection. Into the gate. Into that one turn where I needed a calm head and instead got a highlight reel of my own stupidity.
Like on command, my phone vibrates in my hand.
GOLDEN GIRL: You alright?
I stare at the screen in disbelief. She broke up with me over a text, called me like nothing happened, and now this? The irritation snaps into place before reason can stop it, and I type back.
FAB: A fan with direct access asks questions. Like you care.
Three dots appear, disappear. My heart is beating a little too fast, and I already wish I could take it back. Screw technology. In ancient times, you could outrun the mailman and rip the letter from his hands. Now every wrong word is only a thumb away from cutting somebody off.
ZLA: I care.
ZLA: Unlike most of the fans in your DMs, I care for you.
ZLA: As a person.
I don’t answer. Just stare at the phone.
ZLA: Not sleeping with you does not change that.
Great. Just great. Now things are even more complicated. I pocket the phone, then pull it out again. I don’t want to dive into a conversation. But there’s no need to be an asshole either.
FAB: I’m fine, nothing hurts. Will attack again tomorrow.
ZLA: Glad to hear it.
She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask what happened. I should leave it there. Instead, my thumbs keep moving.
FAB: You’re distracting me, Golden Girl. The tabloids in Austria are speculating about us, you know.
ZLA: What????
FAB: You don’t have to worry, they cannot track you down. It’s safe. And I might have chased the vultures away, being direct in a Krone interview.
ZLA: Direct about what?
FAB: About us. Told them I was just coaching a friend. No affair.
I can almost see her staring at the screen, shaking her pretty head, golden hair falling forward while she thinks about what to text back.
ZLA: I’m sorry if I caused you problems.
ZLA: I’m sorry, I’m just a friend.
ZLA: I’m sorry for being a bad friend.
ZLA: But I’m not sorry for the affair.
Warmth settles in my chest when I read the last line. Unwelcome and pleasant at the same time.
FAB: Maybe you were right…
ZLA: About what?
FAB: About us. About how we should handle this.
ZLA: I know I was. I cost you focus. It shouldn’t be like this.
FAB: I’ll work it out.
I hesitate, hating every nerve cell in my brain that pushes me to type the next part.
FAB: See you, then? When I work it out When we both do?
The silence stretches. My heart does little somersaults in my ribcage.
ZLA: Perhaps. Hope so.
I read that last message three times, then let the phone drop onto the bed. For a long moment, I just sit there, staring at the ceiling. Everyone has had their say—Vincent, Thomas, the tabloids, Zlata. All with the same subtext: my head is not where it should be.
I grab the phone again, this time opening the team contact list instead of our chat. My thumb hovers over the number I’ve ignored all season: the staff mental coach. The one I always said I didn’t need.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I press call. When he picks up, I clear my throat.
“Hey. It’s Baier. Listen… do you have time on Monday? I think I need to work some things out.”