Chapter 18 #2
Race podium first. Third place climbs up, then second, then him.
It’s only been a few minutes since I saw him drop past my spot on the hill, but he already looks like a different species from the man in my DMs. Helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, slalom suit half-unzipped.
There’s a cap with a sponsor's logo covering his sweaty hair, shading his shining eyes, and his smile is doing that stunned, slightly crooked thing that makes him look fifteen instead of twenty-something.
I clap with everybody else as the flowers and little race trophies change hands. It’s automatic. But underneath is this weird, swelling pressure in my chest that has nothing to do with fan thrill and everything to do with the fact that I know how much this cost him.
He did it.
He actually did it.
The thought is so big it almost knocks the air out of me. For a moment, I can’t shout at all. My eyes sting in the cold.
Once today’s race trophies and the slalom overall title trophies are awarded, the atmosphere changes.
The announcer’s tone shifts, climbing toward something heavier.
Course workers bring out a separate, low plinth with a single trophy on it.
Even from the crowd, I can see the difference: this globe is bigger, the glass thicker, the engraving denser.
It looks less like a prize and more like a year made solid.
“And now,” the voice booms, “the winner of the Overall World Cup title…”
He draws it out, rolling through the stats—starts, podiums, points total—as if reciting a spell. My gaze stays on the glass, light fracturing through it.
“…and the big Crystal Globe goes to… Fabio Baier!”
If the noise for the run was a wave, this is an avalanche. People scream in my ear, flags slam me in the side of the helmet, horns blare. The snow under my skis vibrates with it. It’s too much and exactly enough.
A man in a dark coat—FIS official, probably—steps up with the globe in both hands.
Up close, it’s smaller than it looks on TV, but denser and heavier.
The kind of thing you could break a foot with if you dropped it.
Fabio turns slightly to face him, hands coming up, and for a second, he looks almost careful.
Gentle, even. Like he’s taking a child, not a lump of glass.
He wraps his fingers around the stem and base, thumbs spread wide for balance.
They pose for the official photos—shake hands, smile for the long lenses.
The globe catches the lights and throws shards of brightness back at the crowd.
On the big screen above them, his face fills the frame, eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed from effort and cold, and maybe a little from trying not to cry.
I’ve never been this happy for somebody else’s result in my life. Not even for friends. Not for Luca, not for any of the gods I used to watch from my couch with rankings printed out in my lap. This is different. This landed inside somewhere that was hollow for a long time, and I didn’t know it.
He lifts the globe.
First, just to chest height, testing the weight, then higher, arms straight, a glass sphere over his head, an Austrian flag behind him, the whole stadium going feral.
Some guys kiss it. He doesn’t. He just looks up at it and laughs, disbelieving, like he might not trust it to be there still when he puts it down.
On the screen, his eyes flick toward the slope, scanning the sea of helmets, flags, and lenses.
He can’t see me, not really; I’m just one more blob in the mess.
But for a heartbeat, I pretend he can. That some part of him can feel me here, wedged into the snow, heart beating way too fast for a person who hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
What was I even thinking, letting this guy go?
The question lands cleaner now, without the former follow-up of shame. I know exactly what I was thinking: that I was broken, that I didn’t deserve this, that I’d only drag him down—all that old, familiar rubbish.
It’s not that those thoughts have magically disappeared. I still hear them, like distant commentators on a channel I don’t have to watch anymore.
But standing here, listening to an entire valley scream his name, watching him hold a year of work above his head, I feel something louder.
I could have him for myself.
Not like an object. Not like a prize in a fan contest. Like… a partner. A person I meet at the same eye level, even if his podiums are made of glass and mine are made of cheap metal and Czech beer.
And I will get him.
The certainty slots into place inside me with the same solid click as a boot into a binding. No drama. No grand epiphany. Just a line chosen and accepted.
This time, I am not going to sabotage my own happiness to feel morally tidy. I am not going to run because I’m scared it might hurt later. I’m allowed to want this man and try to make him happy. To be happy with him.
***
By the time the last anthem dies and the officials start to drift away, the finish has turned into a slow-moving animal.
People peel off toward the beer tents and buses, and others surge toward the low opening in the fence where the racers will walk out.
Security tries to organize it into a lane. It doesn’t work; it never does.
I shuffle along with the rest, elbows bumping elbows, the heat of so many bodies making the spring air feel suddenly thin. Flags smack my helmet, someone’s cowbell rings directly in my ear. I keep my eyes on the gap ahead, on the strip of trampled snow where they’ll pass.
The first guys come through, caps pulled low. They sign hats and flags, bend down for kids, and pose for photos with people. It’s chaos, but it’s familiar chaos. Then the noise lifts again, a higher, rawer pitch. He’s coming.
Helmets and shoulders shift in front of me as people lean in.
Phones shoot up like a forest. For a second, I lose him, then I see the edge of his jacket—Austrian red—and the big globe cradled in one arm like it’s a football he stole and refuses to give back.
His other hand is busy, signing, waving, touching.
My heart slams once so hard I almost miss a step.
Move, I tell my legs. They listen.
I wedge my hip between two fans who are too busy trying to get their cameras to focus to notice.
“Sorry,” I murmur, ducking under a flag, stepping over a wayward boot.
The fence jolts as someone behind me leans, and for a moment I’m pressed up against it, breath knocked out of me, face suddenly much closer to the exit lane than I planned.
He’s right there now, meter by meter eating the distance, globe tucked in, race-suit still on, medal glinting against his chest. Up close, he looks tired in the bones—eyes a shade darker, smile a little too wide to be entirely controlled.
Max is half a step behind him, arms full of spare skis and random gifts people have shoved at them.
“Fabio! Fabio, here! Photo, please!” people are shouting, phones thrust out, merchandise waved. He stops every few steps, takes a cap here, a flag there, signs, poses, keeps moving.
It’s ridiculous to think I’ll get a clean second with him in this mess.
And yet, it’s a better entrance than a text I don’t dare to send.
He’s one body-length away when I lift my phone, fingers suddenly steady. I lean in, not far—just enough that my voice won’t get lost completely.
“Mr. Baier,” I say, as neutrally as I can manage. “A selfie, please?”
He turns at the sound, an automatic polite smile disappearing as he recognizes my voice, eyes sweeping up to meet mine.
For a heartbeat, the whole world narrows to the startled shock in his eyes as he realizes who’s standing on the other side of the fence.