Chapter 19
The One Selfie I Wished For
FABIO
Ever since they handed me the globe, I’ve been half-convinced I was going to drop it.
It’s heavier than it looks on TV, and the surface is slick—cold, perfectly smooth, little engraved dots catching on my gloves. I’ve held it in my hands when Luca let me last season, but now it feels heavier.
I stroke the glass surface and think that this is the best thing I’ve ever touched. Then a stupid thought appears:
The best thing I’ve ever touched wasn’t cold, but warm. It wasn’t glass, it was skin. Her skin.
Zlata flashes through my head so hard I almost miss the photographer’s cue. Ever since I arrived here, it has been a blur, and I haven’t had time to think about who screwed up more, who owes what, who left whom. But I intend to figure it out.
“Fabio, look here! One more! Hold the globe a bit higher!”
I hoist it up again, shoulders already starting to complain, and try to focus on not looking like an idiot in every picture that’s going to be printed tomorrow.
Then I’m in the exit lane, and someone says my name the way tourists always do. “Mr. Baier, a selfie, please?”
Only it’s not the way tourists always do.
The voice is clean and low, the consonants rounded in a way I know, and it hits me like a gate to the shoulder.
I turn around, globe tucked into the crook of my arm so I don’t drop it. I start to say “Sure,” and then my brain catches up with my eyes.
Her.
For a second, I honestly think I’ve hit my head somewhere on the way down, and this is some stupid, post-race hallucination.
She’s wedged against the fence, helmet still on, cheeks flushed from warmth and effort, phone held up between us.
There’s a chaos of people behind her—flags, phones, faces—but they all fuzz out. She’s in my focus.
“Hi,” she says, very politely. “Congratulations.”
My mouth has forgotten how to work. “Zlata,” I hear myself say, too quiet for anyone but her.
She smiles, and it’s not the careful, slightly apologetic curve I remember from Reiteralm. It’s bigger, steadier. There’s a little fox light in it, the one I saw when she asked that insolent question in the gondola. The one that started it all.
“You look like you’re about to drop that thing,” she says. “Let’s make it quick.”
Right. Selfie. Fans. People watching. I shift the globe tighter against my chest, free my other hand, and lean in over the fence. The snow under my boots is slick; for a second, I have to widen my stance to keep from skidding into the net.
She holds the phone up, thumb ready on the screen. I slide my free hand around the back of her helmet, more out of habit than anything—how many times have I done this pose?—and my fingers find the edge of her goggle strap, a bit of loose hair, the warm skin at the back of her neck.
The moment my fingers touch her neck, I feel her shiver and hear her breath catch. And that sends electricity up my spine.
We’re both in too many layers for it to be anything but PG, but my body doesn’t care. It remembers the weight of her on top of me, the way she’d gone soft and heavy after, the heat.
The phone clicks once, twice. On the screen, I catch a glimpse of us: me with my suit and globe and idiot grin, her with that new, clear-eyed smile, like she knows exactly what she’s doing here and isn’t sorry at all.
“Got it,” she says, and lowers the phone.
I don’t let go immediately. I want to say a hundred things at once.
What are you doing here?
Why didn’t you tell me?
Are you okay?
I’m glad you’re okay.
Instead, I manage, “You—”
She steps back a fraction, enough that my hand falls away from her helmet. The contact breaks, cold rushing back into the gap.
“See you around, Mr. Baier,” she says lightly, as if we’ve never called each other anything else.
Then she shifts, making space. Someone shoves a kid with a program into the gap she leaves; another phone appears in front of my face, and another voice is shouting my name two decibels higher.
Security nudges me forward; the line needs to keep moving.
Interviews are waiting, sponsors, and more cameras.
I move because I have to. That’s what the circus demands.
But for the first time all day, the globe in my arm isn’t the most important weight I’m carrying.
***
The mixed zone is a blur—lights, microphones, the same three questions in five different accents.
I talk about the hill, about conditions, about “taking it gate by gate” so many times, I start to hear my own voice from outside my head.
Somebody shoves a camera in my face and asks about “the mysterious girl,” and for once, I don’t improvise; I shrug, say something bland about focusing on skiing, and Vincent’s face in the background relaxes by half a centimeter.
Eventually they herd me into one of the little prefab huts behind the finish. It’s warmer inside, at least, the air thick with damp jackets and printer toner. There’s a table, two chairs, a portable heater, and a banner with too many logos on the wall for the next photo set.
“Okay,” Vincent says, closing the door on the noise. He’s already got his tablet out. “Five minutes, then Krone, ORF, Servus, the social content for the sponsors. After that, the podium sunset shots up on the ridge if the weather holds. Don’t disappear.”
I set the globe down on the table carefully. Without the roar and lights, it looks almost ordinary—just glass and reflections. My arms are grateful for the break; my head isn’t. The quiet makes the last ten minutes rush back in like a delayed avalanche.
Her face at the fence. That smile. See you around, Mr. Baier.
“Fabio?” Vincent prompts. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Interviews, photos, don’t run away. Got it.”
He eyes me, then taps something on his tablet. “Two minutes,” he concedes. “Breathe. Drink water. But please, for once, don’t pick up another scandal in a broom closet, okay?”
I huff out something that might be a laugh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He leaves, pulling the door almost shut behind him. The sudden almost-silence presses on my ears. Outside, the muffled crowd noise hums like wind through trees.
I stare at the globe for a heartbeat, then dig my phone out of my pocket with fingers that don’t feel entirely under my control.
My thumbs are already moving before I’ve thought it through.
You’re here? I type. Here, of all places? Why didn’t you let me know?
ZLATA: Didn’t want to disturb your focus.
Three dots appear and disappear. I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
ZLATA: I’m proud of you, champ.
I want to type something back when Vincent’s head appears in the doorway.
“The Krone’s waiting,” he says. I tuck the phone away and put my legs on autopilot. The reporter is already waiting at a makeshift table on a sunbathed platform, and Vincent directs me into a chair and places both the small GS and the big overall globes on the table.
“So,” the reporter flashes her smile and shoves a voice recorder in front of me. “Mr. Baier, congratulations. How does it feel to be the overall champion?”
“Great,” I stutter. “The golden globe is heavier than I thought it would be, though.”
“You mean crystal globe,” she smiles.
“Right, crystal, not golden, you’re right,” I mumble and watch my boots.
The interview goes on the usual way, with me saying nothing inappropriate, but I’m lost in thought.
When it’s over, Vincent allows me a second of calm before bringing the ORF guy to the makeshift table, and I pull my phone out.
FABIO: You can’t do this to me. We need to meet. I can’t talk to journalists, thinking you’ll disappear on me again.
The answer comes almost immediately.
ZLATA: Let’s meet, then.
FAB: Where?
ZLA: Anywhere you like.
Great, like the image that comes to my mind would help my focus.
FAB: Now I’m even more distracted.
ZLA: Good. I’ll be waiting for you.
FAB: Where?
ZLA: Just call your hotel and ask them to let me into your room. I’ll get ready for you.
Fuck.
I swallow, as an image of a naked Zlata in my bed covered with red rose petals, flashes in my head.
FAB: Now, I won’t focus at all.
ZLA: Screw focus, Fabio, you won it all. Whatever you say, they’ll write celebratory articles, praising you in every way. No matter what you say.
Fair point.
FAB: Hotel, Bellavard.
FAB: I’ll call the reception desk to let you into my room.
FAB: I’ll be there after lunch. I think.
I hit send before I can overthink it and tuck my phone away before she sends something distracting again.
I have no idea what I’ll tell her when I see her.
I haven’t had either the time or the energy to figure out who screwed up.
I have no idea if I’m pissed or thrilled that she showed up here without warning.
I’m still pissed at her dumping me, but the hurt is softened by the fact that, if she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be giving interviews over the shiny glass trophy I dreamed of as a kid.
So, no, I still haven’t got a clue what I’ll say to her once I see her. But talking won’t be the first thing I do to her.