Thomas
I stride down the hallway just as the doors swing open and the guys pour out of the conference room in loose formation, half-laughing, half-hungry. I throw on my best apologetic expression. Classic move. Well-practiced.
Honestly, I was hoping I wouldn't be the only one skipping the briefing. It's early October. Discipline usually has a slow start. But no such luck. Apparently, I'm the lone slacker.
That sucks.
To be fair, it wasn't on purpose. Jonas spent the whole morning working magic on my knee. When that sharp, familiar pain lit up behind my kneecap yesterday, I nearly panicked.
But the session went well, and after two hours of hard workout, thighs burning, sweat dripping, but no pain in the knee. The relief flooding my thoughts must be oozing from me now, making it difficult to look guilty when I would rather jump for joy.
I spot Martin first and call out, "Tell me I didn't miss anything important."
Martin claps me on the shoulder without missing a beat. "Only your favorite—microphones and feelings."
"Don't worry," Niko adds, grinning. "We've got a professional now to clean up your mess."
Niko jerks a thumb toward the briefing room.
“PR bodyguard. Finally, someone to stop you from 'uh… yeah… We'll see."
"Lucky me." I swipe the towel over the back of my neck, still warm from the gym, my mind
half somewhere else.
Then I see her.
No. No way.
Martin tilts his head toward her like he's presenting a wine menu. "Meet our new boss of the mic—Katharina Berger. Communications wizard."
Lukas snorts. "Careful what you say. She writes your quotes now."
Katharina.
That is her name, right?
Hair a little darker than I remember. Shirt tucked just enough to show the curve of her waist, pants that should be illegal in this timezone. My brain short-circuits for a half-second as I remember exactly what's under that shirt. And how well it fits my hand.
Get it together.
Her scent hits me like a flash: snow, something fruity, sharp.
She meets my eyes.
No smile. No trace of that spark I remember way too well. But her jaw's too tight, and the way her shoulders square up says she's not nearly as indifferent as she pretends to be.
She steps forward and offers her hand.
I take it.
Grip. Quick release. But it zings through me like I grabbed a live wire. She felt it too. I know she did.
"Thomas," I say, my voice a little raspier than intended. "Welcome aboard."
"Katharina," she replies. Her voice is calm, but something flickers behind her eyes.
Then, cool as ice: "But who cares for names, right?"
A hit. Quiet. Precise. Brutal. And I feel it. Not just in my gut but in the silence that follows, like she's dared me to respond and knows I won't.
No one else reacts. But I feel it. Right where she meant it to land.
Her lips curve. Not a smile, something sharper.
Then she resets, like a pro. "Anyway. I look forward to working with you."
Before I can respond, her phone buzzes. She checks it, grateful for the excuse. "Excuse me," she says, already walking away.
She moves like she doesn't care. Like she's done this a hundred times. But the way she walks tells a different story. Women know when they are being watched. And the way her hips sway says how aware of my stare she is.
I am watching her perfect ass as she disappears behind a corner
Is this for real?
One moment, I was high on relief, ready to conquer the hill; the next, a woman turned me into a miserable puddle of self-regret with one look.
What was she so pissed about? Me not knowing her name?
Or is she pretending? Playing hard to get?
I shake my head, trying to get the image of her smirk out of my head. Olympic season, focus, no girl can take my focus from me. Right?
But the guys will not let me forget her that easily.
The second she rounds the corner, they jump on it.
"Jesus," Niko mutters. "They really hired a distraction in heels?"
Lukas: "They hired a professional. Try not to prove we need babysitting."
Martin leans back, amused. "Relax. She'll make us look human. Some of us need more post-production than others."
Niko elbows me. "Off-limits or shoot your shot?"
Martin: "Off-limits if you're you. She'd eat you alive and post the bones to Stories."
If you only knew, I almost say. But I don't.
I just watch her disappear down the hall, too aware of those legs, too aware of everything I shouldn't be remembering.
That night's still in my blood. I remember her hands in my hair. Certain. Unhurried. Like she already knew exactly what she wanted.
Her head tilted, offering that spot below her ear; the one that made her shudder when I found it. I could map her skin from memory. Still could.
If I could just unbutton that tight shirt she's wearing now, I'll make her whimper, make her forget why she was angry in the first place.
Funny how much I remember.
I have not thought of her until today.
And now I'm standing here, completely unprepared to see her again.
How the hell am I supposed to focus this season with her standing around looking like that?
But, maybe that's the point.
Maybe a little distraction is exactly what I need.
I shake my head, towel still in my hand, and let a slow grin pull at the corner of my mouth.
Challenge accepted.
If she's here to test me, she picked the wrong guy to play it safe with.
***
Katharina
The media room we were supposed to be in looks like a murky cell and smells like old paper.
So, we chose the lobby. It is spacious, the coaches are cushy, and the colours are warm.
And you can see the glacier through the large windows.
Sure, there are people in here, no place to focus on a perfect working atmosphere. Still…
Why would anybody lock themselves in a cell without windows, when you can work with views like this?
This is my inspiration, the peaks, the icy slopes, even the clouds promising a blizzard.
This is where I work and where I focus, distractions or not.
I'm perched on the edge of a low couch, surrounded by mockups, color swatches, moodboards that won't mood, and my ever-loyal notebook. I've circled three taglines and crossed out eleven. None of them feels right. No, none of them feel.
Dominik sits across from me, scrolling through last year's slogan list like it's a grocery run.
"Speed Lives Here," he reads aloud.
"Beyond Limits."
Power. Precision. Pride."
He doesn't even glance up. "They all tested well."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Just.
"They tested fine," I say. "But they don't say anything. They're not alive."
I get up and grab a whiteboard marker. There's no plan, just instinct. I start sketching circles and arrows, words that haven't fully formed yet. I draw a finish gate, then slash it out.
"We don't sell medals," I say. "We sell that moment your spine lights up because someone just took a risk. That breathless second before the gate. The seven-year-old in ski school who sees a racer fly and thinks, I want to be that."
Dominik sighs the way only a man in performance fleece can. "You're not wrong. But this isn't an ad agency. It's a national team. Let's not get… poetic."
I open my mouth, ready to push back—but a voice cuts in from the corner.
"What if poetic's what sticks?"
I freeze. Turn.
Thomas.
I hadn't even noticed him come in.
He's slouched backwards on a folding chair, arms crossed, hair still damp from training. He doesn't smile. Just look at me. Steady. Measured. Like he's testing whether I believe my own pitch.
Before I can find a reply, the door bursts open and Lukas and Niko crash in, fresh from training, still half-laughing.
Lukas tosses his gloves onto the table and says to Niko, "Don't get stuck in your head. The clock remembers your time. But the crowd? They remember the ones who carved their line."
He takes a long pull from his bottle like he's said it a hundred times.
Niko groans. "Great. Put it on my tombstone. Misspelt, just to spite me."
Something in me snaps into place.
"What did you just say?"
Both of them turn, blank looks on their faces, but I don't need an answer. I've already got it.
The phrase clicks against my ribs like a key in the right lock, and suddenly the whole mess of moodboards and half-dead slogans rearranges itself in my head. It all sharpens.
My pulse jumps. That precise, delicious panic when you know you're onto something real and now you have to catch it before it vanishes.
I lunge for my notebook. Flip to a clean page. The room falls quiet, weirdly quiet, as I scribble. Fast. Sharp lines. Words and fragments, crossing some out before I finish them.
Underlining phrases until the paper starts to wrinkle.
And then—there it is.
I write it in all caps.
CARVE YOUR LINE
I stare at the words. Like they were waiting for me. Like they've been here the whole time, just needed someone to dig them out of the snow.
I've spent the last four days wading through half-baked moodboards and six different font decks from the federation's freelance designer, who may or may not be designing drunk.
And now, out of nowhere, the perfect line just…
lands. Casual locker-room poetry. I'm stealing it. But I'll make it mean something.
"That's it," I say aloud. My voice doesn't shake.
I hold up the page so they can all see.
"It's technical and emotional. It's racing and risk. Everyone has their own line—on snow, in life. We don't chase perfection. We carve our truth."
Silence.
Even the radiator seems to pause.
Dominik exhales long and skeptically. "That might actually work."
Lukas shrugs, grabs his water bottle. "Better than 'Power. Precision. Pride.' That one always sounded like toothpaste."
Niko snorts. Lukas laughs.
Thomas doesn't.
He just watches me. Unreadable, but present in a way that prickles under my skin.
A few weeks ago, I might have melted under that stare. Right now, I barely feel it. I'm in my flow.
Dominik nods, slowly. "You'll pitch it to the federation heads tomorrow. If they say yes, we run with it."
I nod back, trying to play it cool, but the grin pulling at the edge of my mouth has other ideas.
My fingers are still curled tight around the pen. I know what this is.
It's a win.
The guys start to file out, the tension breaking. Someone tosses a ball-up paper towel. Niko blocks it with a grin.
"Pick up your litter, will you?" Lukas mutters.
"It's your litter!" Niko says, but he scoops it up anyway, still grinning.
Martin palms the paper, flicks it with a trick shot into the bin without looking. "Efficient. On-brand."
They drift toward the elevator; Lukas limps half a step, hides it; Niko bounces; Martin checks the lobby's reflection like it's a lens.
And then it's just me alone again. Almost alone.
Thomas lingers.
He crosses the room while I gather my sketches and scraps. I sense him before I see him, like static in the air. Warmer. Closer. My skin tightens half a second before he speaks.
Warmer. Charged.
He stops behind me. Close. Too close to breathe freely.
"You didn't just carve it," he says, voice low. "You owned it."
I pause. My hand stills on the edge of a page. I should say something sharp. Dismissive. I can feel the line forming on my tongue, ready to fire.
But it doesn't come.
I glance at him. And I don't see a smug macho, but an honest face.
"Is that your idea of flirting?" I ask. My voice doesn't match my words. It comes out too soft, too interested.
"If it was," he says, meeting my eyes, "you'd already be smiling."
I don't smile.
Not really.
But I feel it now: the shift. Like the air changed shape. Like our connection from dinner, buried under work, logic, and pride, just surfaced without permission.
He sees it. I know he does.
But he doesn't push.
Just nods once, like a promise or a truce, and turns away.
The door clicks behind him.
I stand there, notebook still open, hand hovering over the pen like I forgot what I was doing.
Which is ridiculous. I've never been clearer. I didn't just carve the slogan. I carved my place.