Katharina
Fans shouting, cameras clicking, and cowbells ringing in my ears.
Skiing fans love their cowbells, ringing them with wild enthusiasm, though that doesn't stop them from blasting the usual fan horns at full volume. Together, they turn the stadium into a narrow corridor of adrenaline, the kind that makes you wish you'd remembered earplugs.
We swim in the sea of red and white, as Austrian flags flutter all around. It's not just Austrians here. The entire skiing world arrived to kickstart the season, and the organizers handed out Austrian flags free of charge, something to cheer up the home athletes.
As they ski down into what seems like a red-white ocean of love.
It's day two of the season, but this—Solden men's Giant Slalom—this is the real opener. The highlight. The launchpad.
Everyone in the skiing branch has been counting down since August, pretending they enjoyed the summer heat like normal people.
Now we're here.
The Rettenbach Glacier looms behind us, absurdly steep, like it's daring anyone to make it clean to the bottom.
Brutal icy terrain that turns super-hard titan-plated skis bend like jelly, high altitude, thinning the air, and stealing your breath.
Zero margin for error.
I shift my weight on the cushioned chair, my throat tightening.
Check my notes and pretend my hands are shivering from cold, not anticipation.
It's time.
His time.
Two racers are down already with decent times, shaking their burning legs.
But now it's Thomas Kern in the gate—bib 3—and the crowd leans forward like one held breath.
We watch the screen as he settles in the start gate, goggled face looking relaxed, planting his poles securely, getting ready to launch.
Their hero. Their golden boy.
Everyone's waiting to see if he'll pick up where he left off last season.
And honestly? So am I.
My pulse ticks high.
It's not just professional interest anymore, not after knowing him up close—too close.
Suddenly, the slope looks steeper. The ice sharper. The danger less hypothetical.
When I wrote race reports from behind a screen, the risk was part of the spectacle—gladiators on skis, chasing hundredths down walls of ice.
But one week inside this team, one week with these reckless, brilliant men, and it's shifted something.
I'm not detached anymore.
I'm invested.
And with him, especially, the stakes feel personal.
The final beep slices through the cold, and the cowbells go wild.
Thomas launches like a slingshot; clean, precise, carving that impossibly elegant line like the hill was made for him.
He floats through the first turns, skis silent, body still, his movement so efficient it barely looks real.
Then the first split lights up on the board with white numbers on vivid green. A massive lead. The shouting magnifies.
Two more splits. His margin builds. He hits the steep.
This is the part where everyone breaks.
Where they skid, hold the edge too long, lose tenths in desperation.
The ice is glass. The angle? Brutal. The burn in your legs? Unforgiving.
But Thomas Kern doesn't flinch.
He stays locked into that ridiculous line like gravity forgot how to apply to him.
He crosses the finish line a full second ahead of the field.
The crowd screams. Coaches pump fists. Camera flash.
I hold my breath as he bends to unbuckle his boots.
Glances at the board.
Flashes that perfect, maddening smile.
I feel something tighten in my chest, pride, maybe. Or something worse.
And right then, I know.
I'm screwed.
Because it's hard to stay professional when you get a front-row seat to brilliance.
Especially when you still remember what that brilliance felt like against your skin.
***
Thomas
The first run felt good. Nobody could beat it. I made sure of that. I feel alive this season. No pain in my right knee, the skis are perfect, the techs made minor upgrades to my boots, and they fit better than ever. It's going to be a great season.
I'm in the start area, waiting for my second run. Since I won the first, I'll go last. The second run goes in reverse order. That also means I'll get the worst of the terrain. I don't mind. I'm used to skiing through broken courses and deep ruts. I've won more first runs than I can count.
Just kidding. I can count every single one of them. When they start blending into a blur, I'll know it's time to call it quits.
Niko is staring at the screen, chewing his lip like the numbers might change if he worries hard enough. He'll joke about nerves later, but I know he's still learning how to keep his head from spinning.
Earplugs in. Music on. Tyrolean folk music. I like that. Most guys listen to hard rock or some brain-melting pop. I like to think of home.
Stretching. Warming up my legs. Watching the others do the same.
Lukas re-tapes a pole grip with the patience of a surgeon, eyes half-lidded like he's saving energy for when it matters.
Not a GS master, so he's happy to have made the second run. He's starting early. First race of the season, just testing the waters.
I already bumped fists with Martin—he's a few meters away doing squats, face set in sheer determination. We don't talk. We're all in our own worlds now. No distractions.
Except one.
I close my eyes and replay the moment from earlier.
Katharina came to congratulate me on the run while I was still sitting in the red leader's chair.
She'd been around most of the time, filtering the press eager for a quote, sponsors looking for handshakes, friends stopping by to catch up.
But every time she spoke to me, her blue eyes sparkled with awe, admiration even.
God, I loved that look.
A flicker of doubt sneaks in, though. Was it real, or am I just chasing shadows in her eyes? My body reacts like it was real. Heart thudding, skin too tight. I hate how much I want to see that look again.
I'm used to people looking at me like that after I nail a run. Used to that expression: like I'm not quite human. And honestly? After a run like that, I feel it too. Until one of my teammates makes a smartass comment and yanks me back to earth.
I'm also used to fangirls watching me like I'm candy they'd like to unwrap.
But this—this look from Katharina—is something else, because she is something else.
Brilliant.
The word lands like a hand on my spine, steadying and dangerous. That’s what she said earlier, and it turned me on more than anything, because it came from those sweet lips.
Maybe I need it more than I’d admit. Not the compliment—the belief. I’ve raced for medals, points, and records. But lately? It’s her belief that makes me feel like I’m not faking it.
When she congratulated me, our hands touched, and a shiver ran through my whole body. A shiver I’ve come to expect.
The Katharina effect.
And when she told me I was brilliant, her eyes sparkled—not with pride. With desire.
Like the fact that I held the straightest line possible made her want to tear my clothes off.
Or is it my desire talking? Because I can remember vividly the feel of her hot skin under my palms when I tear her clothes off.
Nope, not imagining it.
She was in awe in front of her hero, turned on and hungry for more.
And that look aroused me more than anything I have seen in any woman's eyes.
I have always seen girls as distractions. Didn't let them skin-deep. You need focus when you're racing down a mountain at 130 kph.
But you also need drive.
And I have to admit, I've been lacking that lately. When wins come easy, it's hard to push yourself. Same medal, whether you win by two hundredths or two seconds.
I close my eyes and visualize.
Not the gates. Not the rhythm. Her.
The way she looked at me, like I wasn’t just fast, but fearless. I crave that more than I should. Like proof I’m still worth chasing.
I visualize Katharina: her eyes, that look hinting arousal. Lips wet but pulled tight with restraint as she hides her excitement. Her voice, just a little raspy. Her fingers twirling her hair, her body flirting with me before her mind can stop it.
Because my skiing, my brilliance turns her on.
Maybe that's the spark I needed.
It′s risky, but I'll take spark over autopilot.
They call my name. I nod, buckle my boots, and stride toward the line of racers waiting for their start. Step into the skis Roman, my tech, prepared. He pats my back. I chase Katharina's look in the back of my mind and prepare to conquer the mountain.
The final minutes always stretch too long. I hum Tyrolean melodies under my breath—quiet enough not to irritate the guys in front of me. Just enough to calm the noise.
Then I'm in the start gate. Last racer of the day. I can hear the crowd cheering for the ones before me, but I know who they're waiting for.
Their guy.
This is Austria, after all.
I set my poles firmly in front of the gate, ready to launch. I've got a full second lead. I could cruise and still win. A clean, solid run would be enough.
But no. I want to see that look in her eyes again.
Hell, maybe if I really nail it, she'd lose her restraint and decide to taste the candy again.
I grin to myself, but chase the thought out of my head immediately.
Control.
Three beeps.
One high-pitched.
Go.
I launch.
The upper part is easy. Tuck position. Body low. No need to fight for balance—only for speed. I let the skis glide. Loose edges. Wind slicing past. I chase hundredths. The crowd roars. Confirmation that I'm building the lead.
Then comes the steep. This is the fun part.
The guys before me dug ruts in the terrain, edges cutting deep into the ice. If I follow their lines, I'll bounce and rattle just like they did. But not me.
I stay tighter to the gates. Straighter. Faster.
One gate slams into my arm hard. Even through the padding, it hurts. It'll bruise. Good, a mild reminder of the stakes, not to get too cocky with the mountain.
Another roar from the crowd. That means I'm still in green.
I push harder.
I don't need to look at the board as I stretch forward and cross the line. I know.
I’ve won.
The crowd says it. The guys who'll share the podium say it too, their congratulations laced with disbelief.
I unbuckle my boots and glance up at the scoreboard.
1.78 seconds.
Not bad.
Actually, amazing.
Funny what a little motivation can do.
I'm still catching my breath when I step onto the provisional podium. The adrenaline fades, and the pain in my arm starts to burn.
As the commentator leads me to the leader's chair for the post-race interview, I spot Katharina, phone in hand, already working as a shield against the press swarm.
I look into her eyes. She beams at me.
Not a calculated smile. Not a smirk like before. Just pure happiness.
And that look is still there.
That's when I know. This season is going to be fun indeed.