Chapter 4
The Press Line
Playlist:
Roxette: The Look
Sofia Carson: One Kiss
Lake Louis, Canada, November 18
Katharina
The team lodge lounge is quiet around lunch.
Most of the crew went to celebrate Thomas's Super-G win: beer with fans, loud music, full send.
Niko is probably still trying to out-drink Canadians, Lukas propped in the corner with his "one more story from '09," and Martin charming half the fan club into selfies.
There's no time for parties when you're the one who works after they cross the finish line.
I don't mind missing it. Not really. I had one beer—well, what Canadians call beer anyway.
Sang a song, grabbed some shots for the socials, and even danced a little with Thomas for the camera.
He earned the dance. I got a quote from Bellini, who finished second, and enjoyed his harmless flirtation, well aware Thomas was watching. Visibly bothered by Bellini's advances.
A sweet memory, but fleeting. I've got work to do.
Now I'm scrolling on my phone, searching for inspiration for a post-race caption. FIS Alpine already posted the replay of Thomas's winning run. I watch it again: his reckless ease, the way the skis follow as if reading his mind.
They called it reckless. It was certainty.
I close the mental tab I've labeled Kern Admiration and try to switch into work mode. Perhaps I can use that thought and thread it into the recap piece.
That's when Brenner strolls into the lounge, humming some pop song. It makes me raise an eyebrow. First time I've seen him look relaxed. He orders a coffee and smiles.
"Ah, Kat. Do you mind?" he asks, already sitting down before I can answer.
"The party was good?" I offer.
"Well, yeah. Drinking with fans after a win…nothing beats it. They're wrapping up now. We leave in an hour."
I nod and glance back at my phone, not sure how to respond.
"You seem to get along well with the guys," he says, sipping. "You weren't my first choice, but I've got to admit that we chose well."
"Thanks, I guess," I say after a pause, unsure if I should feel flattered or tested.
"There's one thing, though." He sets the cup down. "It's about Kern. He's too... polished. Too perfect."
He's not wrong. I feel the same way in my articles and social media content; no matter how much I try, he seems too perfect.
As a storyteller, I know that saints don't sell until you show them as turned sinners.
Thomas always says the right things, makes time for fans, and smiles for every sponsor. The public loves him, and yet...
"Thomas is a media dream," I say evenly. "He's clean. Professional. He never gives the press anything to pounce on."
"Exactly." Brenner nods. "Imagine how much more powerful an asset he'd be if we made him more... human. We're talking major sponsors, Kat. Winning's not enough anymore. I hired you to elevate this team. To turn them into a brand. And Kern is the core."
"His image is likable enough," I offer, shifting in my seat.
"Likable and compelling are two different things."
He raises a hand like he's bargaining. "I'm not asking for trauma dumps. Just a bit of soul. Something real fans can hold on to."
Then, softer, almost reasonable: "If we don't write Kern's story, someone else will. And they won't be kind."
I've heard the stories about Brenner. Cold. Calculating. He counts medals and money. He's fired coaches mid-season. He gets results, but people are numbers to him.
When I took this job, I didn't care. Now? I've met these guys. I've seen them work; how kind they are with each other. I won't let anyone use their weaknesses as branding fuel.
Especially Thomas' weaknesses. If he has any, I mean.
The lounge door hadn't closed all the way.
Thin hotel walls, voices carrying too easily. I should've lowered mine.
Before I can say a word, a voice interrupts. My favorite voice, actually.
And the one I never wanted to hear in this context. Not here. Not like this.
"Didn't realize I was such a branding liability," Thomas says, voice light, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"You heard?" I ask, feeling guilty for some reason.
I have been reporting on him and other athletes for years now. It was my job as a journalist. But it never occurred to me how strange it must be to hear people discussing you, commenting on your strengths and weaknesses.
"This is a little awkward," I admit truthfully.
"What?" he smirks. "Talking about people like they are… not people?"
I don′t answer.
"Thomas," Brenner says. "We were just talking…"
"Next time," Thomas cuts him short. "If you want vulnerability, ask for it to my face, you asshole."
I freeze at those words and at the tone and wait for Brenner's reaction. To my utter surprise, he just sighs.
"We'll talk about this, Thomas. You may consider apologizing, though."
And with that, he walks away. Well, I guess being a living legend comes with perks.
"I am sorry, I guess," I start tentatively. "Will Brenner be alright after you called him an asshole?"
Thomas watches the door that Brenner just walked through, still glaring. Apparently, these two have a history. Then he looks back at me and laughs out loud. His eyes just a little hazy, his laugh a little inappropriate. Well, they have been drinking for hours now.
"He's heard worse from me," he says finally. "When he gave me his worst for behaving like a child. In those days when I drank myself under the table at every afterparty and he would rant about my potential and me needing to grow up."
"Actually, that is a story I could write, you know…"
"And that is precisely the problem with you," he says, and his tone is sharper than I have ever heard from him. I take a step back.
"You press people," he adds in a milder tone. "I am never enough. When I was a wild idiot, they told me to calm down. Now I am too polished. When I skied like a madman, nearly crashing at every turn, they called me reckless. Now they say I am too perfect, no mistakes, no thrill."
Mentally, I make notes, finally, something I could use to build his image.
What am I doing, spinning his pain into narrative gold? No wonder they don’t trust us.
"You know," I start and consider patting his arm, but think better of it.
We don't want to touch, not when we are alone, not when one of us is drunk.
"These are precisely the details fans would love.
Something about how your life has changed lately.
Media obligations, press pressuring you, scrutiny ruining your privacy, that kind of drama.
"Katharina," he looks at me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. "You are expecting drama and story, but I am afraid I don't have one."
He rubs his forehead and continues without looking at me: "It's not that I am hiding something.
It's just that I don't think too much. Do I regret not being able to get drunk with fans after every run?
Never thought about it, this is the way things are today.
Do I regret not being able to screw a different girl in every leg and risk getting into tabloids?
Well… that depends on the girl. I just don't think about it and live the life that is. "
"Things happened too fast for you," I said, ignoring the remark that might have hurt me. "You became a superstar too soon, too easily…"
"You think?" he raises an eyebrow. "That's exactly the kind of statement you'd say, and I wouldn't."
"You like… the press people?"
"You like the smart people. The kind who overthink and make everything complicated."
There is longing in those brown eyes, and I don't have an answer.
"Are we still talking about skiing and press?" I ask.
"I don't know, you are the sober one, you tell me."
He takes one step towards me, his muscular body suddenly too close.
I remember how that chest felt against mine—solid and sure, the kind of heat that seeps in even through thick layers. My skin buzzes with the memory, my breath hitching. It’s too warm in here now, or maybe that’s just him. Too much, too close, too familiar.
His eyes drop to my mouth for a moment, and my breathing stops.
Just for a second, I imagine reaching up, dragging him down by the collar, kissing him until he forgets every reason why we shouldn’t. The image is so sharp, I feel it in my knees. But then Niko’s voice cuts through the heat like a blade.
"Thomas, you left your gloves at the bar—a guy just brought them…"
Niko freezes mid-step, eyes flicking between us.
"Okay… I'll just… leave them here. Leave you to it…"
He disappears down the hall.
I step back first.
My body leans toward him even as my mind pulls away. I want both the story and the man, and I hate that I can't have both at once. Staying still feels like restraint. Moving would be surrender.
Thomas laughs, sharp and sudden.
"One idiot walks in," he says. "And the magic's gone."
His eyes flick to my lips again, then back to my eyes. "You know," he says quietly, "you keep looking at me like that, and one day I won’t walk away."
He turns to leave.
"Thomas," I call after him. He pauses at the door.
"Promise you'll think about it."
He doesn't turn around. "Think about what, exactly?"
He glances back, grin crooked. "Because I can promise I'll be thinking about us tonight."
"Not that. The media image. Something I can use."
He lets out a breathy, half-sober laugh.
"Always after stories, aren't you, Katharina?"
I am. That's why I'm here.
And as much as I'm attracted to him—fascinated by him—I don't intend to forget that.
He's not just my occasional flirt. Not just my wildest sex fantasy.
He's also my hero.
And I intend to make him shine.
***