Crans-Montana, Switzerland, December 18
Thomas
I'm in the back of the van, forehead pressed lightly to the window, watching the French Alps flicker past. Snow-coated roofs. Fir trees. That early-morning blue that's too cold to be pretty.
My head hurts a little, but it's the emotional hangover that bites harder. I was too blunt last night. Not just with words. My hands didn't exactly get the memo either. Too much beer, too little self-control. Still, I don't regret saying any of it.
Not really.
Roman's driving. The other tech guys and Niko are half-asleep behind us, slouched like kids on a school trip. It's weirdly quiet, even with the radio on. Everyone's tired. Hungover. Trying to switch to a focused mode for the next race.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Kat: "How's the van ride?"
I stare at the screen. She must be standing at the slalom start already. Back in work mode, phone in hand, charming the sponsors, gathering quotes. But I doubt she feels any better than we do here.
I can picture her — shades hiding her hangover, coffee in hand. Pretending everything's normal.
Me: "Quiet. Niko's not singing yet. The Alps look fake."
Me: "You?"
She replies quickly.
Kat: "Alive. Barely. I should not have drunk that much. I blame you."
I smile.
Me: "You wanted the wine."
Me: "I just provided… reasons to drink it."
There's a pause long enough that I wonder if I've crossed the line again.
Then:
Kat: "About last night."
I wait. The message is still typing.
Kat: "I know you meant it. I was just… drunk. Tired. And scared I wouldn't say no."
I exhale, shifting my weight in the seat. Outside, the peaks look like something out of a postcard. Unreal. Clean. Unlike whatever this is between us — tangled, messy, and far too real.
Me: "I was drunk too. Too blunt, maybe. But I meant what I said."
Me: "And I still think you're overcomplicating it."
Another pause.
Kat: "That's my brand, isn't it?"
Me: "It doesn't have to be."
Me: "I like you better when you let go a little."
This time, the pause is longer.
Kat: "Let's just keep things clear for now. I'll see you in Crans."
Clear.
Right.
The van rattles a bit as we hit a stretch of icy road. I glance at Niko, who's got a phone in one hand and the other is nursing a bottle of Coke like it's medicine. He glances at me.
"You gonna sulk all the way to Switzerland?"
I shrug. "Not sulking. Just… thinking."
"About last night?" he smirks.
"You know?"
"I know you," he says. "And I got to know her. And I know that if you two don't figure it out soon, the rest of us are going to suffer from secondhand tension poisoning."
"Very funny."
He chuckles. "Hey, at least you were honest."
"Too honest."
"Still." Niko shrugs. "She didn't walk away."
I glance back at my phone. One more message, unsent.
Me "See you in Crans. I'll ski like you're watching me."
I hit send.
No reply.
But I can imagine her half-smile as she reads it.
And that's enough. For now.
***
Crans-Montana, Switzerland, December 18
Katharina
Crans-Montana is one of those venues that's beautiful in theory — when the sun is out, when the mountains are sharp-edged and glorious. The downhill course here is easy for the men's competition. Actually, it's so easy that they tend to complain.
But not today. Today, everything is white and wrong.
Fog swallows the slope like a curtain refusing to rise.
I can't see anything beyond the first gate from the press area near the finish line.
Just ghost poles and vague outlines. Even the coaches on the hill are radioing in with that strained voice people use when they're trying not to admit how bad it is.
We've been in "delay" status for over an hour.
I sip my third coffee. The cup is trembling a little in my hand, and I pretend it's because of the cold. Not the nerves. Not the knowing.
I glance up toward the start. I can't see it, but I can feel it.
Every racer up there is trying to pretend they're not thinking about visibility, compression zones, how ice behaves when it's humid.
But I know Thomas. I know he's not just pretending.
He'll race this slope like he can see everything — like fog is just air.
And that scares me more than anything.
My phone buzzes.
Tom: "Still nothing?"
I type quickly.
Me: "Visibility is crap. Jury's talking again."
Tom: "Start ref says we're on hold. No one's even booted up yet."
I exhale. He sounds calm. Probably is calm. Probably has his boots off, sipping something warm, teasing Niko about last night's bad Tinder luck.
And here I am, worrying like a wife and acting like a ghost.
I type:
Me: "Don't ski it if it looks bad."
Then I delete it.
I try again.
Me: "How's the mood up there?"
A beat.
Tom: "Bored. Hungry. Martin offered me a protein bar in exchange for my spot on the start list."
Me: "Take the deal. Might be safer."
Tom: "Didn't know you were this sentimental."
Me: "I'm not. I just don't want to write your obituary."
He doesn't answer for a while. Just long enough to make me regret sending that.
Then:
Tom: "Kat."
Tom: "I'll be fine. Promise."
I stare at the screen until my fingers ache from clutching the phone.
I don't want promises. I want a jury decision that pulls the plug. I want the slope to stay closed and the fog to win for once.
But that's not how this works.
***
Thomas
Start hut energy is dead. That's never a good sign.
Martin lies flat on the bench like a spa client, one arm over his eyes. "Wake me when they invent visibility." Roman paces grooves into the floor. No clipboard. Just tension. Niko's gone quiet, thumbs flying, probably texting Katharina, pretending it's memes.
I pull my jacket tighter and glance down at my skis — still flat, still dry. They haven't touched snow today. No one has. And I'm starting to hope they won't.
Do I trust the jury to make the right decision?
Trust is a luxury.
What choice do I have?
One thing is sure, most of them don't give a damn about our lives, bones, or joints. There's big money in the game, venue, sponsors, and TV rights. They don't want to lose that. But if they decide to go on with it and some of us end up in a helicopter, the press would eat them alive.
I don't envy their situation.
Not because I'm scared. Not even because the slope's a mess. But because I can feel it, the air, the nerves, the edge that shouldn't be there. The kind of tension that makes people take risks they shouldn't.
This is one of the moments when we pretend we are all fired up and ready. Because it is not up to us to decide. The jury decides. And if they say we go, we go. Well, technically, we can stay out of it. But we won't. And when the race is on, nobody wants to be the one guy who shows fear.
And then there are the young guys, those who look up to us. As crazy as it is that somebody might look up to me, they do. Even Niko is. And I won't give them a reason to fear. Imagine what they'd do if they saw the fearless, reckless Thomas Kern with a tail between his legs, right?
But I don't envy myself, either.
And then there's her.
She's down there in the fog, probably pretending she's working. Probably trying not to think about what happens if the jury says yes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Kat: "How's the mood up there?"
I smile a little. At least we're talking again.
I know it is not just about me; she cares for the other guys.
It's something weird to have a woman on a team.
The coaches and techs care as well, but they would not show it. Girls would, they are allowed to be soft.
But we are supposed to keep it cool.
I write something dumb about Martin and protein bars. She answers with a line that makes my stomach twist.
Kat: "Don't want to write your obituary."
Dark. Even for her.
I almost texted something flirty. A joke. Something about how good I'd look in a memorial montage.
But I don't.
Me: "Kat."
Me: "I'll be fine. Promise."
I pocket the phone and repeat it aloud, staring into the blizzard.
Martin cracks an eye. "Practice answering that on camera."
Niko nudges my boot. "He means it. We'll be fine." His grin doesn't reach his eyes.
Even if I'm not sure, I believe it.
The door creaks open. A FIS guy pokes his head in.
"Race's off. Official cancellation."
Martin sits up fast, hair perfect like he planned it. Roman finally stops pacing. Niko lets out a breath he pretends he wasn't holding.
I grab my phone.
Me: "Cancelled. You can stop panicking now."
No answer.
Just a photo.
The finish area, blurred in the fog.
In the foreground: her hand, giving me the finger.
I laugh. For real this time.
Yeah, we're gonna be okay.
The super-G the other day was cancelled as well. So, officially, no racing this weekend. The waiting and stress overshadowed the Christmassy mood around here.
And it's a pity we have to leave now. Only today did I notice the shiny things on every corner, the smell of mulled wine.
I'm looking forward to going home. Spending time with my family.
I won't miss the guys. We'll see each other in a few days in Bormio and celebrate the New Year together.
I might miss Katharina, though.
And I'm so aware of how invested I've become that I'm almost ready to admit it.
To her?
Maybe.
Not without the mulled wine, I don't have time to drink.
With the race cancellation, the hotel's kicking us out. They've already lost enough money on Crans Montana this weekend. They don't want to spend a cent more on us.
But that's how it is. Skiing is an outdoor sport.
And the mountains rarely play along.
I find her in the lobby, a bag over her shoulder, headed to the van.
"May I help you?" I ask and take the bag from her.
Gallant of me.
But stupid. I can't carry hers and mine anyway.
"I'm okay," she says, taking the bag back. "Didn't pack my ball gown. It's not that heavy."
I don't protest, but I take her hand.
Not in a lover's way, just friendly.
So I can lead her out of sight. I don't want to make a show.
"Merry Christmas," I say, and hand her my present.