Crans-Montana, Switzerland, December 18 #2
"You got me a present?" she says. "Thomas, that's embarrassing. I don't have anything for you."
"Eh, it's just a dumb thing. Don't fret."
She opens the package…and stares wide-eyed at the signed poster.
"I still owed you, right?"
"Well, Thomas… thank you."
"But this is the real thing," I say, handing her a little velvet bag.
Inside are earrings, delicate, silver, shaped like wine glasses. I'd spotted them at the reception desk in Beaver Creek.
They were just so… her.
"Thank you," she breathes. And for a moment, I swear she thinks about kissing me.
Then changes her mind.
Too bad.
Maybe next time.
"Merry Christmas, Thomas," she says.
And then we do the most ridiculous thing in the universe.
We shake hands.
As I step into the van heading to my home village near Kitzbühel, I glance at the other van, hers, heading toward Innsbruck with Lukas and some tech guys.
I sigh.
I miss her already.
Then my phone buzzes.
Kat: "I do have something for you."
I grin and immediately know what to type.
Me: "Finally, some dirty pictures?"
A long pause.
Too long.
I probably deserved that.
Then she sends a photo.
It's a shot of an old newspaper.
Faded print. Classic early-2010s layout.
Salzburger Nachrichten, Sport section.
Date: December 28, 2014.
I was twelve.
There's a photo of Anton Fuchs, one of the greats.
Two-time Kitzbühel winner. Olympic champion. National icon.
He retired just before I made the Europa Cup circuit.
The headline reads:
"Austria's Future on Skis: Fuchs Reflects on Legacy and Hope."
I scroll to the highlighted quote.
My eyes stop. My chest tightens.
"There are a few names you'll want to remember. The nation's in good hands. There's real talent in the juniors—like young Thomas Kern from Kitzbühel. That kid's got feel. He listens to the snow."
I stare at it.
I've never seen this article in my life.
I sit up straighter in the van. The rest of the guys are laughing at something dumb in the back, but it fades to silence in my head.
Me: "Where the hell did you find that?"
Her typing dots appear immediately.
Kat: "Archives. Regional print edition. Christmas week 2014. You're welcome."
I shake my head, grinning like a complete idiot.
Me: "That's… unreal. I shook his hand once. That's it. I didn't even know he knew my name."
Kat: "He did. And he remembers watching you in your junior years. He's proud, told me he spotted you before anyone else."
A pause.
Dots. Then:
Kat: "I arranged a joint interview for ORF. You and Fuchs. January. They'll reference the article."
My jaw drops.
I don't answer right away. I don't even know how.
Then she texts again, lighter:
Kat: "Merry Christmas, Thomas."
I finally reply:
Me: "That's the best Christmas present I've ever got. And not just because he's my hero."
A beat.
Me: "You're scary good at this."
Kat: "I know."
Me: "You'll leverage it all, won't you? The legacy, the tears, my childhood dreams."
Kat: "Of course. That's the job."
Me: "And you're brilliant at it."
A pause.
Then I write:
Me: "Still want dirty pictures though."
Three dots.
Then nothing.
Then she sends a photo.
A screenshot of the ORF studio schedule.
Thursday, January 7th, 14:00 — Live Taping: Kern & Fuchs – Legacy on Ice
Captioned:
"See you there, superstar."
I can't help it. I laugh.
God, I miss her already.
And now I have no idea whether I want the Bormio races to come fast—
—or not at all.
***
Salzburg, Austria, December 24
Katharina
The living room smells like nutmeg and something vaguely fried.
Probably the last round of Vanillekipferl or whatever my younger brother tried baking.
The Christmas tree glows modestly in the corner, real candles flickering gently.
The wax always melts too fast, and someone will say it's a fire hazard.
But we still do it every year. Some traditions are too sacred to fix.
My mother places the final touches on the dinner table—carp, potato salad, warm apple compote. The classic Heiliger Abend spread. My dad, in a slightly too-tight wool sweater, cues up the old "Stille Nacht" vinyl like clockwork.
This is home. In its own precise, muted, slightly awkward way.
"Did they let you keep the team jacket?" my dad asks between bites of salad, as if it's the most pressing question about my work.
"I didn't steal it," I reply. "It's part of the comms package. Branding. Visibility."
He nods, clearly not satisfied.
"And the skiers… do they tell you things? About setup, tactics, waxing?"
I smile into my fork. "Dad, I'm not there to help them win races. I'm there to make sure the world cares when they do."
He gives a low whistle. "Still. It would be nice to know what skis Lukas is testing before the Olympics."
"Don't tell me you're stealing drills from me now," I tease.
"I just train the juniors," he mutters with a shrug, but there's a glint of something wistful in his eyes. "Can't help wanting to stay sharp."
I nod slowly. "You are sharp. They're lucky to have you."
Across the table, my mom watches the exchange quietly. She's always been more observer than participant when it comes to ski talk. Tonight, she wears a deep green blouse and her hair pulled back with a velvet ribbon. Elegant. Soft. A little tired.
When we were kids, she used to work part-time at the local physio clinic.
Now she mostly volunteers and organizes community drives.
Quiet things. She never complains about what she gave up, but I remember the winter I turned twelve and she stopped taking new clients altogether.
Dad had just signed a contract to coach the national alpine team, and the travel schedule was relentless.
We'd open gifts without him. Eat dinner without him. Light candles, sing songs. He'd turn up a day before Christmas and be gone a few days after. And that might be all we saw from him all winter.
And she'd always say, "Don't worry, Papa's racing too. That's his Christmas."
I glance at her now, clearing plates while humming along to the scratchy carol. Her eyes catch mine, and she smiles, gently, knowingly. I wonder what she sees in mine.
She sits back down, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "So. This Thomas boy. He's the fast one, right?"
I choke slightly on my sip of wine. "They're all fast."
"But he's the one always on the posters. And in your quotes."
I look down. "He's… the one who wins most often. So yes, the posters. And interviews. It's part of the job."
My mother tilts her head. "He seems... intense."
"That's one word," I say, keeping my voice light. "Focused. Media-trained. But real, in moments."
"That's rare."
I nod. "Yes."
There's a pause. One of those quiet Christmas pauses where everything is glowing and nothing is quite spoken.
I should say something like we're just colleagues or it's nothing.
But I don't.
Because I miss him.
And not just the way you miss someone you kissed in a hotel hallway or laughed with in a race van.
I miss the way he listens. The way he doesn't flinch when I push. The way he looks at me like I'm not ornamental.
But still… I know what comes with being the woman beside a top athlete.
Even now, twenty years later, I see it in my mother's posture. A tiny flicker in her smile when we talk about ski racing.
She used to dream of opening her own clinic. Now she dreams of a ski-free Christmas where everyone shows up.
And I am not the kind of woman who wants to wait at home with a hot meal and a half-tied ribbon in her hair.
Not for anyone.
Not even for Thomas Kern.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Tom: “Merry Christmas, Kat. Hope your brother did not sing. My father is singing carols now, and it's killing me.”
I smile.
And my heart stutters. The way it always does when he texts.
Damn it.
Because I know better.
I know better than to fall for someone like him.
But hearts… don't always take instructions from heads.
I type back:
Me: “Merry Christmas. Don't insult the carols. Some of us are traditionalists.”
Three dots. Then nothing.
I lock my phone. Slide it into my lap.
My mother refills the wine glasses and lights the last candle.
And somewhere between nostalgia, logic, and longing, I sit still.
Half glowing.
Half bracing for the burn.
***