Kitzbühel, Austria, December 24
Thomas
My mother hands me a gingerbread cookie shaped like a ski boot.
"That's not regulation," I mutter, inspecting the icing job. “It′s missing a buckle.”
She snorts. "You're not regulation either."
The tree glows by the fireplace—tiny white lights, no candles, thank God. There's a paper ornament of a snowflake I made when I was five hanging front and center. Apparently, no one has the heart to throw it away.
My father leans back in his chair, swirling his tea like it's whiskey.
A wax-stained photo album is open on the table.
He's been pulling it out every Christmas since my Europa Cup debut.
Right now, it's open to a shot of me at two years old, shirtless, covered in wax flakes, holding a scraper upside down like it's a magic wand.
"I tried to teach you early," he says with gruff amusement.
"Yeah. That's probably why I still don't understand a damn thing about ski tech."
My mother laughs. "And thank God for Roman."
"Roman's a genius," Dad agrees. "He could make a garbage can glide if you asked nicely."
"I do ask nicely," I say. "Usually with a beer in one hand and a question I already forgot."
"Still don't know your edge angles?" he asks, not looking up.
"I know they're sharp."
"That's what you always say," my mother chimes in.
I grin. This is our rhythm. Dry, deflective, warm underneath. Nobody gets weepy. Nobody asks how you feel. If someone did, I'd probably choke on my beer.
Dad closes the photo album. "You're lucky, you know. Most guys don't get a wax tech like Roman."
"I know."
And I do. I just never say much about it.
After dinner, I step outside. The snow is soft, fresh. Quiet.
I tug my jacket lower and lean against the railing, staring at the pale halo of light around the streetlamp.
A soft voice behind me says, "Still allergic to socializing, huh?"
I turn. It's Lena.
Wool coat, wine-colored scarf. The same soft eyes I used to adore. She's smiling. Like always.
"Hey," I say. "Didn't expect you."
"I was dropping something off at my cousin's. Thought I'd say hi."
We hug. Polite. Familiar. Safe.
"Merry Christmas," she says.
"You too."
She pauses. "Still skiing like a lunatic?"
"Trying."
She laughs, but there's something behind it. There always is.
I think she had long believed I'd come back. That I'd slow down. Make room.
She deserved more than half my attention, though. Attention I gave to the clock and the hill.
She never complained. It was me who ended it. I called it quits when I realized I never missed her on the tour. Not really. I expected her to wait like a forgotten plush animal where I left her. I hated myself for it. And did not want to start hating her, too.
She was happy in the shadow. But I couldn't respect that.
And maybe that's on me. Perhaps that's about watching my mother, once a brilliant lawyer, now the one who refills the fridge, sorts the race bags, and makes sure the freezer is stocked with nutritious meals.
She loved her job. She loved my dad. But she gave up one to stay with the other.
I look at Lena now and realize that I didn't want that, not for the first time.
Not in her.
Not in anyone.
We say goodbye. She walks off down the snowy path.
And I think of Katharina.
How she fits in my world, not just survives but thrives in it.
The way she commands a press conference like it's hers to rewrite. The way she understands the tension of start gates and sponsor obligations without blinking. The way she glows when she's in control.
And the way she makes me think harder about things I'd rather ignore.
No.
She wouldn't wait in the wings. She won't.
Maybe that's why she pushes me away.
Maybe she saw the photo of my mom handing out protein bars while my dad polished skis in the garage and thought: Not me. Not ever.
And I get that. I do.
But that doesn't make me want her less.
Hell, I want her all the time.
I want her eyes on me in a crowd. I want her pressed against me in a hotel hallway. I want her mouth on mine and her legs wrapped around—
I shake my head.
Jesus, Merry Christmas.
It's not just the sex, though. It started that way in my head.
Flirting. Heat. Some harmless fun.
But now she's in my bloodstream.
She's in the silence before I fall asleep. In the way, I check my phone for her name without realizing it. In the part of me that's never needed someone.
Which makes it easier to pretend it's just about her perfect ass.
But I'm not fooling anyone anymore.
Not even myself.
My phone buzzes. I'm already pulling it out before I realize I look eager.
Kat: “Merry Christmas. Don't insult the carols. Some of us are traditionalists.”
I smirk. Tap a reply.
Me: “Still not convinced ′Stille Nacht′ qualifies as music. But I'll allow it.”
Three dots. Then nothing.
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than I should.
Inside, my mom hums along to the stereo as she packs leftovers. My dad is inspecting my race gloves like they're evidence.
This is what I come from.
But what I want—what I might want—feels a lot more complicated.
I slide the phone into my pocket, exhale into the cold air, and head back inside.
Some things are easier left unsaid.
For now.