Katharina
I can handle this.
I can handle the chaos. Half of Europe jammed into a snow-blown funnel of ringing cowbells and yodeling. I can handle the live broadcast schedule unraveling in real time, and that the VIP section just ran out of hot wine and is somehow my problem.
I can handle Arnold Schwarzenegger asking if Thomas will come and say a few words before the award ceremony.
I can handle running after Hermann Maier, shouting into the wind like a lunatic, trying to get a quote about gladiators and ice.
I can handle the sponsors, all of them, calling like stockbrokers during a crash:
“Can Lukas hold the new energy drink if he’s in the red chair?”
“What about Martin with the Omega?”
“Can Niko wear the Gilette jacket?”
Or hold a razor?”
A razor, for God’s sake. A man on the edge of blowing out his knees at 140 km/h, and they want facial grooming.
I can handle it.
I’ve done it before.
What I can’t handle, not really, is the part where I have to pretend this is just another race.
Because it’s not.
It’s Kitzbühel.
The Streif. The Hahnenkamm. The race they all lie about not fearing.
The hill that changes careers or ends them.
It’s Austrian turf, Austrian blood, Austrian legacy. And Thomas Kern, golden boy, hometown hero, beautiful, reckless bastard, is standing in the start gate right now.
And I—
I’m not supposed to care.
The crowd surges. Drums. Horns. Boots stomping in rhythm like it’s a ritual. The finish zone buzzes, not just with anticipation but with reverence.
I glance at the screen.
Upper section: clean. Carved like glass, each turn so sharp you could slice your hand on it. Fluid and fast. He looks untouchable.
Then—
Then the Seidlalmsprung.
My gut tightens. It’s the jump where they fly nearly 40 meters off a crooked, falling ridge, mid-rotation. A test of angles, balance, and sheer nerve. I’ve seen veterans twist out of line and eat the netting below.
Thomas hits the rim.
And I see it. A fraction off.
His line is wrong.
Too much inside edge. Shoulders rotated just a hair too late.
He takes off like a missile with one wing bent.
Mid-air, he spins—but not clean.
He’s crooked.
Off-axis.
Too low.
My heart stops.
The entire finish zone holds its breath. Thousands of fans, frozen.
And then—
He lands.
On one ski.
For a split second, time fractures. The other ski hovers in the air like it might never touch again. His body leans too far. His knee says no. The slope says no. Gravity says no.
But he fights.
He stomps the second ski down with brute force, like a man wrestling fate by the throat. The vibration ripples through his core, through the hill, through the crowd.
It was like death and physics both reached for him with sharpened talons - even so, he slipped free.
The stadium erupts.
A sound like thunder and joy and shock all braided into one, rising up the slope and echoing off the chalets above.
And he’s still going.
He’s still going.
Through the L?rchenschuss. Over the Hausbergkante jump. Through the turns that make his legs burn, but somehow he looks like he flies. Looking for speed on the traverse, where most look for tools to survive.
He approaches the Zielsprung, the speed gun showing 152 km/h, top speed.
Tucking low, he flies and lands with the softness of a snow leopard.
The crowd is screaming, but I don′t hear them, don′t see them.
All I see is him.
Him, flying like he was born on this hill.
No fear.
No hesitation.
No one else.
He crosses the finish line, skis shuddering with speed.
Throws his head back.
Chest heaving.
Alive.
And I—
I exhale.
“Holy shit.”
That’s all I can say.
Because for those hundreds of seconds on the slope?
He wasn’t a man.
He was a storm.
And I loved every terrifying second of it.
***