Alta Badia, Italy, February 8
Thomas
At the start gate, I shut out the world. The cowbells, the horns, even the pounding of my own blood. Silence here isn’t peace. It’s pressure—tight, crushing, coiled around my ribs.
I let the mountain play in my head.
Spinel jump—attack it straight. Hold the landing light, don’t fight it, and get ready for the compression.
Sochers walls—drive early, no hesitation.
The Camel Humps—take the line I know, fly clean. Glide, soft knees.
The Ciaslat meadows—trust the snow, trust the skis, I know how to carve the best line.
Nucia, the final blind jump—tuck deep, land soft, pray the legs hold.
Every gate. Every inch. I’ve skied it a thousand times in my head, but today it has teeth.
A breath. The beep counts me down.
And then her voice, cutting through the noise in my skull.
“Trust your line. Not your fear.”
Beep.
I drop.
The top is mine. Perfect pressure on the edge, skis slicing exactly where I want them. The rhythm clicks in my body like a song I was born knowing. The splits flash green. Brilliant. Gold line.
I prepare for the compression pushing me down and sideways, and even enjoy the feeling as I listen to the sounds of cowbells, horns, and shouts, with fans standing along the course cheering me on.
I fly the Camels, land balanced, charging. My chest is wide open, lungs burning clean. For a moment, I let myself feel it. The run of my life. My legs burn, as they always do in this part of the race, but I block out the pain. I am trained to do this; pain is part of the game we play.
There is no gold without the pain.
Then, near the bottom—Ciaslat. First turn. Wide. Too wide. The rhythm is gone; I must chase and cut the other turn. Too hard on the edges, I return to the perfect line, but the maneuver costs me speed.
And I know it.
The green light vanishes.
I fight, push, send everything I have into the glide. But not too much pressure, I am a pro, I know the balance.
The finish jump, the last tuck, air tearing at my suit. I cross the line. Look up.
Second place.
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. My legs give a violent tremor. Because I gave everything, and this time, there is no golden rush to fuel me back.
When I unclip, my knees nearly go out from under me. A staff hand reaches for my arm, instinctively, but I shake it off too fast, forcing a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. The mask slides back in place, just barely.
The cameraman is close, and I know he caught the slip for all the world to see.
The bare, unguarded truth on my face. No shrug, no smile, no mask. Just the raw pain of almost-gold.
And once it’s broadcast, it’s no longer mine. It belongs to the world.
***
Katharina
By the time the medals are handed out, he looks almost happy. Almost. Silver on his back, flag over his shoulders, cameras catching his smile from every angle. For the world, it’s joy. For me, it’s paper-thin.
Later, I find him alone. The team lounge is dim, with the overhead lamps turned low; the hum of the heating is the only sound.
He’s still half in kit, compression pants under a hoodie, boots unlaced, hair damp.
No music, no phone. Just him, sitting hunched on the couch as if he’s not sure whether to stand or collapse.
I sit beside him. Close, but not too close. I don’t offer comfort. Just presence.
For a long while, neither of us speaks.
Then, without looking at me, he says:
“It’s not the medal. Silver is still a dream. It’s that I was good enough. And I still lost.”
The words hang between us, heavy as wet snow. I reach out and touch his shoulder lightly. He leans into my hand, just for a breath, then straightens again.
“Why do you race?” I ask softly.
He turns my way, frowning, thinking about the question.
“If it’s only about gold,” I go on, stroking his cheek. “It’ll never be enough. Someone always wins, someone always loses. But that’s not why I’m here.”
I left the final line hanging, unsure.
Do I want to spill my heart?
“I’m here because you—and every one of you—are inspiration. Not because you win, but because you dare. You race a mountain at a hundred thirty kilometers an hour. You fight fear. That’s what I see. That’s why I write. And that’s why you matter, even when you come second.”
For the first time tonight, something eases in his eyes. The tightness loosens, just slightly.
“You’re amazing,” he mutters. “And clever.” A ghost of a grin. “What a shame I can’t have sex with you to prove that.”
I smirk, tempted. “Maybe silver is good enough.”
He leans back with a half-groan, half-laugh. “Don’t do this to me.”
“What?” I raise an eyebrow.
He turns, then, really looks at me. There’s heat in his voice, but also restraint.
“You know damn well I’ve got GS in two days. I can′t have sex, not when I am in such a mess and need all the focus I can get.”
Silence again, but different this time. Softer. Our legs touch where we sit side by side, and that’s all.
I think about how close he came today. How much did it cost him? My throat tightens with words I don’t say—I’m proud of you—because I know he’d hate it.
Finally, his voice breaks the silence, quieter now.
“Thanks for finding me.”
I nod. Then, after a beat:
“I always know where you are, when you’re not pretending to be okay.”
He doesn’t respond. Just reaches out and links our fingers. Not for long. Just a few seconds. Long enough.
***
Alta Badia, Italy, February 8
Olympic giant slalom race
Thomas
The gate at the top of the Gran Risa slope is still.
Not calm — just tight, like the whole world is waiting for me to drop.
The air tastes sharp, metallic, freezing in my throat.
Below me, the slope falls away steep and twisting, blind gates tucked between dark fir trees.
The surface is ice-polished, unforgiving.
Every turn here is a test. You can’t bully this hill.
You can’t fake it. You trust your edge or you’re done.
I won the first run, so I will be the last to go.
I don′t get cocky. The reporters might say that there is no way I can lose with this lead, but the hill would disagree.
This is Alta Badia, the most brutal GS slope of them all.
And the course setters built the course for the Olympics; they did not hold back.
At the start gate, my breath freezes in the air, sharp and white. A single bead of sweat stings my eye under the helmet, proof that nerves don’t care how cold it is. My heartbeat pounds louder than the cowbells below, steady, insistent, like it’s daring me to drop.
I go through the line in my head. High at the top. Clean over the pump. Stay light in the compression, don’t get late. Roll smooth through the middle, no panic in the rhythm changes. Let the skis run where they want, then hold them tight again. The finish flats—no thinking, just full send.
And then her voice cuts through:
Don’t be perfect. Just be enough.
The beep starts.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
I drop.
The start is clean. Skis bite exactly where I put them, no chatter, no hesitation. The first turns come fast, icy, rattling under my edges, but I’m locked in. The rhythm feels natural, like breathing. My body moves before my brain catches up.
The course is brutal here, steep and narrow, the crowd invisible behind trees and fences. I don’t look for them. All I see are gates, snow, and line. Pressure in the legs, fire in the thighs, air tearing at my face. I let the skis run.
Mid-section. The snow changes, slicker, faster. Most guys lose time here. I push anyway, risk the high line, and it holds. The green light flashes on the split.
And I feel it. Calm. Centered. Like the hill is mine.
The lower pitch is chaos for anyone who doubts. I don’t.
Every gate comes to me, right where I need it. I’m flying, but it doesn’t feel desperate. It feels right.
The last gates, the flats. I tuck into a tight position. The world goes quiet. Just the hiss of skis, the hammering of my pulse. I cross the line.
I glance up.
I did it.
I won.
The sound hits me like an avalanche, roaring, endless, drowning me in it. My arms shoot up before I know it. Teammates pile on me, fists thumping my back, someone screaming in my ear. I’m laughing, actually laughing, can’t stop it. It bursts out of me, wild and raw.
And then I see her.
At the barriers, half-buried in the crowd, but I’d find her anywhere. Her smile is wide, her eyes bright, as if she knew this was always mine.
For once, I don’t think about cameras. Or gold. Or the circus waiting to spin this into headlines. I just move. Past my team, past the staff, through the flash of microphones. Straight to her.
I grab her, pull her in, kiss her hard.
The world explodes. Cameras flash, shutters pop, voices shout. But all I feel is her mouth on mine, her hands clutching at me, her body pressed against gear and sweat and adrenaline.
For a second, it’s not about medals, not about glory. It’s just us.
And then I hear it—our names, already rolling across the loudspeakers, already fed to the world.
Too late. It’s everywhere.
***
Katharina
The mix zone is pure mayhem. Flags waving, cowbells clanging, microphones thrust forward like bayonets. Reporters shout over each other in four different languages, cords snaking across the snow, flashes going off so fast it feels like lightning.
Thomas stands in the center of it all, laughing, flushed, medal glinting around his neck. He’s the picture of victory. The Austrian team has him lifted half off his feet, and the cameras eat it up.
The madness here is even worse than it was yesterday, when their local Clara de Lorenzo smashed the course and won Olympic gold with more than a second lead.
I should be working. And I am — clipboard brain engaged, voice clipped, wrangling reporters into some kind of order. Cutting off the ones who push too far. Filtering the avalanche of questions before they bury him alive. Professional. Sharp. That’s me.
Except I’m not invisible anymore, not after that kiss.