Alta Badia, Italy, February 8 #2
The kiss loops on every screen, brighter than the medal. My pulse spikes, not with fear, but with fury. He made me the headline. I spent months protecting him from.
My phone buzzes like it’s possessed, a hundred messages piling in. Photographers grin when they catch my eye, like they know a secret. I keep my chin high, but inside, I'm not so sure. I’m still shaking. From his mouth to mine. From how reckless it was. From how good it felt.
For a moment, he was entirely mine. And the entire world saw it. If I wanted him, if I wanted us, I would be thrilled.
But all I see are the tabloid headlines portraying me like an ornament. A novelty beside their beloved superstar. Something to shine one moment, and hide another.
I don’t even know what I feel. Pride, yes. But also fear. Because the line between us — professional, personal, impossible — just blurred in front of the world.
“Over here, Kern!” someone yells, pushing closer.
Then a voice, cutting through the din:
“Are you the girlfriend?”
My stomach drops.
The question isn’t for him. It’s for me. A headline, cooked, and ready.
I give them the neutral smile I was born with and walk. Away from the microphone. Away from an answer.
Later, it’s just us.
The team is still celebrating somewhere down the hall. The world is still screaming his name outside. But here, the room is dim, quiet, mine.
My Olympic winner. My happiness somehow slipping through my fingers.
His medal lies tossed on the dresser like an afterthought, still catching stray light.
He pulls me in before I can think. The kiss is immediate, hungry, like he’s still chasing the line. His hands in my hair, on my back, holding me too tight, as if I might vanish if he loosens his grip. Urgent. Fierce.
I melt under his touch, shake his jacket off to run my palms along his sculpted body.
I lean even closer, as if I can’t get close enough.
His hard-on presses against me, and I grind back, already throbbing with need.
His mouth is rough, devouring, and when he tears at my clothes, there’s no trace of teasing this time—only possession.
There was passion between us in Kitzbühel, but then he controlled it, toyed with it. Tonight, he doesn’t hold back. He is wild. No jokes, no restraint, just pure, desperate need.
When he pulls my shirt over my head, his eyes burn with lust so sharp it makes me moan aloud.
“I want you so much,” I whisper, though my voice comes out weak, almost small. Because the intensity in his gaze is almost frightening, it’s not just desire—it’s a demand. A plea he won’t voice.
I step back toward the bed and he follows, stripping as he moves, until I’m down to my wet panties and he’s rolling a condom down his cock, hard and straining.
I spread my legs wide, my hand sliding between them automatically, desperate for relief. He grabs my wrist and pins both my hands above my head, his body looming over mine.
“My turn,” he growls, and slides into me—slow for a heartbeat, then slamming deep.
A cry rips from my throat, and I close my eyes against the force of it, but his hands grip my face, holding me there.
“Look at me,” he commands, voice ragged. Not a plea. A command.
So I look into eyes dark with need, but also something rawer, something that cuts deeper than lust.
“Look at us,” he forces my chin down, so I see where his cock disappears inside me. “Watch how I fuck you.”
It’s filthy. It’s breathtaking. And it’s more than that; it’s like he needs me to witness it, to prove this is real, that it’s him I want, not the medal flashing on the dresser.
He pounds into me, wild and relentless, and the sight of him sliding in and out of me makes me whimper. My whole body arches to meet him, desperate.
Then he flips me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up before I can catch my breath, driving into me again with brutal thrusts. His hands grip my ass like he owns it, owns me, each thrust staking a claim. I’m limp and helpless, but every nerve burns alive. My clit throbs, begging for touch.
“You can come, Kat,” he grits out, his thrusts hard enough to jolt my body forward on the mattress. “You don’t need your hand. Just me. Just this. I can feel you.”
And he’s right. The pressure builds sharp and sudden, my whole body spasming, as I scream into the pillow. Pleasure rips through me, pulsing around his cock, and he groans, chasing his own release.
“Yes, baby,” he snarls, “that’s it. That’s mine.”
Two more thrusts, and he shudders, the condom filling as a guttural growl tears out of him.
He collapses half on me, half on the bed, our bodies slick with sweat, breaths ragged and uneven. His hand slides from my ass to my hip, still holding me close, still too tight, like he’s afraid I might slip away if he lets go.
My body is humming, sated, but my mind won’t quiet. The silence afterward feels different. Not satisfied. Not peaceful. Heavy. As if the sex didn’t fill the void. It only exposed it.
Finally, I whisper into the dark:
“I’m scared, Thomas.”
The words hang between us, raw and sharp. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t soothe. Just breathes, hard, his hand still locked around me like he needs proof I’m here.
And that’s how we fall asleep. Passion cooling into silence, heavy with everything neither of us dares to say.
***
The morning after gold, the media center already hums like it never slept. Screens glow on every wall, repeating the race and the celebration. Headlines crawl through my mind like gnats I can’t wave away:
Golden Kiss. Romance on the Slopes. Austria’s New Power Couple. Who′s the media lady?
Our photograph is everywhere. His hand at my waist, my mouth on his, frozen mid-recklessness. It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It belongs to them — to the world.
I sit at a plastic desk, typing the federation’s press release.
Cool. Neutral. Forgettable. Thomas Kern wins Olympic gold.
Insert generic quote. Insert medal tally.
Nothing about last night. Nothing about how I fell asleep pressed to his chest and woke in silence so heavy it hurt, before he left for a photoshoot without saying good morning.
The door clicks open.
He steps in — jacket half-zipped, medal still hanging around his neck like a dead weight. His hair is a mess, his eyes shadowed, his gait stiff. He doesn’t look like a champion. He looks like someone carrying the weight of one.
He stops cold when he sees me.
“Already working?” His voice aims for light, but it’s frayed — thin with disbelief.
“Always,” I reply, not looking up. My fingers move over the keys in hollow rhythm. I haven’t typed a real sentence in an hour.
He waits. I can feel him watching me — the air between us thick and charged.
I snap the laptop shut.
“You shouldn’t have kissed me like that.”
His jaw flexes. “You didn’t exactly push me away.”
“That’s not the point.” My voice cracks like a whip. “You kissed me in front of the world. Do you even realize what that means for me?”
He lets out a short, sharp laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe that we’re not pretending anymore?”
“You think this is a joke?” I shoot to my feet, heat rising under my skin. “I woke up to my face on every sports site, every gossip column, every damn headline. They’re calling me a manipulator. A leech. That I’ve been sleeping with you since the beginning — climbing my way up through your bed.”
“And what, you’re mad because they’re right?” he snaps.
I flinch.
“Don’t you dare,” I growl.
He steps forward, eyes dark. “When you crashed into me on that glacier, I thought you wanted me. But I had my doubts. You’re ambitious — I always wondered.”
“Thomas, don’t.”
“Maybe you saw me as a useful contact,” he says coldly. “Like you used Bellini, right?”
My throat goes dry. The words strike too close.
“That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “Tell me this — what happens when I stop being the headline? Will you still want me then? Or will you find a new story to chase?”
My breath hitches, burning. “I didn’t leave when you lost, did I? I was there.”
“And you said, I still expect you to win.”
“Because that’s what you needed to hear!”
He recoils slightly, caught off guard.
Of course he is. That’s his pattern — always thinking after, never before.
“You know what, Thomas?” I snap, voice shaking with fury.
“I did precisely what the perfect athlete’s woman is supposed to do.
I gave you space when you needed it. I was your drive when you asked for focus.
I opened my legs when you needed to celebrate.
And I never pushed for anything real — no late-night talks, no messy feelings — because God forbid anything distract you from your golden season. ”
He blinks. “You were giving me space?” His voice rises with disbelief. “All you did was mess with my head. Playing hard to get.”
I laugh bitterly. “You see? It’s always about you, isn’t it? You think I was playing a game — when I was barely keeping myself in check.”
He steps forward, jaw tight. “To what exactly? What are you backing away from? Tell me — I’m curious.”
“You,” I snap. “You’re reckless. Yesterday, you made a decision that affected both of us — and you didn’t even stop to think. You just acted like it didn’t matter.”
“I just won an Olympic gold!” he shouts, chest heaving. “You can’t possibly understand what that feels like. The pressure. The adrenaline. I lost control, and I wanted—”
“Thomas,” I say his name softly, my voice breaking. “I don’t blame you. I’m not calling you selfish or a bad person. You’re a legend. The best skier in the world. And if you’d been different — the kind of man who’d slow down for a relationship — you wouldn’t be here.”
He stares at me, breathing hard. That wounded look in his eyes — like he’s just now realizing how far we’ve drifted.
His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Almost hesitant.
“So that’s it,” he says. “After everything… you’re choosing your career over me?”
His pain is breaking my heart. Because only now do I see where his cruel words came from.
“I’m choosing to survive,” I say, every word heavy. “You’ll keep skiing. You’ll keep winning. You’ll bounce back from this. But me?” My voice cracks. “This is all I have.”
He shakes his head, angry again. “And that’s all you’ll ever have. If you’re so scared to risk anything real.”
“Yes,” I say. “If that’s what it takes. Then yes.”
Silence.
Tears burn hot behind my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
“I won’t wait in your shadow, Thomas,” I whisper. “Letting you pull me onto a pedestal so I can bathe in your glory. That’s not the life I want.”
“You’re a coward, Kat.”
The words hang between us. Even he seems surprised by them, like they came out too fast to catch.
I stare at him. “Says the man too afraid to think about anything real because it might ruin his focus.”
His mouth opens — then shuts.
His face hardens.
“Maybe we both made a mistake,” he says finally.
“We did,” I whisper.
He nods once, jaw clenched.
He turns without another word.
The door clicks softly behind him.
And just like that, it’s over.
***
Thomas
The press center is empty now.
Screens still glow in the dark, looping the same footage on mute; me skiing, me celebrating, me kissing her over and over until it blurs. Until it barely feels like it happened at all.
I sit alone in the blue light, medal heavy against my chest. The ribbon scratches at my neck every time I breathe. A bouquet lies limp on the table beside me, the plastic crinkling whenever I shift. Gold everywhere. And I can’t feel a damn thing.
Somewhere outside, a horn blares — long and triumphant, the sound of celebration bleeding through the walls.
Maybe it’s for me. Or maybe it’s for some other idiot trying to prove he’s enough.
I don’t even know what just happened.
One minute she was mine — there, real, undeniable — and the next, she was gone like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
I thought winning would fix everything.
I thought gold would make it all worth it. The pressure, the headlines, the chaos. The kiss.
I thought wanting her was enough.
She looked at me like I’d broken something. Like I’d dragged her into a spotlight she never asked for.
But what was I supposed to do? Hide it? Pretend we were nothing?
I brought her everything. My victory. My name. That moment. It was the most precious thing I’ve ever held, and I gave it to her like a fucking gift.
Like a hero in a story, dropping a dragon's head at the princess’s feet — expecting her to kiss me, thank me, and understand.
But she just recoiled. Like all she saw was the blood and the teeth and the mess.
What a fucked-up fairy tale.
I tell myself I’ll be fine. I always am. I get up, I race, I win, I move on.
That’s what I do.
But I don’t move.
The screens flicker on. My face, frozen in victory. Her face, just before the kiss.
My chest tightens. I shift, but the medal stays heavy, pressing into me like it wants to leave a mark.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
I should be celebrating. I should be drinking champagne with the team, signing autographs, giving soundbites about dreams and sacrifice.
Instead, I’m here. Alone. In a room full of ghosts.
I won.
So why the hell does it feel like I lost?