Thomas
The Kandahar track in Garmisch isn't just a hill.
It's a living, breathing monster that chews you up if you even blink.
From the first gates, it throws you into the Seele S-curve, with no mercy or time to settle.
By the time you hit Troglhang, the g-forces have your ribs screaming, then it spits you straight into the Olympia corner and the Panorama Jump before your legs remember how to breathe.
Down there, Holle waits—the "hell" section everyone pretends not to name out loud. Ninety-plus percent pitch, a free fall that makes your stomach drop like you've been kicked out of a plane.
I managed my emotions during the interview; I did not let any confusion about our non-relationship with Katharina cloud my thoughts.
Not that I didn't care, I admit, I'm a mess. But this is not the moment for an emotional crisis. On Kandahar, you either focus or you're toast.
Today I want to carve it clean. Own every blind gate, every landing. Drop into the Hell and come out laughing.
But then…
…Lukas crashes, and all of it—every plan, every breath—turns to smoke.
I watch him go down, crouched with the rest around the little start-area monitor. We shout in unison, feeling his pain. This is the moment we all dread. But what's worse, it's my buddy we see rolling down the mountain.
He hit Troglhang wide, his edge skated out, and suddenly he's flying—not stylish, not controlled—just flying into the net. The spray of snow, his body crumpling in midair, then collapses. The net shudders. Medics flood in.
My ribs seal shut. Oxygen drains. The radio spits out "Yellow flag, section twelve, crash."
None of us watches the screen; we don't want to witness that. It steals our bravado, it reminds us of the stakes. I turn my back to the screen and listen instead.
I wait for the roar of the crowd. They would cheer him as he stood up and waved to signal that he was okay.
But there is only silence.
And a few dreadful minutes later, the helicopter announces the worst.
Shit.
There's no knowing if he tore some muscle, broke a bone, or fractured a skull.
And I need to know. This is not some unknown racer; it's Lukas.
I wave at Roman to get the radio ready and signal to our other guys still up there to follow me.
"Katharina?" I key the radio.
If anyone knows, it's her.
"I'm sorry, Thomas," she answers, her voice tight. "He was conscious, that's all I know right now."
"Okay," my voice is bland.
"Guys, you focus, right? He'll be fine."
Nice try, Kat.
But she's right, this is not the first time I've had to start knowing that someone else's career might have just ended.
This is downhill skiing.
I plug my earphones back in, desperate to catch the flow.
Tyrolean brass. Quick warm-up. Click into skis.
It's my time. The hill is silent. No jokes, everyone shaken.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the gate, heart and mind in staccato.
The marshal’s hand.
Beep. Beep. BEEEP. My body goes on the long tone, automatic.
I carve the first turn, but the rhythm’s simply not there.
The Seele S-curve that should feel like choreography is garbage now, timing off, line off. I barrel through the Freier Fall in pieces, nearly spitting snow into the crowd below. There’s no tuck. No control. Just gravity and struggle.
All I want is to just be down there already. No motivation.
I do not care for the result at all.
I cross the line and unclip slower than I ever have. My knees tremble. My lungs are on fire—not from the run, but from the scream of loss.
The press corral near the finish is chaos brewed cold. Microphones shoved forward, lights hot, voices rising. Lukas is already in the care of hospital orderlies; his crash is racing headlines, incoming statements, and speculation.
I finished tenth, not that I care for points at this moment.
In the middle of the storm stands Katharina, clipboard anchored to her hip, lips compressed but controlled. She is issuing sound bites: “Conscious. Transported. Surgery tonight. Family informed.” She threads the panic and the professionalism with a surgeon’s precision.
I slip into the back of the tent, mask back on, voice muted, adrenaline still a tremor in my stomach.
I’m grateful. She’s holding the world’s attention, so I don’t have to.
But also: pain pulses behind my ribs, the distance between us like fresh ice.
I need her now. I needed her up there. I needed her confidence, her endearing worry, the drive she used to give me. Her voice in my head to pull me out of the cave I hid in after fear and concern drove me in.
I close my eyes, waiting for the storm to pass.
It doesn’t. Lukas in the net, her voice cutting through the chaos, the taste of metal still in my mouth; it all claws at me until my eyes burn.
Tears sting, hot and stupid, and I’m furious at myself for letting them come.
I bury my face deeper in the mask, willing no one to notice.
Champion. Golden boy. And here I am, trembling like a kid who can’t hold it together.
I choke on a curse, swipe my glove hard across my eyes, furious at the dampness it catches. The sting stays anyway. My fist slams the plastic barrier once, quick and quiet, then I step back into the noise before anyone notices I cracked.
The van is too warm, heaters humming, windows fogged with breath. Boots and bags crowd the floor, rattling with every turn. Nobody talks much.
Niko scrolls his phone, jaw tight. Martin stares out the window, eyes hollow. The only sound is the hum of tires on slush and the occasional cough when someone clears their throat but doesn’t follow it with words.
I sit hunched in the back, helmet strap still in my hand like I forgot how to let it go. My legs twitch with phantom turns, muscles buzzing with useless adrenaline.
Lukas is in Innsbruck by now. Broken shin. Torn ACL. They said it clean, like listing groceries. Out for the season. Maybe longer.
I tell myself he’s tough, he’ll heal. But the image won’t leave—his body tangled in the net, motionless, the sound of the impact ringing louder than the cowbells.
Across the aisle, Katharina murmurs into her phone, low and steady, delivering the federation’s statement. Her voice is soft, caring, yet professional. She doesn’t look at me.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. The sting returns. I swallow it down, but shame tastes the same as fear.
I clench my fists as if daring the bones in my fingers to crack. Champion. Golden boy. Crying in the back of a van.
I turn my face toward the window, wipe at my eyes with my sleeve, and watch the frozen forest slide by until the lights of Garmisch spill over the glass.
One week. That’s all I have before Kranjska Gora GS.
One week. Definitely not enough. I can’t race like this.
I make a decision and pull out my phone.
“Coach, I need a break.” I brace for Leitner’s tirade. He doesn’t give me one.
“I′ve got enough points, I know what I′m doing,” I go on, encouraged by his silence.
I feel all eyes turning on me, Katharina′s as well. Their eyebrows risen, their questions waiting. But I don′t owe them an explanation. It′s my life at stake.
“All right,” Leitner answers slowly. “I′ll see you in Reiteralm, then?”
“Yes,” I nod. “I′ll skip the GS in Slovenia, go home for a few days, and meet you guys in Reiteralm to prep for Hinterstoder in two weeks. Reasonable, right?”
“It does not sound like you,” he answers. “But I guess it is reasonable.”
“I’ll call Rudi,” I add. “We’ll sort it.”
“Sort what?” Leitner asks.
I don′t answer right away.
What do I need to sort out, anyway? Do I even know?
“Coach, if I knew that, I would not need a therapy session, right?”
He laughs. A dry laugh. Leitner was always the one who gave us tough love. But he appreciates it when we behave like adults. And this is me acting like an adult. Or so I think.
“Fair point, Kern,” he agrees. “Get your shit together, whatever your shit is, and I′ll see you in Reiteralm.”
I hang up and breathe out, feeling relieved for the first time today.
She′s watching me.
Her eyes intent, head leaning aside.
“One statement, only one,” I tell her, my voice flat. “The Olympic champion needs a break from the circus. No social media, no interviews, give me a break for three days.”
Ouch, it came out harsher than I intended.
She swallows, blinks, nods.
And just like that, concern leaves her eyes, replaced with something sharper.
“Sure, champ,” she says, her smile sweet but mocking. “I′ll do my job and get the media vultures off your back, enjoy your holiday.”
I turn away, jaw tight. The van hums through the darkness, its headlights spilling over the snowbanks.
Her voice still lingers in my ears, too smooth, too sharp. Sweet, but meant to sting.
I press my forehead against the cold glass, let the chill bite at the heat in my face. My reflection stares back, eyes red, cheeks blotched, and I clench my fists in my lap until the joints hurt.
Champion. Olympic champion. Hiding tears, ducking the next race, leaving my friends, and hurting my… whatever she was.
The forest swallows the road again, and I force my breathing even. Three days. That’s all. Three days to scrape myself together before the world comes calling again.
Behind me, someone coughs. She flips another page of her notes, pen scratching, already back to work.
And I sit frozen against the glass, pretending the tears never burned at all.