Chapter 14 #2
The thought blindsides me, low and dirty. My body responds before my brain does, the spark of heat sharp and immediate. I grit my teeth, shove it down. Sex used to be easy. Quick, fun, forgettable. Not anymore. Not with her. And since her, not with anyone.
Later, when the crowds thin and the athletes funnel out, a pretty brunette slides close, phone in hand, eyes half-lidded with suggestion. “Selfie?” she asks, voice honey.
I look at her. Pretty. Eager. Every part of me knows the old script — lean in, let her touch my arm, maybe more later if I want it. But there’s nothing. No spark. No pull. Just static where there used to be voltage.
I lean to let her camera focus, give her the practice smile, keep my hands for myself, and nod absentmindedly.
Her smile falters, then she melts back into the crowd. More discipline. More emptiness.
“Good run,” Bellini says behind me, clapping my shoulder. His grin is tight, practiced, but his eyes carry something almost genuine. “Clean skiing down Trinkl. Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, and it lands like a stone. His praise should warm; it doesn’t. That’s on me.
Cold settles in my chest, the kind that makes me want to lash out just to feel something. “Save the sportsmanship for the cameras, Matteo.”
His brows knit, confusion flickering across his face. He starts to reply, then doesn’t. Just steps back, lips pressed thin, like he’s not sure what hit him.
I should be sorry, despite his history with Katharina, despite our battle for the globe, he′s a fair rival, a decent guy. But I don′t feel like behaving like an adult today.
I shoulder past, medal heavy, the noise already fading. This victory tastes like ash.
***
Hinterstoder, Austria, March 18
Thomas
Tenth place. The number blinks from the board like an insult.
Second downhill in one weekend, and I couldn't keep my form for one damned day more.
Martin didn't finish. Niko scraped an eleventh. Nobody's smiling. Not the coaches, not the physios, not even the wax crew who usually find a joke in anything. The whole team is wrapped in a black mood, muttering, sulking, kicking at the snow.
And I feel it's my fault. All of it.
I'm supposed to be the leader. The one who steadies them lifts them.
That's what they told me. That's what the cameras believe.
But then again, they also used to say I was too young, too easygoing, just a reckless talent on skis.
Now I'm both too young and too old, too light and too heavy.
I can't even hold myself together, so how the hell am I supposed to carry anyone else?
In the past, it came naturally. Now, nothing does.
The anger builds like ice cracking in my chest. I rip off my boots, slam them down, and snap at Roman before I can stop myself.
"These skis don't run like they used to," I bark. "You changed something, didn't you? They feel dead."
Roman straightens slowly, hands still on the rack, eyes calm as stone. For years, he has tuned my skis and stood by me through wins and losses, never wasting a word.
This time, he speaks. Voice low, almost gentle.
"Skis go where you point them, Thomas. Lately, I can't tell where that is."
The words hit harder than any crash. Roman—who never talks feelings, who lives in wax and angles and edge bevels—just said out loud what I've been choking on.
My pulse rattles in my throat. Because I remember Rudi, my mental coach, leaning back on the screen, his eyes sharp as knives, and the word he said when I mentioned Katharina was just an affair: 'Interesting.'
They both know. They both saw it. The answer was her all along.
But then what? She doesn't want this. She made that clear. I'm supposed to get by without her. Be stronger than this.
So why does every turn feel wrong without her voice in my head?
The thought burns, and with it comes anger; at myself, at her, at the whole damn circus. Anger that she looks so fucking beautiful when she walks toward me, clipboard in hand, concern in her eyes, she has no right to show.
"Thomas, can we—" she starts, quiet, careful.
I walk straight past, jaw clenched, not answering. Not trusting myself to answer.
Because I can't stand the way she seems to care when she won't give me what I need.
And if I look at her too long, I'll forget how to be angry.
***
Katharina
The lobby smells of wet wool and pine cleaner, every bench crowded with boots dripping onto the stone floor.
Athletes come and go, heads down, earbuds in, moving around me like a current.
I catch names, offer quick smiles, and squeeze a shoulder here or there.
Some return it. Some don’t. That’s fine. Everyone’s tired.
Then Thomas pushes through the glass doors, still in half-kit, watching his feet as he drags them. The others trail behind him — Martin brooding, Niko chewing on his lip, the coaches pretending not to be disappointed. I call a soft “Good work today, guys,” as they pass. Niko nods.
Thomas doesn’t even glance at me.
Something in me snaps.
“Thomas,” I say sharply, louder than I meant. He stops, turns, eyes flat. “You don’t have to be—” I bite down, then let it out anyway. “—you don’t have to be downright mean to me.”
For a second, something flickers in his expression. Maybe regret. Maybe an apology. But it hardens fast.
He snaps back, low and cutting: “Then stop acting like you care.”
The words slice straight through me. I swallow, shoulders tight. “I’m doing my job.”
But then add in a softer voice: “I care about you, about all you guys. You know that.”
Thomas doesn’t answer. Just stares a beat too long, then turns away and disappears up the stairs, boots thudding against the steps.
I stand there with the smell of wet wool and pine in my nose, the hum of voices around me, and the sting of his silence pressing deeper than any insult, tears stinging in my eyes.
Suddenly, it is all too much.
***
Thomas
The air in Leitner’s room is thick with sweat from damp jackets hung too close to the radiator. The guys shuffle in and out, voices low, eyes on the floor. Nobody’s laughing. Nobody’s teasing.
It isn’t just me. Everyone’s off. Martin’s been skiing sloppy.
Niko’s burning hot one run, gone the next.
Lukas should be here cracking jokes, setting the tone, but he’s in a hospital bed in Innsbruck with his leg strapped in steel.
Without him, the whole team feels tilted.
And me? I’m supposed to be the counterweight.
Instead, I’m the anchor dragging us all down.
Leitner waits until the others leave, then closes the door with a soft click. He doesn’t waste time. He never does.
“You used to be the one who held the team’s head up,” he says. His voice is low, but it cuts sharper than a scream. “Now we’re drowning.”
I look at the floorboards, at the scuff marks left by years of boots. My chest is tight, every word true.
“You need to get your shit together.” He steps closer, eyes fixed on mine. “Or Matteo will run away with the globe before you even notice.”
I nod once. No protest. No excuse. Because what’s the point? He’s right.
But I don’t know how to fix it. The skis feel wrong, my body heavier, my head full of static. Everything I used to trust without thinking is slipping through my fingers.
So I do the only thing I know: put the wall back up.
“I’ll figure something out,” I mutter.
Leitner studies me, eyes narrowing, like he can see through the bluff.
“Figure it out fast,” he says finally. “Leaders don’t go quiet when the room fills with water.”
I leave the room with my jaw locked, my fists tight, pretending the promise means something. Pretending I actually know how to make it true.
***
Katharina
The replay loops again on the big screen, the commentators’ voices thin through the speakers. Thomas tucks into the finish, skis biting too late, shoulders stiff, the line already gone. Tenth. Matteo’s face fills the next frame, perfect smile, perfect win. The crowd erupts.
I sit frozen in front of the screen, coffee cold in my hand.
My phone won’t stop buzzing. Every notification a headline, every headline a knife. Post-Olympic slump? Golden boy tarnished? Austria in crisis? Not just Thomas. They’re circling the whole team. Hyenas sniffing blood. And the Austrian press is the worst there is.
Anger burns hot in my chest. Protective anger. For the boys, for Thomas, even when he’s impossible, even when he’s cruel. Because he doesn’t deserve this, none of them do. They’re racers, not soldiers. They don′t owe it to the media. And certainly not to the nation.
But the fury cuts both ways. Because I know the hyenas. I’ve been one.
I remember one day in Alta Badia: Thomas skiing out of a giant slalom, me at my keyboard, crafting lines about “wasted talent,” “immaturity,” “ease turning into carelessness.” I wrote it sharp, confident, and detached. Now I feel sick remembering it.
But the hyenas are right. Austria is in crisis.
Without Lukas, no one anchors us. Martin drifts. Niko lashes out, already muttering risky comments to journalists who lap it up. And Thomas? He looks like he’s drowning, and I can’t pull him out.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then force themselves down, typing the federation’s press release. The words blur. Tough conditions. Valuable points. Looking ahead to the next race. Lies we all pretend to believe.
My hand shakes as I hit send.
I press my palms flat against the desk, trying to breathe. Professional loyalty, romantic regret, guilt, panic; they all twist together until I don’t know what belongs to the job and what belongs to me.
I want to scream. Instead, I close the laptop.
For the first time all season, I think: I need a break.
The media room is cramped, airless, the kind of space where tempers rise quicker than sound carries. Posters from past races peel at the corners, and the hum of the projector fills the silence while I face the team.
“We leave for Saalbach tomorrow. The World Cup finals are all there is this season. And you all qualified,” I begin, clipboard steady in my hands. My voice is calm, firm, and professional.
“But we are in crisis, and they know it. The press will come for all of you. They want drama, turmoil, division. We don’t give it to them. Our message is one line: We compete hard, and we stand together. Repeat it, then stop talking.”
The room stays quiet for a beat too long. Then Niko explodes.
“Easy for you to say!” His chair screeches against the floor as he leans forward, eyes hot. “You and Thomas blew this up, and now we pay for it.”
Silence detonates. Every head swivels toward me. My throat goes dry, but I hold his gaze.
Because he is right, they all know about our affair, used to be on our side, used to cheer us on. And now they pay when we screw up.
Before I can speak, Thomas steps in. His voice is sharp, controlled: “That’s enough.”
Niko blinks, startled.
Thomas doesn’t look at me when he goes on. “She’s doing her job. You want to blame someone, blame me. But don’t put this on her.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
The tension shifts, like air sucked from the room. Niko slumps back, muttering, but silent.
I clear my throat, pick up where I left off as if nothing cracked open. Together, Thomas and I run the briefing: laying out talking points, steering questions, drilling the line about unity. Efficient. Professional. Unshakable, at least on the surface.
When it’s over, the athletes file out, boots thudding, chatter already returning.
I gather my notes, keeping my eyes down—until I feel his on me.
I look up. For a heartbeat, we meet in the middle of the emptying room. Surprise flickers between us, the sudden recognition of standing on the same side again.
Then it’s gone. The silence between us swells, awkward, heavier than before.
He turns away first.
And I remind myself: professionalism is the only ground left to stand on.