Chapter 15
Downhill From Here
Playlist
Queen: The Show Must Go On
Roxette: Crash! Boom! Bang!
Saalbach, Austria, March 24
Thomas
The ski room smells of wax and metal shavings, hot irons hissing in the quiet like snakes.
The techs work in silence, the room is eerily peaceful, something to quiet my mind.
I used to come watch them work to calm myself the night before races in my junior years when I felt nerves, when I needed this.
Since then, I've only come to say hi and bring them a beer or a coffee to appreciate their work.
But never lingered. Because I grew up, I no longer needed to calm my nerves.
Today I felt the need to stay.
It’s late. Too late. Most of the guys are in bed, saving legs for tomorrow.
Not Martin.
He sits on a stool in the corner, polishing his helmet with the same slow circles he does before every race. A ritual. His ritual. The steady rasp of cloth against plastic fills the silence.
I fumble with my boots, re-check my bindings, shuffle my poles. None of it feels right. I’ve never had a ritual. Never needed one. Until now, when everything feels brittle in my hands.
Martin doesn’t look up. His voice is even.
“Nervous? That’s not you.”
The words hang there, sharp.
I force a laugh, but it comes out flat. “Newsflash, I’m human after all.”
He sets the helmet down and finally meets my eyes. “Human, sure. Nervous human? That’s new.”
Silence stretches. My grip tightens on the buckle until my knuckles ache.
Then Martin adds, quieter: “You’ve been skiing like a man with something to prove. Now it just looks like you’ve got nothing to lose.”
My throat locks. The words scrape out, barely audible: “Maybe I don’t.”
He doesn’t move for a long time. Then he lays the scraper on the table, hands steady, voice low.
“Then don’t. Not until you know why. This hill takes everything if you let it.”
The iron hisses again, the wax smokes, and I can almost hear my teeth grinding.
“And just let Bellini take the globe?” I spit out.
When he doesn't answer, I ask, my voice raspy: “You think I can’t make it?”
His eyes meet mine, steady. “I think other globes and other seasons are waiting for you. But only if you stay alive to ski them.”
He pauses, leans back, tone softer. “And maybe stop pretending it’s just about Bellini.”
Hinterstoder flashes up. Not the race — Bellini′s look. The smirk in the finish, like he’d already claimed something that wasn’t his. Martin is right. But I choose to ignore it.
“I keep hearing the same shit for years,” I scoff. “Kern will go far. Kern will be the greatest skier of all. But it’s bullshit if I can’t keep it together for one season, right?”
I snap. Slam my boot against the door.
The crack echoes, and I mutter a half-sorry as the tech guys look up, glaring at whoever dared break the sacred silence of the wax room.
Martin’s voice follows, calm and cutting: “Doors don’t fight back, Thomas. The hill will.”
***