Katharina
Saalbach dressed itself for a party. World Cup Finals, and we’re in Austria, the home country of skiing. The women′s downhill yesterday was a celebration. The favorite, the all-round star Ciara de Lorenzo, pulled out at the last minute with an injury, and the local youngster won for the home crowd.
And today it’s the men’s turn. The crowd expects nothing less than a show.
Flags ripple from every balcony, sponsor banners stretch bright across the fences, and the finish zone bristles with cameras and temporary grandstands. But under the gloss, everything feels wrong. Not just for me.
The weather sulks, clouds sagging low over the peaks. Snow lies too soft underfoot, turning grey at the edges, spent before the race even starts. The wind kicks the safety fences until they flap and crackle like warning flags.
Race day.
Inside the athlete briefing, the room buzzes with white noise: low voices, the shuffling of papers, and the squeak of markers on a whiteboard. Noise that fills space means nothing.
Thomas arrives late. The door opens, heads turn, and the entire room holds its breath for a moment. He strides in, jacket half-zipped, expression blank. Physically present, yes. But the light that used to pull every eye to him. It isn’t there.
The coaches glance at each other, uneasy. Matteo leans back in his chair and tosses Thomas a casual smile. Thomas barely nods.
I sit beside Brenner, pen poised over my notebook. I make sure not to look at Thomas. Not once. But I hear his name in every whisper around me. Kern. Kern. Kern. Questions dressed up as strategy, doubts tucked under the surface.
The race jury takes the front. A clipboard snaps open, and the chair of the board clears his throat.
“The course is set. Temperatures are high, yes, but snow control confirms it will hold. The fog will disperse.”
A murmur ripples through the room.
From the back, one coach calls out: “Hold? Maybe for the first twenty racers. After that, it’s a minefield.”
Another raises his hand. “Safety must come first. We cannot afford another crash like Garmisch.”
“Safety always comes first,” the jury member replies, voice taut. “But this is the Finals. There is no postponement or rescheduling. The rules are clear. And we believe the course is as safe as can be.”
The room bristles. Athletes shift in their seats, boots tapping. A few nod, resigned. Others curse under their breath.
Before I know it, my own voice cuts in, measured, professional, but carrying.
“We all know how much it will cost the organizers if the race gets cancelled. But shouldn’t athletes’ health come first? Ahead of sponsor money and payouts?”
The silence that follows is sharp. The board stares, and some coaches nod reluctantly. And across the room, Thomas lifts his head. His eyes find me, cold, and the look he throws is ugly, like I’ve just betrayed him in front of them all. Like, I have no right to protect him.
I return the cold gaze.
Not everything is about you, champ. There are other athletes risking their necks.
The jury chair closes his folder with a snap. “The show will go on. The race will happen.”
When the meeting breaks, chairs scrape and boots clatter across the floor. Thomas moves first, out the door, into the corridor. He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t say a word.
He pulls open the door and lets it slam behind him, the sound sharp enough to silence the white noise for a beat.
Then the murmurs start again, louder than before.
***
Thomas
The Finals start area feels unreal. Fog drifts low across the netting, curling around helmets and poles until the whole gate looks like it’s floating in a cloud.
Officials pace in tight circles, radios crackling, their voices thin against the gusts of wind that rattle the banners.
The mountain groans under the weight of a race it shouldn’t have to hold.
I stand over my skis, legs loose, fingers flexing inside my gloves. Every buckle feels too tight, every layer of gear like a weight pressing me down. My chest is hollow. My heartbeat should be hammering, the way it always does before the gate. Instead, it’s slow, steady, almost distant.
Second isn’t enough. Not if Bellini wins. Win or nothing.
The start corral is unnaturally hushed. Wind rattles nets. Someone coughs. Radios spit half-sentences.
Bellini’s split time is still glowing red on the board, taunting, and the official at the wand won’t meet my eyes.
I know he nailed it — heard the crowd. No need for numbers. One choice: beat him or forget the globe.
Leitner leans close, the smell of sweat clinging to his jacket, his voice sharp enough to slice through the fog.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Thomas.”
I don’t answer. I just nod once. Pull the goggles down. The strap snaps into place with a sound too loud in the stillness.
The world narrows to the gate, the beeps counting down, the mountain waiting below like it wants blood.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I drop.
Edges bite. Snow sprays. The first gates fly at me, and I cut them clean, body low, chest open. My thighs burn early, but in a good way. The rhythm I’ve always trusted is there. Solid. Strong.
The flats glide smooth, skis humming like live wires under my boots. I roll into the first pitch, weight forward, hands steady. For a moment, it feels like I’ve found it again, that flow where the mountain bends to me.
Split time flashes green. The roar from the crowd rises, muffled by the fog, rising and falling like surf. My chest swells. This is mine.
I press harder, deeper, chasing speed. The skis vibrate, hungry, the snow shearing away under each turn. The rhythm holds, but the pace keeps climbing. Smooth. Too smooth. The hill isn’t asking anything back, just giving, pulling me faster and faster, like it wants me to believe I’m untouchable.
I hear the commentator's voice like a sharp, high-pitched sound in my helmet. Or is it just in my head?
“Kern is flying—he’s building time… ”
The words echo inside my head, louder than the roar of my skis. I push harder into the next gate, knees compressed, arms driving forward. The line is razor thin, but I’ve always lived there. Always trusted that edge.
A gust hits. Snow dusts up in a spray. I dip lower, carve tighter. My skis shiver but hold. For a breath, I think I’ve beaten it.
Then the rut comes. A gouge in the soft snow, hidden in shadow.
How did I miss it? I don’t miss ruts. Not ever.
My right ski bites wrong, jolting sideways. My other leg kicks wide, searching for balance. The vibration screams up through my bones.
I can hold it. I’ve done it a thousand times.
But the hill rips back. One binding explodes with a crack. The ski spins away, cartwheeled into the net. The other catches, jerks me sideways, but the binding holds. Whiplash lashes through my neck, the world tilts.
I’m airborne. Not flying. Flung. Trying to navigate the fall, but it′s hopeless.
I’m not good at crashing. Crashing isn’t my thing.
White snow. Red panels. A blur of blue advertising boards rushing past. My body twists, shoulder slamming into ice, hips snapping around, legs buckling. And still one ski holds, pulling my leg in impossible directions with terrible force.
I tumble once, twice, the sky and ground trading places so fast I can’t tell which way I’m facing.
Impact. The airbag on my chest goes off, and sharp pain explodes in my shoulder, blinding me for a moment.
My helmet crunches into hardpack. The sound is dull, echoing inside my skull, like a bell struck underwater.
I try to suck in air, but the wind’s been blasted out of me. My chest locks. My mouth fills with the taste of metal.
Somewhere above, cowbells clang distorted, warped. Voices shout. Skis scrape as someone cuts down toward me.
I spit blood, and then the pain comes. In my shoulder, in my leg, in my head. It feels like I am pain.
And through it—her voice. Not real. Just a memory, sharp as ice. Don’t do anything stupid.
Not Leitner.
Katharina.
The name echoes, blurred, heavier than the roar of the crowd.
I want to answer, to tell her she was right, but all that comes up is bile. I gag, swallow it back, and the black folds in mercifully around me.
***