Chapter Two #2
She took it, but her attention was still fixed across the lobby. Blaire turned and moved toward the elevators without a backward glance. The moment was over. But the reminder settled deep in Isaline’s bones that for the next forty-eight hours, the American legend was in the same building.
~~
The wind hit her first. A sharp, physical force that snapped the sponsor banners and sent a plume of snow skittering across the packed ice of the start area.
Isaline flexed her hands in her gloves as the training current hummed through her while she ran the course in her mind.
The long glide out of the gate, the compression before the Eagle’s Nest, the final pitch into the finish. Her mind played every turn, every risk.
Then came the crackle over the PA system. The voice of a FIS official, first in German, then English, the words flattened by the wind. “…due to high winds at the summit, the morning training run is cancelled. Further updates at noon.”
A collective groan moved through the crowd of athletes. A German skier slammed her pole into the snow. An Austrian swore under her breath. Isaline felt the coiled energy in her gut go slack. All that preparation, all that mental fire, suddenly had nowhere to go.
Back at the Alpenblick Grand, the lobby had turned the entire day into a holding pen for the restless.
Athletes in team jackets sprawled on the sofas, scrolling endlessly through their phones.
The quiet rhythm of stationary bikes drifted from the direction of the gym.
The structured, purposeful world of a race weekend had dissolved into a long, empty day.
For Isaline, it became an ambush. A reporter from a Swiss paper cornered her by the elevators. His questions were a repetitive cocktail of legacy and expectation.
“Isaline, another strong showing is expected of you. Does carrying the Senn name add pressure here at St. Moritz?”
She gave him the warm, practiced smile she had perfected over the season. “My father taught me to focus on the things I can control. The name is history. The race is now.”
He nodded, satisfied. Before he could ask another question, a television crew from Eurosport angled a camera in her direction.
Her poise held, but a tight band began to form across her shoulders.
Each question and each reference to her father felt like another layer of varnish that hardened the public shell around her.
This wasn’t a sincere story from her. This was performance.
She needed to breathe air that didn’t taste of a headline.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll be available after the team briefing,” she said, her voice still bright, cutting off a question about the Olympics.
She turned and walked away, not toward the elevators or her room, but toward the far, quiet corner of the lounge. With her shoulders back and her head held high, she walked toward the soft glow of the fireplace and the promise of five minutes where no one wanted anything from her.
The lounge offered a quiet refuge with the warm air and the faint smell of burning wood from the large stone fireplace.
Athletes from different nations were scattered across sofas, their restlessness contained by the room’s hushed decorum.
Isaline saw her teammates clustered near the tall windows overlooking the valley, but her gaze swept right past them.
Blaire Hollis sat alone at a small, two-person table tucked into a corner, with a book open in front of her. It was a clear, elegant barrier, a polite inferred sign that read: leave me alone. Isaline understood the tactic perfectly.
Instead of retreating to the familiar comfort of her team, she walked to the small bar and poured herself a cup of steaming mint tea. The heat from the mug warmed her hands as she crossed the room. Every step was a choice.
She stopped at Blaire’s table. “Is this seat occupied?”
Blaire looked up from her book with eyes the same sharp blue as glacial ice. She took a slow inventory of Isaline’s face before her gaze dropped to the empty chair. A long moment passed. “No.”
Isaline sat, placing her tea on the small wooden surface. The momentary silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was charged with space for evaluation.
“A terrible day to have legs and skis,” Isaline said, her Swiss accent curling around the edges of her English.
“The wind has no respect for a schedule.” Blaire’s voice was soft and even. Clearly, she had a voice trained for post-race interviews.
“Wind is very rude. It is like a bad lover,” Isaline said, mouth curving. “Gets you all ready and then how you say…foreplay with the course, and then it tells us, no, go back to your room alone. If a woman did that to me, I would not forgive her easily.”
For the first time since Isaline had seen her, Blaire’s mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t for a camera. It was a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. It transformed her face from a beautiful billboard into a living, breathing woman.
“That’s a very specific complaint, Isaline,” Blaire said, sliding a finger between the pages as she closed her book. “I’ll make sure I’m never that woman.”
The air between them shifted. The tension eased into warmth and a heated connection. This wasn’t a meeting between rivals or an interview with a legend. It was just two women stuck in a hotel, bored out of their minds.
“They say the final pitch is faster this year,” Isaline offered, steering the conversation to the one language they both spoke fluently.
“It’s always faster in the course reports,” Blaire countered. “The reality is in the first training run.”
“If we ever get one.”
They talked like that for what felt like hours, in the efficient shorthand of their shared world.
They talked about the impossibly long flight from the States to the Alps, the hunt for decent food, and the universal need for a good night’s sleep.
The conversation never once touched on medals or legacy or what came next.
It was simple and grounded. And underneath it all, a different conversation was happening.
A current of attraction, clear and undeniable, flowed just beneath the surface of their words.
Isaline let her gaze linger a second too long on Blaire’s mouth. Blaire didn’t look away.
Isaline wasn’t searching for love. She wasn’t looking for anything that would last beyond the night.
She was looking for an escape. A moment of pure, selfish sensation that had nothing to do with Matthias Senn’s daughter or Switzerland’s Olympic hope.
Blaire Hollis, the one-night-stand legend with the iron-clad boundaries, was the perfect storm.
One by one, her teammates stood and headed for the elevators. One of them shot Isaline a questioning look. She ignored it. The lounge emptied until it was just them and the crackle of the fire.
Blaire finished the last of her water and placed the glass down. She stood, not with the hurried energy of someone in a rush to leave, but with the calm of someone who had made a decision. As she walked away, she didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. Her path led straight to the elevator.
Isaline watched her go. This was the moment. The unspoken invitation. She took a final sip of her now-lukewarm tea, pushed her chair back, and stood. She followed Blaire’s wake with steps bold and sure.
When Blaire pressed the call button, Isaline came to a stop beside her.
Not too close, but near enough that the space between them was electric with intent.
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors slid open to reveal an empty space.
Blaire stepped inside, turning to face the front.
She didn’t look at Isaline. She simply waited.
Isaline stepped in behind her, the choice made. The heavy bronze doors slid shut, sealing them into a narrow cage of nerves and desire.