Chapter Eight
Isaline arrived late to breakfast looking cheery with a tray balanced on one hand and a coffee in the other.
She was still buzzing from a night of half-sleep due to adrenaline running through her veins.
She spotted the USA table immediately—Tess, Jordy, younger racers clustered around Blaire like she was the sun they all orbited.
As she and Reto claimed a spot near a window, Blaire walked past on her way back to the buffet. For a second, their eyes met. Isaline offered a small, private smile and a soft “morning” under her breath.
Blaire’s reply was a polite, neutral nod before her attention quickly slid toward the line of people in front of her. No spark. No shared joke. No lingering anything. Just the same professional acknowledgment she’d give any other racer in the room.
The dismissal landed like ice water poured down her back.
Isaline forced herself to sit as her hands wrapped a little too tightly around her coffee mug. After Reto had asked her a question, she mumbled something half in German, half in English—about ice queens and cardboard beds and maybe having imagined more than was actually there.
Reto, seated across from her, caught the tone if not every word. He watched the way her shoulders hiked a fraction higher when Blaire laughed at something a teammate said at the table next to theirs.
“You okay?” he asked quietly enough that only she could hear.
“Fine.” She took a sip of coffee and scalded her tongue. “Just tired.”
“Liar.”
She glared at him over the rim of her mug. “I am tired, Reto.”
“And someone made that worse.” His gaze flicked toward the Team USA table, then back to her. “Want to talk about it? Or her?”
“No.”
He nodded once, let it drop, but his eyes stayed sharp. He logged every flicker in her expression—the way her jaw tightened when Blaire stood to leave, the way her fingers drummed against the table in a rhythm that wasn’t following any music from the speakers overhead.
Isaline forced herself to focus on her eggs. She’d accepted the one-night-stand rules back in St. Moritz. What she hadn’t braced for was caring enough after last night’s kiss that Blaire’s coolness could sting.
She’d thought—unrealistically, maybe—that walking each other back to housing meant something. That the brush of their hands, the way Blaire had looked at her in the dark, had shifted the terrain between them.
Apparently not.
Across the hall, Blaire disappeared through the exit with her team. Her shoulders were straight, and her expression composed.
Isaline set her mug down harder than she meant to. The clatter drew a few glances from those around her.
Reto reached across and tapped her wrist once. “Whatever it is, don’t let it get in your head before tomorrow.”
She met his eyes. “I won’t.”
He didn’t look completely convinced.
~~
Reto found Matthias near the wax cabin corridor, wedged between two rolling ski cases and a stack of marked bases waiting for structure work. Techs moved in and out with clipboards and radios. The space was busy with purpose.
“Got a minute, Dad?”
Matthias glanced up from the tablet in his hand, and his eyes scanned Reto’s face the way he scanned weather reports. He set the device down. “What happened?”
“At breakfast, Isa was off. Distracted. Her eyes kept drifting to the Team USA table.” Reto kept his voice quiet.
Matthias’s expression didn’t shift, but his jaw clenched a fraction. “Blaire Hollis.”
“Probably.” Reto crossed his arms. “She muttered something about ice queens and enemies when I asked how her night was. I know her personal life is none of our business, but when it bleeds into race life, we have no choice but to pay attention.”
The words landed exactly as bluntly as he’d meant them to.
Matthias exhaled slowly through his nose. He glanced toward the nearest tech, confirming they were out of earshot, then back to Reto. “How long do you think something has been going on?”
“St. Moritz, maybe?” Reto shrugged. “She’s been cagey since then. Too cheerful when Hollis’ name comes up. Too stone-faced when the American doesn’t pay her any attention.”
“St. Moritz.” Matthias repeated the name like he was filing it under a category labeled complications. “She beat Blaire in that race.” He said it as if he were reminding himself.
“She did.” Reto nodded. “And then she came here and started walking around like someone with stars in her eyes every time the American walks by.”
Matthias’s hands settled on his hips. He stared at the row of skis propped against the wall—Isaline’s race pair among them, edges gleaming, bases pristine. “Blaire Hollis is the best downhiller in the field. Maybe ever. And she’s also—”
“Someone who doesn’t stick around,” Reto finished. “I’m well aware of her reputation.”
“Then you know what this could cost.” Matthias’s voice stayed quiet, but the weight underneath it pressed harder. “Isaline has spent ten years getting here. Two injuries. Two missed Olympic bids. She has no margin for error.”
Reto looked down at his boots. “I know.”
“This isn’t about judgment.” Matthias’s tone softened, but only slightly.
“It’s about timing. If she’s chasing someone who won’t be there when the race is over, she’s handing away focus we can’t afford to lose.
Blaire is a veteran, and she knows how to get into younger skiers’ heads.
I don’t know if this is a tactic she is using against her tough competition or what. ”
Reto nodded slowly. “You want me to talk to her?”
“She’ll hear it from you before she hears it from me.” Matthias picked up his tablet again, fingers tapping a rhythm against the edge. “You know how to say it without making her feel like she is being parented.”
“And if she doesn’t listen?”
“Then I’ll have a chat with her.” Matthias met his son’s eyes. “But it won’t sound like a suggestion.”
~~
Isaline was halfway through rolling out her IT band when Reto’s shadow fell across the mat. She didn’t look up, just kept the foam roller pressed against muscles that still carried the memory of too many months in physio.
He dropped onto the mat beside her with his legs stretched out and his back against the wall. For a moment, he just watched her work through the same routine he’d driven her to a hundred times when her knee wouldn’t bend right and her ACL wouldn’t hold.
Then he nudged her calf with his boot. “I saw you distracted at breakfast.”
She paused mid-roll. “Congratulations. You have functioning eyes.”
“You looked at Hollis in a different way than if you were just clocking what the top skier eats for breakfast.”
Isaline pulled her earbuds out and sat up. “I wasn’t focused on her.”
“You were.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.
“And I get it. She’s attractive. She’s brilliant on skis.
She probably made you feel like the only woman in the room when she wanted to.
” He tilted his head. “And let me guess, she probably ghosted you in St. Moritz after you beat her.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. “I didn’t beat her because of anything that happened between us that distracted her.”
“I know.” His voice stayed steady. “You beat her because you’ve spent ten years clawing your way back from injuries that should have ended this twice.
You beat her because you earned it.” He paused.
“But you’re sitting here now, staring at her across the dining hall like you’re waiting for her to notice you the way she did in bed. ”
The bluntness landed like a slap.
“That’s not—”
“Isa.” He shifted closer. “Blaire Hollis already has her Olympic story. Multiple medals. Her name is well-established in the record books. Whatever happens here, she walks away a legend.” His gaze locked on hers.
“You’re just now writing your first chapter.
Don’t let it be a footnote in someone else’s biography. ”
She looked down at her hands, fingers flexing against the mat. “I’m not an idiot, Reto.”
“I know you’re not.” He softened. “But I also know what you look like when you’re trying to convince yourself you can handle something that’s already getting under your skin.
” He tapped her knee lightly. “I was there for the rehab. I drove you home when you couldn’t walk without crying. I watched you fight to get here.”
Isaline sucked in a deep breath.
“I don’t care who you sleep with. That part is none of my business,” he said quietly. “I care that you get to ski your race without distractions and regrets.”
She met his eyes and saw the protective worry threaded through every word.
He pulled her into a quick, tight hug. When he let go, he stood and offered her a hand up.
“Tomorrow’s the Super-G,” he said. “Focus one hundred percent of your attention on that. One hundred percent!” he repeated.
She nodded.
But as he walked away, she stayed on the mat a moment longer, staring at the foam roller like it held answers about women that it didn’t have.
~~
Matthias spread the Super-G course map across the small table.
His fingers traced the profile with a lifetime of experience.
Isaline sat across from him. Her shoulders were still warm from physio, mind half on the map and half on the way Blaire had looked right through her at breakfast like she was made of glass.
“First flat section.” He tapped the paper. “You can’t afford passive skiing, Isaline. The part right here will reward commitment.”
She nodded, eyes tracking the terrain breaks.
“Second pitch drops faster than training showed. Wind at the gate means you read it in real time, not from memory.” His gaze lifted from the map. “Which requires a focus that doesn’t wander.”
She nodded her head.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You were slow to answer Reto’s question this morning when we were going over mental prep.
You’ve been half a step behind in the debrief sessions.
And during the course inspection yesterday, I called your name twice before you heard me. ”
Heat climbed her neck. “I’m focused, Dad.”
“You’re distracted.” His voice stayed even, but the steel underneath it pressed harder. “And I don’t need to know every detail to see that.”
She met his eyes. “Reto told you? This is about Blaire?”
“This is about you,” he said. “Blaire Hollis is… Blaire Hollis. She has her medals, her headlines, her legacy. Whatever happens here, people will keep talking about her skiing.” He shook his head once. “What I care about is that you don’t start living your races around what she does or doesn’t do.”
The words landed like a fist to her sternum.
“I beat her in St. Moritz,” Isaline said quietly.
“You did,” he agreed. “You beat her because you trusted your race and your work prior. I won’t watch you come all the way here and then give that trust away by thinking more about her than about the hill in front of you.”
Isaline let out a slow breath.
Matthias leaned forward. “This window will not come back the same way, Isaline. Younger racers are already moving up the rankings. Your body doesn’t reset to twenty-two.
You’ve clawed back from two injuries that should have ended this.
” His gaze held hers without flinching. “I’m asking you now: do you want to be remembered as my daughter who almost made it, or as the racer who took the race in her own hands and won? ”
The challenge hung between them.
She swallowed hard. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair doesn’t matter in life.” His voice softened, but only barely. “Results do. And right now, you’re handing away mental sharpness to the competition lining up in the same start gate.”
Isaline looked down at the course map, vision blurring at the edges.
“At tomorrow’s Super-G, show me you’re here to race, not to chase,” he said.
~~
Isaline lay in her bed and replayed the day in sharp, unwelcome fragments: Blaire’s cool nod at breakfast, Reto’s blunt love, Matthias’s impossible nearly standards.
Her phone rested by her pillow. Blaire’s name sat near the top of her thread, with their last messages hovering on the screen—equal parts teasing and tactical.
She hovered over the keyboard, thumb itching to type something raw: to ask if Blaire’s distance at breakfast had been intentional, to admit that the idea of skiing against her and wanting her at the same time felt like standing on a knife edge.
Instead, she erased every draft that was only inviting rejection.
Her chest tightened. She could still feel the brush of Blaire’s hand from the night before and still taste the kiss they’d pulled back from. The memory warmed her skin and made her furious at the same time.
In the end, she sent something so practical it almost hurt. Weather says crosswind on the midsection tomorrow. Watch the light near the blind roll; it flattened in inspection. Sleep well.
It read like a colleague-to-colleague note, nothing more. But hitting send was her way of proving to herself that she could care about Blaire’s safety and still put the race first.
Blaire didn’t respond.
Isaline exhaled slowly and set the phone face down on the nightstand. Through the thin walls, she heard muffled laughter from teammates, the faint thud of footsteps overhead. The village never went silent.
Her chest ached with the feeling of choosing the hill over the girl, even if only for one night. The want didn’t dim; it just got pressed into the same tight space where she kept every other sacrifice she’d made for this dream.
She reached into the bedside drawer and let her fingers brush the worn edge of a photo before shutting it again.
In it, she was five years old on a small hill above St. Moritz.
Her skis were too big, and her cheeks were bright red from the cold.
Her mom was grinning as she held her hand, like there wasn’t a mountain on earth her daughter couldn’t conquer.
The picture reminded her she’d always had someone who believed she belonged here; tomorrow’s race would prove she still did.
Tomorrow was the Super-G. Whatever happened with Blaire, she decided, would not be the reason she skied well or badly.
The last thought before sleep took her was simple and fierce. I earned this Olympic bid. I’m going to ski like the gold is mine.