Epilogue
Four Years Later
The world returned to St. Moritz, Switzerland for the Olympic Games—Isaline’s home snow—and St. Moritz dressed itself fancy for the occasion.
Four years after the last Games, the familiar sweep of the Corviglia mountain wore a new uniform of Olympic blue fencing, finish-line banners, and enormous, interlocking rings that gleamed in the early morning light.
The air buzzed with the same race-day energy Isaline had felt her entire life, but this time, it vibrated with the steadying baseline of home.
Isaline slid through her final Super-G inspection, skis whispering on the impeccably groomed snow. At the bottom, she moved into the controlled pandemonium of the coaches’ area and immediately found her target.
Blaire Hollis paced near the timing board with a radio clipped to the collar of a bright red Swiss team jacket.
The sight still sent a jolt of fond amusement through Isaline.
Even after a full season, Blaire wore the Swiss color like a dare.
The Swiss cross on her credential swung against her chest as a constant, delightful contradiction.
The television cameras loved seeing the former USA Olympian in Swiss attire.
A monitor nearby showed a replay of the pre-race show.
With Blaire wrapped in American apparel, the announcer’s voice boomed over footage of their podium four years ago.
The fairy tale narrative: the American legend who retired with gold, now in the corner of Switzerland’s own champion, chasing a new victory on Swiss home snow.
Another camera angle found Isaline’s father.
Matthias stood near Blaire’s shoulder with his hands on his hips.
He acted as if he were a dad there just to watch.
Isaline knew better. She saw the way Blaire angled the radio for him to hear, the quiet murmur of a last-minute note from him, the small, affirmative nod from Blaire before she turned back to the start list. He insisted to any reporter with a microphone that he was only a “special advisor.”
As Isaline clicked out of her inspection skis and picked up her race pair, she slid past them. “Nervous, coach?” she murmured, just for Blaire.
Blaire stopped pacing and met her eyes as a slow smile pulled at her lips.
“Only when you ski that casually through the traverse.” Her gaze moved over Isaline’s suit, her helmet, her skis, with the same intensity she once reserved for her own gear.
It was the look of someone who understood exactly what these last Olympic Games meant for the Swiss skier, because she had lived it herself.
Isaline pushed the casual jab aside, and a familiar warmth spread through her chest. “Maybe I just want to make sure my former competition is paying attention.”
Blaire’s smile widened. “I’m always paying attention.” The words were a promise that had nothing to do with skiing.
The Super-G came first. In the start gate, the world narrowed to the countdown in her ears and the line Blaire had helped her draw on the mountain.
As the last skier on the list, she pushed out with a silent thank you to her knees for holding on this long and let the years of training take over.
The run was a violent, beautiful conversation with the hill.
She felt the snow bite, the compression G-force press into her bones, and the sweet, terrifying release of letting the skis run on the final pitch.
She crossed the line, blind and breathless, and for a moment the only sound was the fire in her own lungs.
Then the roar of the stadium rushed in, a physical wave of noise.
She looked up. Her name hit the top of the board in a flash of green.
First place. The camera found her, and she threw her hands up.
The emotion was raw as a ragged sound tore out of her throat.
On the jumbo screen, she caught a glimpse of Blaire turning away, furiously wiping at her cheeks before composing her face back into a coach’s stoic mask.
The sight was more precious than the split time.
Days later, the downhill felt heavier with meaning.
She knew in her heart that this was her last race.
The broadcast narrative of another Senn capturing gold on home turf had been relentless.
Switzerland’s champion, home snow, with an American gold medalist as her coach.
Blaire had been quiet that morning, her hands lingering a little longer when she checked Isaline’s buckles, her eyes saying everything her mouth wouldn’t.
When the final countdown began, Isaline thought of every ghost that had chased her to this gate: the loss of her mom, the years of rehab, the metal in her bones, the man who taught her to love this sport, and the woman who taught her how to love a life beyond it.
She pushed out of the gate not just to win, but to honor all of it.
The run was a masterpiece of earned instinct.
She skied with the fearless precision of someone who knew every inch of hope and heartbreak this mountain held.
It was a race built over four years, a thousand training runs, and countless quiet mornings with Blaire mapping out every possibility.
When she flew over the final jump and tucked for the finish, she knew she had left nothing on the hill.
The scoreboard confirmed it. Green light. First place. The time gap was obscene.
The world dissolved into noise. Isaline sank to her knees in the finish corral, pressing her face into her gloves as the reality crashed over her. Double gold. At home. Through the blur of her own tears, she saw the big screen find Blaire.
There was no composure this time. Blaire was a beautiful wreck. She was openly sobbing with a face streaked with mascara. Her official composure was forgotten as she clutched at Matthias, who had his arm around her with his own eyes suspiciously wet.
Later, on the podium for the downhill, the weight of two gold medals in her final Olympics felt like an anchor, grounding her.
The Swiss anthem swelled, and tens of thousands of voices sang with it, chanting her name between chords.
Isaline looked out over the sea of flags and lights.
Her gaze found the small figure in the red Swiss jacket standing just outside the media scrum.
Blaire was watching with her tear-stained face lit with a pride so fierce it eclipsed the stadium lights.
To be loved like that, Isaline thought, felt more like victory than the medal itself.
The medals hung heavy and warm against her chest while the media descended. Microphones and cameras formed a tight, suffocating ring around her. Reporters shouted questions in a chaotic chorus of German and English, all variations on the same theme: what comes next?
“Isaline, double gold on home snow! Are you going to defend your title in four years?”
“How does it feel to have the Hollis-Senn dynasty dominate the sport?”
Isaline breathed through the practiced calm she had cultivated over the last four years. She met the barrage with a steady smile. Her gaze occasionally moved to the edge of the scrum where Blaire stood, arms crossed, watching with an intensity that burned through the camera flashes.
“It feels incredible to do this here,” Isaline began, her voice even.
“I couldn’t have asked for a better team, or a better family to see me through it.
” She nodded toward Matthias, who stood just behind the line of reporters.
“And of course, I had two excellent coaches in my corner. One retired Swiss legend, and one retired American one.”
Laughter rippled through the press corps. The cameras panned briefly to Blaire, who offered a small, proud dip of her chin. Isaline’s smile softened.
“I know you all want to talk about the next quad,” she said, her voice dropping just enough to command their full attention. “But this was it for me. This was my last Olympics.”
A hush fell that was immediately replaced by a fresh onslaught of frantic questions. Isaline held up a hand. “My knees have been very generous, but they’ve given all they can at this level. I would much rather walk away like this, standing tall on home snow, then be carried off it in a heap later.”
The announcement hung in the air, bold and final. There was no changing her mind. Blaire stood back letting Isaline own the space, own the narrative, own the ending. It was a mirror of Blaire’s own farewell, but this time, neither of them was walking away alone.
As the press conference finally broke apart, Isaline moved through the thinning crowd with a singular focus.
Her path led directly to the woman in the Swiss team jacket.
She didn’t hesitate. She reached up, tangled her fingers in the collar of Blaire’s jacket, and pulled her down for a deep, unapologetic kiss that tasted of victory and future.
The few remaining cameras scrambled, their flashes erupting in a final, desperate burst, capturing the image that would define the Olympic Games: not just the win, but the undeniable love between two Olympic gold medalists from two different countries.
The Olympic circus packed its tents and rolled out of the valley, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the snow.
After the last camera flash, their house near St. Moritz breathed with a quiet it hadn’t known in weeks.
This was one of their two anchors now: winters here, where Isaline’s name was a piece of local lore, and long, sun-drenched off-seasons at Blaire’s place in the States—close enough to visit her parents, whose guest room had lovingly become a shrine to their combined careers.