My legs are burning more than ever.Because I need to find balance, I work against the slope and struggle.
The G-forces hit me hard as I enter the turny Ciaslat section; the rhythm is off.I know it.
I try to ignore the panic creeping in my throat.I messed up.
The last turn is perfect, and I get into the tightest possible tuck to glide over the final jump and into the finish.But I know the damage has been done.
I´m panting, bent over my knees, breathing hard, not daring to turn around and look at the scoreboard.
I don´t need to see it, I just want to be gone, out of here.
Waving my hand and forcing my frozen lips into an apologetic smile, I turn around the stadium to greet the crowd.I even give them a shrug, showing that I am even a better loser than a winner.
But I never look at the board, I don´t want to see it.
Don´t want to see how much I screwed up my first Olympic race.
And inside, I feel hollow.
***
Katharina
The finish area is a furnace of noise; cowbells, horns, clapping hands slapping against padded jackets.Flashbulbs pop in the cold dusk, catching on helmets and goggles and Bellini’s endless grin.Matteo looks like he’s never lost a race in his life, drinking in the chants of his name like communion wine.
And Thomas?
He’s perfect.Fist-bump, shrug, the smile of a man who supposedly doesn’t care that his Olympic debut went sideways in the first ten seconds.
“Matteo deserves it,” he tells the reporters in three languages.“No one skis this hill like him.”
I watch from the side of the mix zone, notebook open, recorder humming in my palm.The others believe him—why wouldn’t they?
But when he passes close, his eyes glance off mine.Flat, distant.His jaw muscle flickers.He doesn’t slow down.
At dinner, the room is heavy with steam and chatter.Plates clatter, glasses clink, jackets hang crooked off the backs of chairs.The air smells of roasted meat and garlic and the sharp edge of Chianti.Everyone’s flushed and loud, laughter bouncing off the low wooden ceiling.
Niko is halfway through another story, his hands flying, the table roaring as Martin cuts in with an impression of the physio.Beer foams over the rim of someone’s glass, caught by another round of laughter.
It should feel warm.It should feel safe.But beside me, Thomas hasn’t touched his food.He cuts at the bread, the knife scratching at the crust more than slicing.He laughs when Niko delivers the punchline, even clapping his shoulder like he means it.From across the room, you’d think he’s fine.From here, I see the hollowness in every movement.
I can’t stand it.
When the waiter sets down another bottle of wine, I lean toward him, keeping my voice low.
“Press keeps asking about the stumble at the start.I filtered most of it, but there’s one Austrian outlet I couldn’t avoid.Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll do it.”He doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry, I know you’d rather—”
His eyes flick up then, sudden, sharp.“Don’t apologize.”
The word sticks in my throat.
“You’re doing your job.My job is this.”He gestures vaguely—the noise, the laughter, the press.His voice is calm, too calm.“So stop fussing over me.I can take it.”
The laughter at the other end of the table swells again, covering the silence that settles between us.
