So I do the only thing left.I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It’s light, just the brush of my mouth against his.But the moment his lips part, it deepens—hungrier than I meant, more desperate than either of us admits.He responds instantly, pulling me closer by the waist, his breath hot and uneven, like he’s been holding it all night.
When I break away, my lips still tingling, I lean into his ear.
“I still expect you to win.”
For a second, he’s stone still.Then his hand curls tighter at my back, and the faintest ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.When they meet mine, his eyes aren’t soft—but they’re alive again.
He exhales, long and low, as if the weight on his chest has eased by a fraction.Questions linger between us—about what we are, about what’s left when the winning is gone—but he lets them slide away for now.
Tomorrow, there’s an Olympic downhill waiting.
And Thomas Kern intends to win it.
Chapter 12
Fireworks and Fallout
Playlist:
Charlie and the Church: Fighter
Michelle Williams: Tightrope
Val Gardena, Italy (South Tyrol), February 6
Olympic downhill
Thomas
At the start gate, I shut out the world.The cowbells, the horns, even the pounding of my own blood.Silence here isn’t peace.It’s pressure—tight, crushing, coiled around my ribs.
I let the mountain play in my head.
Spinel jump—attack it straight.Hold the landing light, don’t fight it, and get ready for the compression.
Sochers walls—drive early, no hesitation.
The Camel Humps—take the line I know, fly clean.Glide, soft knees.
The Ciaslat meadows—trust the snow, trust the skis, I know how to carve the best line.
Nucia, the final blind jump—tuck deep, land soft, pray the legs hold.
Every gate.Every inch.I’ve skied it a thousand times in my head, but today it has teeth.
A breath.The beep counts me down.
And then her voice, cutting through the noise in my skull.
