I left the final line hanging, unsure.
Do I want to spill my heart?
“I’m here because you—and every one of you—are inspiration.Not because you win, but because you dare.You race a mountain at a hundred thirty kilometers an hour.You fight fear.That’s what I see.That’s why I write.And that’s why you matter, even when you come second.”
For the first time tonight, something eases in his eyes.The tightness loosens, just slightly.
“You’re amazing,” he mutters.“And clever.”A ghost of a grin.“What a shame I can’t have sex with you to prove that.”
I smirk, tempted.“Maybe silver is good enough.”
He leans back with a half-groan, half-laugh.“Don’t do this to me.”
“What?”I raise an eyebrow.
He turns, then, really looks at me.There’s heat in his voice, but also restraint.
“You know damn well I’ve got GS in two days.I can´t have sex, not when I am in such a mess and need all the focus I can get.”
Silence again, but different this time.Softer.Our legs touch where we sit side by side, and that’s all.
I think about how close he came today.How much did it cost him?My throat tightens with words I don’t say—I’m proud of you—because I know he’d hate it.
Finally, his voice breaks the silence, quieter now.
“Thanks for finding me.”
I nod.Then, after a beat:
“I always know where you are, when you’re not pretending to be okay.”
He doesn’t respond.Just reaches out and links our fingers.Not for long.Just a few seconds.Long enough.
***
Alta Badia, Italy, February 8
Olympic giant slalom race
Thomas
The gate at the top of the Gran Risa slope is still.
Not calm — just tight, like the whole world is waiting for me to drop.The air tastes sharp, metallic, freezing in my throat.Below me, the slope falls away steep and twisting, blind gates tucked between dark fir trees.The surface is ice-polished, unforgiving.Every turn here is a test.You can’t bully this hill.You can’t fake it.You trust your edge or you’re done.
I won the first run, so I will be the last to go.I don´t get cocky.The reporters might say that there is no way I can lose with this lead, but the hill would disagree.This is Alta Badia, the most brutal GS slope of them all.And the course setters built the course for the Olympics; they did not hold back.
At the start gate, my breath freezes in the air, sharp and white.A single bead of sweat stings my eye under the helmet, proof that nerves don’t care how cold it is.My heartbeat pounds louder than the cowbells below, steady, insistent, like it’s daring me to drop.
I go through the line in my head.High at the top.Clean over the pump.Stay light in the compression, don’t get late.Roll smooth through the middle, no panic in the rhythm changes.Let the skis run where they want, then hold them tight again.The finish flats—no thinking, just full send.
And then her voice cuts through:
Don’t be perfect.Just be enough.
The beep starts.
Five.
