Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
I drop.
The start is clean.Skis bite exactly where I put them, no chatter, no hesitation.The first turns come fast, icy, rattling under my edges, but I’m locked in.The rhythm feels natural, like breathing.My body moves before my brain catches up.
The course is brutal here, steep and narrow, the crowd invisible behind trees and fences.I don’t look for them.All I see are gates, snow, and line.Pressure in the legs, fire in the thighs, air tearing at my face.I let the skis run.
Mid-section.The snow changes, slicker, faster.Most guys lose time here.I push anyway, risk the high line, and it holds.The green light flashes on the split.
And I feel it.Calm.Centered.Like the hill is mine.
The lower pitch is chaos for anyone who doubts.I don’t.
Every gate comes to me, right where I need it.I’m flying, but it doesn’t feel desperate.It feels right.
The last gates, the flats.I tuck into a tight position.The world goes quiet.Just the hiss of skis, the hammering of my pulse.I cross the line.
I glance up.
I did it.
I won.
The sound hits me like an avalanche, roaring, endless, drowning me in it.My arms shoot up before I know it.Teammates pile on me, fists thumping my back, someone screaming in my ear.I’m laughing, actually laughing, can’t stop it.It bursts out of me, wild and raw.
And then I see her.
At the barriers, half-buried in the crowd, but I’d find her anywhere.Her smile is wide, her eyes bright, as if she knew this was always mine.
For once, I don’t think about cameras.Or gold.Or the circus waiting to spin this into headlines.I just move.Past my team, past the staff, through the flash of microphones.Straight to her.
I grab her, pull her in, kiss her hard.
The world explodes.Cameras flash, shutters pop, voices shout.But all I feel is her mouth on mine, her hands clutching at me, her body pressed against gear and sweat and adrenaline.
For a second, it’s not about medals, not about glory.It’s just us.
And then I hear it—our names, already rolling across the loudspeakers, already fed to the world.
Too late.It’s everywhere.
***
Katharina
The mix zone is pure mayhem.Flags waving, cowbells clanging, microphones thrust forward like bayonets.Reporters shout over each other in four different languages, cords snaking across the snow, flashes going off so fast it feels like lightning.
Thomas stands in the center of it all, laughing, flushed, medal glinting around his neck.He’s the picture of victory.The Austrian team has him lifted half off his feet, and the cameras eat it up.
The madness here is even worse than it was yesterday, when their local Clara de Lorenzo smashed the course and won Olympic gold with more than a second lead.
I should be working.And I am — clipboard brain engaged, voice clipped, wrangling reporters into some kind of order.Cutting off the ones who push too far.Filtering the avalanche of questions before they bury him alive.Professional.Sharp.That’s me.
