But I don’t move.
The screens flicker on.My face, frozen in victory.Her face, just before the kiss.
My chest tightens.I shift, but the medal stays heavy, pressing into me like it wants to leave a mark.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
I should be celebrating.I should be drinking champagne with the team, signing autographs, giving soundbites about dreams and sacrifice.
Instead, I’m here.Alone.In a room full of ghosts.
I won.
So why the hell does it feel like I lost?
Chapter 13
What We Pretend
Playlist:
Bryan Adams: Get Off My Back
Depeche Mode: People Are People
Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany,
March 3
Katharina
The finish pen in Garmisch is a chaotic nest of cables.Tripods groan, boom mics drip, and the wind keeps lifting the plastic on the sponsor boards so they clap like loose shutters.The sky is that pale Bavarian blue that makes you think of postcards.But it´s warm, dangerously warm.The wet, dirty mush under our feet reminds us that the terrain will be tricky.Again.Always in Garmisch.FIS never learns; Garmisch does not belong on the calendar, not at this part of the year.But it is a tradition.
A tradition that has cost many a racer their careers.Hell, Garmisch has claimed the lives of some racers in the past.But the show must go on, as they say.
Thomas stands in the center of the corral, helmet off, hair flattened, bib layered over a thick mid-layer.The camera lights add a false warmth to his face; they can’t touch his eyes.He’s doing the nod-smile-breathe routine I taught half the team, and for a second, I hate that I’m proud he learned it so well.
But journalists would not be journalists if they remained on the topic of racing, would they…
“Thomas, about the kiss,” the interviewer says, voice bright enough to cut glass.“Austria’s golden moment.Was it planned?A statement?”
He smiles, practiced and easy.“No statement.Just…the emotion of a moment,” he says.“I felt the thrill.”
A ripple of laughter from the camera crew.He tips his head toward the mix zone like he’s letting them in on a joke.
“I would’ve kissed Niko,” he adds, deadpan, “but he’d probably kneed my balls too hard.”
The boom operator snorts.The interviewer grins, scenting blood turned into charm.
“And Katharina Berger?Your girlfriend?That ‘golden Olympic romance’ sure lit up the socials,” he presses, angling the mic toward Thomas, then toward me like he can rope me into frame.
