Thomas shakes his head.“Sorry to disappoint.Katharina’s a pro,” he says.“I’ve already apologized…for the kiss, my timing, and the mess it dumped on her desk.”
The interviewer’s smile goes sly.“Pity,” he says lightly, “the photo would make history—were it real.”
A long, soft beat.
“Yeah,” Thomas says, the corner of his mouth ticking.“Pity.”
The camera light blinks off.The air drops two degrees without it.
I move before he can.Two steps through the slurry, across a stripe of electrical tape, to the edge of the rope.“Thirty seconds,” I tell the producer, already walking.No one stops me; this is my pen, my storm to part.
He meets me halfway, out of mic range, not out of earshot.
“You could have discussed that with me,” I say quietly.No heat, just friendliness.
He studies my face as if there’s a correct answer printed somewhere between my eyes.“I saved both our asses,” he says, voice low.“One line, end of story.”
“I know,” I say, because it’s true.“And also—you could have discussed it with me.”
“Because you care,” he asks, something grindstone-dry under the softness, “or because it’s your professional business?”
“Both.”
A gust of wind lifts the edge of the sponsor wall; crack, slap, the printed logos shivering.
He exhales.“Okay,” he says.“Next time I run a line like that, you hear it first.”
“Thank you.”It comes out steadier than I feel.
A volunteer hustles by with a coil of cable on his shoulder; a camerawoman switches batteries; Niko laughs too loudly at someone’s joke about hotel mattresses.Everything normal.None of it is.
Thomas shifts, just enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushes mine.Accidental, probably.I register the contact anyway.My body is a traitor like that.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says, almost conversationally.
“I know.”I tuck my cold hands deeper into my pockets.“And I wasn’t trying to make you into a headline.We both did our jobs.”
He gives a ghost of a smile.“We did.”
We stand there for a breath that isn’t long enough to be anything but a pause.
“Pre-start in twenty,” I say, back to business.“Bottleneck at barrier two—I’ll push the German crews down so ORF gets you first.Keep the stumble answers short.You don’t owe a post-mortem before the start.”
He nods once.“Copy.”
“And Thomas?”
He looks up.
“Good line or bad line, don’t improvise for them.”A beat.“Save it for the hill.”
That actually reaches him.The edge in his eyes softens by a degree.“Yes, boss.”
I almost smile.Almost.“Go warm up.”
He taps his fist lightly against the top of the barrier instead of touching me.Then he’s gone—back into the machinery, the checkerboard of coaches and techs, and men with radios who only ask for time and wins.
I turn to the producer: “Order is ORF, ARD, SRF, then locals,” I say.“No off-topic follow-ups, no relationship questions.If anyone tries, we cut the feed and move.”
