“Understood,” he says, already waving his crew into new positions.
The cowbells start again, the kind of sound that usually feels like home.Today, it’s just a metronome for pretending.
Across the pen, Thomas lifts his poles and jogs in place, eyes on the dark line of the course.He looks like himself.He looks like someone I once kissed in front of the world.
My grip tightens on the clipboard.Not his girlfriend.Not anymore.
We can work together.We will.Our careers depend on it.
***
Thomas
The Kandahar track in Garmisch isn't just a hill.It's a living, breathing monster that chews you up if you even blink.From the first gates, it throws you into the Seele S-curve, with no mercy or time to settle.By the time you hit Tröglhang, the g-forces have your ribs screaming, then it spits you straight into the Olympia corner and the Panorama Jump before your legs remember how to breathe.
Down there, Hölle waits—the "hell" section everyone pretends not to name out loud.Ninety-plus percent pitch, a free fall that makes your stomach drop like you've been kicked out of a plane.
I managed my emotions during the interview; I did not let any confusion about our non-relationship with Katharina cloud my thoughts.
Not that I didn't care, I admit, I'm a mess.But this is not the moment for an emotional crisis.On Kandahar, you either focus or you're toast.
Today I want to carve it clean.Own every blind gate, every landing.Drop into the Hell and come out laughing.
But then…
…Lukas crashes, and all of it—every plan, every breath—turns to smoke.
I watch him go down, crouched with the rest around the little start-area monitor.We shout in unison, feeling his pain.This is the moment we all dread.But what's worse, it's my buddy we see rolling down the mountain.
He hit Tröglhang wide, his edge skated out, and suddenly he's flying—not stylish, not controlled—just flying into the net.The spray of snow, his body crumpling in midair, then collapses.The net shudders.Medics flood in.
My ribs seal shut.Oxygen drains.The radio spits out "Yellow flag, section twelve, crash."
None of us watches the screen; we don't want to witness that.It steals our bravado, it reminds us of the stakes.I turn my back to the screen and listen instead.
I wait for the roar of the crowd.They would cheer him as he stood up and waved to signal that he was okay.
But there is only silence.
And a few dreadful minutes later, the helicopter announces the worst.
Shit.
There's no knowing if he tore some muscle, broke a bone, or fractured a skull.
And I need to know.This is not some unknown racer; it's Lukas.
I wave at Roman to get the radio ready and signal to our other guys still up there to follow me.
"Katharina?"I key the radio.
If anyone knows, it's her.
"I'm sorry, Thomas," she answers, her voice tight."He was conscious, that's all I know right now."
"Okay," my voice is bland.
"Guys, you focus, right?He'll be fine."
