Nice try, Kat.
But she's right, this is not the first time I've had to start knowing that someone else's career might have just ended.
This is downhill skiing.
I plug my earphones back in, desperate to catch the flow.
Tyrolean brass.Quick warm-up.Click into skis.
It's my time.The hill is silent.No jokes, everyone shaken.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the gate, heart and mind in staccato.
The marshal’s hand.
Beep.Beep.BEEEP.My body goes on the long tone, automatic.
I carve the first turn, but the rhythm’s simply not there.
The Seele S-curve that should feel like choreography is garbage now, timing off, line off.I barrel through the Freier Fall in pieces, nearly spitting snow into the crowd below.There’s no tuck.No control.Just gravity and struggle.
All I want is to just be down there already.No motivation.
I do not care for the result at all.
I cross the line and unclip slower than I ever have.My knees tremble.My lungs are on fire—not from the run, but from the scream of loss.
The press corral near the finish is chaos brewed cold.Microphones shoved forward, lights hot, voices rising.Lukas is already in the care of hospital orderlies; his crash is racing headlines, incoming statements, and speculation.
I finished tenth, not that I care for points at this moment.
In the middle of the storm stands Katharina, clipboard anchored to her hip, lips compressed but controlled.She is issuing sound bites: “Conscious.Transported.Surgery tonight.Family informed.”She threads the panic and the professionalism with a surgeon’s precision.
I slip into the back of the tent, mask back on, voice muted, adrenaline still a tremor in my stomach.
I’m grateful.She’s holding the world’s attention, so I don’t have to.
But also: pain pulses behind my ribs, the distance between us like fresh ice.
I need her now.I needed her up there.I needed her confidence, her endearing worry, the drive she used to give me.Her voice in my head to pull me out of the cave I hid in after fear and concern drove me in.
I close my eyes, waiting for the storm to pass.It doesn’t.Lukas in the net, her voice cutting through the chaos, the taste of metal still in my mouth; it all claws at me until my eyes burn.Tears sting, hot and stupid, and I’m furious at myself for letting them come.I bury my face deeper in the mask, willing no one to notice.Champion.Golden boy.And here I am, trembling like a kid who can’t hold it together.
I choke on a curse, swipe my glove hard across my eyes, furious at the dampness it catches.The sting stays anyway.My fist slams the plastic barrier once, quick and quiet, then I step back into the noise before anyone notices I cracked.
The van is too warm, heaters humming, windows fogged with breath.Boots and bags crowd the floor, rattling with every turn.Nobody talks much.
Niko scrolls his phone, jaw tight.Martin stares out the window, eyes hollow.The only sound is the hum of tires on slush and the occasional cough when someone clears their throat but doesn’t follow it with words.
I sit hunched in the back, helmet strap still in my hand like I forgot how to let it go.My legs twitch with phantom turns, muscles buzzing with useless adrenaline.
Lukas is in Innsbruck by now.Broken shin.Torn ACL.They said it clean, like listing groceries.Out for the season.Maybe longer.
I tell myself he’s tough, he’ll heal.But the image won’t leave—his body tangled in the net, motionless, the sound of the impact ringing louder than the cowbells.
Across the aisle, Katharina murmurs into her phone, low and steady, delivering the federation’s statement.Her voice is soft, caring, yet professional.She doesn’t look at me.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.The sting returns.I swallow it down, but shame tastes the same as fear.
