We circle the obvious.I sayfine; he doesn’t buy it.Lukas’s crash rattled me.I stopped by Innsbruck, joked about nurses; he laughed, but seeing him strapped in steel hurt.
Rudi nods.“That would shake anyone.What else?”
I freeze.He’s not here to analyze me, not here to dig.His job is to keep me functioning, not strip me bare.Still, he sees something in my face.
“What else, Thomas?”
I deflect.Olympic pressure.The weight of expectation.The circus, the sponsors, the endless questions.I say the words fast enough to sound convincing.He listens, but his eyes narrow.
We circle, again and again, until I finally hear myself say it: “I got involved.I had an affair with our media coordinator.I… got too deep.It distracted me.Now I struggle to get back on track.But, I just need time, I guess.”
Rudi doesn’t argue.He just breathes out through his nose, slow, measured.Then he says one word, soft, almost lost to the static:
“Interesting.”
And that’s all.No lecture.No comfort.Just a word that tells me I may have missed the point.
But I end the call lighter anyway, convinced I’ve drawn a clean line.
No more distractions.
Just me.Just the snow.
***
Hinterstoder, Austria, March 17
Katharina
The Hannes-Trinkl-Strecke isn’t forgiving.It twists down the mountain like a blade, brutal in the compressions, demanding in every turn.Thomas used to eat it alive.Easy.Almost casual, like gravity bent for him alone.
Not today.
I watch his training run from the side fence, no laptop, just my little loyal notebook and my phone.
He doesn’t crash.Doesn’t even make a big mistake.He just… skis out.Mid-course, after a section where he would normally slice through without blinking, he eases off.The line dies.He lifts, drifts to the side, and stops.No fight, no fury, no Thomas.
The break didn’t fix him.If anything, it hollowed him out.
Being the best isn’t about winning once or twice.It’s the weight of having to do it again.Every week.Every hill.That’s what broke the last champion in the end.Luca Kostner from Italy used to be the greatest skier the circus has seen, but he retired too soon.
We all knew his success came from obsession, that feverish perfection that burned him up from the inside.Kostner was admirable, but Thomas was different.Thomas was ease, lightness, and fun until now.
Now the ease is gone.
And what can I do with that?Nothing.He won’t let me close anymore.Before, even when we weren’t together, I could still talk to him like a friend.Now it feels like we were never friends at all.Just teammates, just bedmates, just another secret that doesn’t survive daylight.
I tuck my notebook in my inside pocket, click into my skis, and head for the mix zone.
The guys line up under the sponsor walls, helmets in hand, faces pink from cold and frustration.Martin, at least, salvaged a tenth.He’s charming enough to play it off, joke with the Germans about wax and weather.Niko, though, got a DNF again.He stares at the slush under his boots, scowling, short with the journalists.The kid’s lost his spark, and they’re circling.
Then Thomas steps up, still in bib, jaw locked, hair damp against his forehead.For three questions, he plays along.Measured, clipped, half a smile here and there.Then one reporter leans in, voice pitched to cut.
“Thomas, are we watching the post-Olympic slump in real time?You haven’t been yourself since Garmisch.Is this the start of the fall?”
I see his shoulders stiffen, see the retort ready in his mouth.Too sharp.Too reckless.I cut in before he detonates.
“Thomas has already explained,” I say smoothly, stepping forward.My voice is steady, warm, but firm.“It’s training.Everyone tests the line, everyone skis out.You’ll see the full run when it matters.”
