The man smirks.“Of course.Training.Like in Garmisch, like in Kranjska.Maybe you’re just too close to comment, Katharina.You’re not his girlfriend anymore, are you?”
The air in the pen turns brittle, sharp.Cameras swing, microphones tilt.The other racers freeze, pretending not to listen.
Thomas bristles.His eyes flash and his voice drops low: “Watch yourself.”
I cut him off with a smile that isn’t a smile.“This is not relevant,” I say crisply.“We’ll stick to race questions,” I say.“If anyone wants gossip, I’ll end this interview.”
The reporter hesitates, weighing it, then mutters something about pressure and form.The moment passes, if only just.
I thank the press, redirect Martin toward the TV cameras, and usher Niko to the side before he combusts.Thomas is still glaring, heat rising off him like steam.I don’t meet his eyes.
I finish the job, hand off the last quotes, and when it’s done, I walk away without looking back.
We don’t talk.We don’t fight.
We just pretend.
The mountain is almost empty when I click into my skis.Early light drapes the Hannes-Trinkl-Strecke in pink and gold, the air sharp enough to sting my lungs.No crowd, no bibs, no radio static.Just the hiss of edges carving clean arcs into untouched surface.
For a few minutes, I’m not the federation’s media coordinator.Not the woman with answers, with statements, with a hundred hungry microphones waiting to tear into me.I’m just a skier again.The girl who used to sneak out for first chair, chasing turns before school.My thighs burn, my cheeks numb, and for once, that’s all it is.
I stop at my favourite chalet near the base.It is high enough up the slope to feel safe from the media turmoil down there, low enough to get the view of the magnificent mountain above me.I unclip my ski boots, get a coffee from the bar, and carry it to the table.The terrace is completely empty at the moment, and this bar is the only place open this early.
I sit down, lean back, close my eyes, and smell the coffee.Steam curls against the morning cold, the bitter smell grounding me more than the caffeine.
For a moment, I let myself pretend it’s simple.Just slopes and coffee.Just work and play, each in their box.
But it isn’t.Not anymore.
My heart hasn’t caught up with my head.I still feel him in the air, in the silence after the cheering stops, in the way my body tenses whenever someone says his name.And every time I step into the mix zone, I know the line between my job and my feelings is thinner than ice in April.
I sip, watching the sun climb higher over the ridge.Once, it was clear: athletes raced, I wrote.Distance was natural.Professional.Safe.
Now?The line’s blurred, and I’m the one who crossed it.
And no matter how calm the mountain feels at this hour, I know the chaos is coming.
Down the hill, the day is already sharpening its knives.
***
Thomas
The roar at the finish swallows me whole.Buzzing fans, waving flags, Austrian red and white in every direction.The clock flashes green by a breath — barely half a tenth.Enough to win.Enough to keep Matteo Bellini in second.
The team piles in, fists and arms, grins splitting their faces.I raise my poles, throw the practiced smile for the cameras, let them hoist me half off my feet.Winning.The thing I’ve been bred to do.
But it feels… hollow.
On the podium, champagne sprays, medals press cold against my chest.Matteo’s smirk is as wide as ever; the crowd adores it.The anthem rises, and for a moment I try to sink into it, let it fill me.It doesn’t.My head is already somewhere else.
Back to what winning used to mean.Back to her hands, dragging the medal from my neck, her laugh in my ear, her mouth claiming me like it was part of the prize.Winning used to be about her.Our deal.Our fire.
The thought blindsides me, low and dirty.My body responds before my brain does, the spark of heat sharp and immediate.I grit my teeth, shove it down.Sex used to be easy.Quick, fun, forgettable.Not anymore.Not with her.And since her, not with anyone.
Later, when the crowds thin and the athletes funnel out, a pretty brunette slides close, phone in hand, eyes half-lidded with suggestion.“Selfie?”she asks, voice honey.
I look at her.Pretty.Eager.Every part of me knows the old script — lean in, let her touch my arm, maybe more later if I want it.But there’s nothing.No spark.No pull.Just static where there used to be voltage.
