Because I can't stand the way she seems to care when she won't give me what I need.
And if I look at her too long, I'll forget how to be angry.
***
Katharina
The lobby smells of wet wool and pine cleaner, every bench crowded with boots dripping onto the stone floor.Athletes come and go, heads down, earbuds in, moving around me like a current.I catch names, offer quick smiles, and squeeze a shoulder here or there.Some return it.Some don’t.That’s fine.Everyone’s tired.
Then Thomas pushes through the glass doors, still in half-kit, watching his feet as he drags them.The others trail behind him — Martin brooding, Niko chewing on his lip, the coaches pretending not to be disappointed.I call a soft “Good work today, guys,” as they pass.Niko nods.
Thomas doesn’t even glance at me.
Something in me snaps.
“Thomas,” I say sharply, louder than I meant.He stops, turns, eyes flat.“You don’t have to be—” I bite down, then let it out anyway.“—you don’t have to be downright mean to me.”
For a second, something flickers in his expression.Maybe regret.Maybe an apology.But it hardens fast.
He snaps back, low and cutting: “Then stop acting like you care.”
The words slice straight through me.I swallow, shoulders tight.“I’m doing my job.”
But then add in a softer voice: “I care about you, about all you guys.You know that.”
Thomas doesn’t answer.Just stares a beat too long, then turns away and disappears up the stairs, boots thudding against the steps.
I stand there with the smell of wet wool and pine in my nose, the hum of voices around me, and the sting of his silence pressing deeper than any insult, tears stinging in my eyes.
Suddenly, it is all too much.
***
Thomas
The air in Leitner’s room is thick with sweat from damp jackets hung too close to the radiator.The guys shuffle in and out, voices low, eyes on the floor.Nobody’s laughing.Nobody’s teasing.
It isn’t just me.Everyone’s off.Martin’s been skiing sloppy.Niko’s burning hot one run, gone the next.Lukas should be here cracking jokes, setting the tone, but he’s in a hospital bed in Innsbruck with his leg strapped in steel.Without him, the whole team feels tilted.And me?I’m supposed to be the counterweight.Instead, I’m the anchor dragging us all down.
Leitner waits until the others leave, then closes the door with a soft click.He doesn’t waste time.He never does.
“You used to be the one who held the team’s head up,” he says.His voice is low, but it cuts sharper than a scream.“Now we’re drowning.”
I look at the floorboards, at the scuff marks left by years of boots.My chest is tight, every word true.
“You need to get your shit together.”He steps closer, eyes fixed on mine.“Or Matteo will run away with the globe before you even notice.”
I nod once.No protest.No excuse.Because what’s the point?He’s right.
But I don’t know how to fix it.The skis feel wrong, my body heavier, my head full of static.Everything I used to trust without thinking is slipping through my fingers.
So I do the only thing I know: put the wall back up.
“I’ll figure something out,” I mutter.
Leitner studies me, eyes narrowing, like he can see through the bluff.
“Figure it out fast,” he says finally.“Leaders don’t go quiet when the room fills with water.”
