I leave the room with my jaw locked, my fists tight, pretending the promise means something.Pretending I actually know how to make it true.
***
Katharina
The replay loops again on the big screen, the commentators’ voices thin through the speakers.Thomas tucks into the finish, skis biting too late, shoulders stiff, the line already gone.Tenth.Matteo’s face fills the next frame, perfect smile, perfect win.The crowd erupts.
I sit frozen in front of the screen, coffee cold in my hand.
My phone won’t stop buzzing.Every notification a headline, every headline a knife.Post-Olympic slump?Golden boy tarnished?Austria in crisis?Not just Thomas.They’re circling the whole team.Hyenas sniffing blood.And the Austrian press is the worst there is.
Anger burns hot in my chest.Protective anger.For the boys, for Thomas, even when he’s impossible, even when he’s cruel.Because he doesn’t deserve this, none of them do.They’re racers, not soldiers.They don´t owe it to the media.And certainly not to the nation.
But the fury cuts both ways.Because I know the hyenas.I’ve been one.
I remember one day in Alta Badia: Thomas skiing out of a giant slalom, me at my keyboard, crafting lines about “wasted talent,” “immaturity,” “ease turning into carelessness.”I wrote it sharp, confident, and detached.Now I feel sick remembering it.
But the hyenas are right.Austria is in crisis.
Without Lukas, no one anchors us.Martin drifts.Niko lashes out, already muttering risky comments to journalists who lap it up.And Thomas?He looks like he’s drowning, and I can’t pull him out.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then force themselves down, typing the federation’s press release.The words blur.Tough conditions.Valuable points.Looking ahead to the next race.Lies we all pretend to believe.
My hand shakes as I hit send.
I press my palms flat against the desk, trying to breathe.Professional loyalty, romantic regret, guilt, panic; they all twist together until I don’t know what belongs to the job and what belongs to me.
I want to scream.Instead, I close the laptop.
For the first time all season, I think: I need a break.
The media room is cramped, airless, the kind of space where tempers rise quicker than sound carries.Posters from past races peel at the corners, and the hum of the projector fills the silence while I face the team.
“We leave for Saalbach tomorrow.The World Cup finals are all there is this season.And you all qualified,” I begin, clipboard steady in my hands.My voice is calm, firm, and professional.
“But we are in crisis, and they know it.The press will come for all of you.They want drama, turmoil, division.We don’t give it to them.Our message is one line:We compete hard, and we stand together.Repeat it, then stop talking.”
The room stays quiet for a beat too long.Then Niko explodes.
“Easy for you to say!”His chair screeches against the floor as he leans forward, eyes hot.“You and Thomas blew this up, and now we pay for it.”
Silence detonates.Every head swivels toward me.My throat goes dry, but I hold his gaze.
Because he is right, they all know about our affair, used to be on our side, used to cheer us on.And now they pay when we screw up.
Before I can speak, Thomas steps in.His voice is sharp, controlled: “That’s enough.”
Niko blinks, startled.
Thomas doesn’t look at me when he goes on.“She’s doing her job.You want to blame someone, blame me.But don’t put this on her.”His tone leaves no room for argument.
The tension shifts, like air sucked from the room.Niko slumps back, muttering, but silent.
I clear my throat, pick up where I left off as if nothing cracked open.Together, Thomas and I run the briefing: laying out talking points, steering questions, drilling the line about unity.Efficient.Professional.Unshakable, at least on the surface.
When it’s over, the athletes file out, boots thudding, chatter already returning.
I gather my notes, keeping my eyes down—until I feel his on me.
