“Then don’t.Not until you know why.This hill takes everything if you let it.”
The iron hisses again, the wax smokes, and I can almost hear my teeth grinding.
“And just let Bellini take the globe?”I spit out.
When he doesn't answer, I ask, my voice raspy: “You think I can’t make it?”
His eyes meet mine, steady.“I think other globes and other seasons are waiting for you.But only if you stay alive to ski them.”
He pauses, leans back, tone softer.“And maybe stop pretending it’s just about Bellini.”
Hinterstoder flashes up.Not the race — Bellini´s look.The smirk in the finish, like he’d already claimed something that wasn’t his.Martin is right.But I choose to ignore it.
“I keep hearing the same shit for years,” I scoff.“Kern will go far.Kern will be the greatest skier of all.But it’s bullshit if I can’t keep it together for one season, right?”
I snap.Slam my boot against the door.
The crack echoes, and I mutter a half-sorry as the tech guys look up, glaring at whoever dared break the sacred silence of the wax room.
Martin’s voice follows, calm and cutting: “Doors don’t fight back, Thomas.The hill will.”
***
Katharina
Saalbach dressed itself for a party.World Cup Finals, and we’re in Austria, the home country of skiing.The women´s downhill yesterday was a celebration.The favorite, the all-round star Ciara de Lorenzo, pulled out at the last minute with an injury, and the local youngster won for the home crowd.
And today it’s the men’s turn.The crowd expects nothing less than a show.
Flags ripple from every balcony, sponsor banners stretch bright across the fences, and the finish zone bristles with cameras and temporary grandstands.But under the gloss, everything feels wrong.Not just for me.
The weather sulks, clouds sagging low over the peaks.Snow lies too soft underfoot, turning grey at the edges, spent before the race even starts.The wind kicks the safety fences until they flap and crackle like warning flags.
Race day.
Inside the athlete briefing, the room buzzes with white noise: low voices, the shuffling of papers, and the squeak of markers on a whiteboard.Noise that fills space means nothing.
Thomas arrives late.The door opens, heads turn, and the entire room holds its breath for a moment.He strides in, jacket half-zipped, expression blank.Physically present, yes.But the light that used to pull every eye to him.It isn’t there.
The coaches glance at each other, uneasy.Matteo leans back in his chair and tosses Thomas a casual smile.Thomas barely nods.
I sit beside Brenner, pen poised over my notebook.I make sure not to look at Thomas.Not once.But I hear his name in every whisper around me.Kern.Kern.Kern.Questions dressed up as strategy, doubts tucked under the surface.
The race jury takes the front.A clipboard snaps open, and the chair of the board clears his throat.
“The course is set.Temperatures are high, yes, but snow control confirms it will hold.The fog will disperse.”
A murmur ripples through the room.
From the back, one coach calls out: “Hold?Maybe for the first twenty racers.After that, it’s a minefield.”
Another raises his hand.“Safety must come first.We cannot afford another crash like Garmisch.”
“Safety always comes first,” the jury member replies, voice taut.“But this is the Finals.There is no postponement or rescheduling.The rules are clear.And we believe the course is as safe as can be.”
The room bristles.Athletes shift in their seats, boots tapping.A few nod, resigned.Others curse under their breath.
Before I know it, my own voice cuts in, measured, professional, but carrying.
