“We all know how much it will cost the organizers if the race gets cancelled.But shouldn’t athletes’ health come first?Ahead of sponsor money and payouts?”
The silence that follows is sharp.The board stares, and some coaches nod reluctantly.And across the room, Thomas lifts his head.His eyes find me, cold, and the look he throws is ugly, like I’ve just betrayed him in front of them all.Like, I have no right to protect him.
I return the cold gaze.
Not everything is about you, champ.There are other athletes risking their necks.
The jury chair closes his folder with a snap.“The show will go on.The race will happen.”
When the meeting breaks, chairs scrape and boots clatter across the floor.Thomas moves first, out the door, into the corridor.He doesn’t look at anyone.Doesn’t say a word.
He pulls open the door and lets it slam behind him, the sound sharp enough to silence the white noise for a beat.
Then the murmurs start again, louder than before.
***
Thomas
The Finals start area feels unreal.Fog drifts low across the netting, curling around helmets and poles until the whole gate looks like it’s floating in a cloud.Officials pace in tight circles, radios crackling, their voices thin against the gusts of wind that rattle the banners.The mountain groans under the weight of a race it shouldn’t have to hold.
I stand over my skis, legs loose, fingers flexing inside my gloves.Every buckle feels too tight, every layer of gear like a weight pressing me down.My chest is hollow.My heartbeat should be hammering, the way it always does before the gate.Instead, it’s slow, steady, almost distant.
Second isn’t enough.Not if Bellini wins.Win or nothing.
The start corral is unnaturally hushed.Wind rattles nets.Someone coughs.Radios spit half-sentences.
Bellini’s split time is still glowing red on the board, taunting, and the official at the wand won’t meet my eyes.
I know he nailed it — heard the crowd.No need for numbers.One choice: beat him or forget the globe.
Leitner leans close, the smell of sweat clinging to his jacket, his voice sharp enough to slice through the fog.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Thomas.”
I don’t answer.I just nod once.Pull the goggles down.The strap snaps into place with a sound too loud in the stillness.
The world narrows to the gate, the beeps counting down, the mountain waiting below like it wants blood.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
I drop.
Edges bite.Snow sprays.The first gates fly at me, and I cut them clean, body low, chest open.My thighs burn early, but in a good way.The rhythm I’ve always trusted is there.Solid.Strong.
The flats glide smooth, skis humming like live wires under my boots.I roll into the first pitch, weight forward, hands steady.For a moment, it feels like I’ve found it again, that flow where the mountain bends to me.
Split time flashes green.The roar from the crowd rises, muffled by the fog, rising and falling like surf.My chest swells.This is mine.
I press harder, deeper, chasing speed.The skis vibrate, hungry, the snow shearing away under each turn.The rhythm holds, but the pace keeps climbing.Smooth.Too smooth.The hill isn’t asking anything back, just giving, pulling me faster and faster, like it wants me to believe I’m untouchable.
I hear the commentator's voice like a sharp, high-pitched sound in my helmet.Or is it just in my head?
“Kern is flying—he’s building time… ”
The words echo inside my head, louder than the roar of my skis.I push harder into the next gate, knees compressed, arms driving forward.The line is razor thin, but I’ve always lived there.Always trusted that edge.
A gust hits.Snow dusts up in a spray.I dip lower, carve tighter.My skis shiver but hold.For a breath, I think I’ve beaten it.
