I’m supposed to stay.Issue statements.Manage the circus.But what is the circus compared to his life?Or to mine, which I can feel bending toward his, whether I like it or not.
Tears streak down my face.I don’t care who sees.Not this time.The media don’t deserve this — they don’t get to devour his life.It’s his.It’s mine
They stop the race.The others are still up the hill.I breathe in and out — twice — and look up.Everyone is watching me now: my trembling hands, my tears, the way I’m falling apart.
I wipe the tears hard, paste on a mask, but it’s too late.They’ve already seen.
I stumble out of the tent and run until a chalet door slams behind me.Only then do I fold against the wall, hands shaking.
“Here.”I look up.Brenner stands in the doorway, snow on his boots.He presses a glass of schnapps into my hand.I down it in one long swallow, the alcohol clawing at my throat.
“I’ll take care of the media,” he says simply.“You wait.When the race ends, you’ll go with Leitner to Innsbruck.”
“I can drive—”
He cuts me off.“Not like this.”His voice is firm, not unkind.“It´s enough that one of you two idiots nearly killed himself today.”
I want to argue.I don’t.Because he’s right.
He lingers, watching me with a look I can’t meet.Then, low: “We all know, Katharina.Don’t hide it.Go see him.”
The words cut.They’re true — everyone sees it now.Everyone but me, until this second.
I nod, clutching the empty glass, hands still trembling.For the first time this season, I stop pretending.
***
Innsbruck, Austria
Thomas
The room is dim, lit only by the strip of light under the door and the glow from the monitors.An IV drip ticks steadily at my arm.My leg is braced, my wrist wrapped, my shoulder aching in a sling.
Nurses murmur, low and soft, as if even their words don’t want to wake me.I close my eyes, pretend to sleep, and wait for them to leave.Someone else is here — I can hear the page of a book turning.Lukas?Leitner?My mum?
I shift and groan; pain knives through my knee.My throat is dry.The words scrape up before I can stop them:
“Tell me it’s only pulled,” I crack.
A voice answers, quiet but steady.Not a nurse’s.Hers.
“I’m sorry.It’s torn.”
I jolt, half-sit, then sag back.Because I know.The doctors told me.Hell,Itoldherlast night, drugged and half out of my mind.I barely remember.My skin prickles.What else did I say?
I glance sideways.Katharina is there, folded into the chair by my bed, eyes shadowed, hair loose.She looks like she hasn’t moved in hours.The room reeks of antiseptic and latex, drowning out everything else, but it doesn’t matter.I can’t smell her perfume, can’t reach for the warmth I remember — yet her beauty cuts through all of it, sharper than the pain.
I don’t meet her eyes; I stare at the ceiling.“Didn’t even make the podium,” I say.
Silence.She doesn’t answer.Maybe she can’t — or she’s holding herself together for me.
“Bellini gets the overall globe,” I mutter.“I won’t race the next ones.Meniscus tear, torn ACL.Won’t kill my career, but my season’s over.Half the next one, too.”
Her voice comes out raw, almost breaking:
“You scared the hell out of me,” she says.
That finally makes me turn.Our hands rest close on the sheet — so close that one small move would close the gap.This time she moves first: a brush of fingers against mine, hesitant, almost nothing.
