Snow-dusted roofs, pine-scented air, and peaks sharp enough to draw blood.Absurdly picturesque.Professionally irrelevant.
Sölden glacier.
Austrian training camp.
The lobby doors open into warmth and polished silence.No check-in desk.No tacky cowbells or chalet kitsch.Just modern alpine chic and a man striding toward me with a clipboard and the expression of someone already juggling twelve crises.
"Katharina Berger?"
He barely slows down.Efficient, not unfriendly.
"Yes."
"Dominik Brenner."We shake hands—firm, fast.Then he hands me a lanyard badge (my last name is spelled with a 'P') and a matte-black folder stuffed to the edges.
"Room's upstairs.Gear's on the bed.Schedule's in there."
"Thanks," I say, aiming for neutral confidence while adjusting my scarf, bag, and poker face.
He studies me for a half-second longer than necessary.Not hostile—just assessing how long I'll last.
"You're a test case.First full-time comms embedded with the team.Let's make it worth repeating."
"Absolutely," I say."Should I wear a lab tag, or is the badge enough?"
A flicker of a smile."The badge will do.Assuming the name's close enough."
Then he nods once and moves on.Like I've passed Stage One.Or at least didn't fail it.
Upstairs, I find my room easily.Simple, clean, alpine-minimalist.A bed, a desk, a chair angled toward the window.The glacier stares back at me from the horizon like a dare.
On the bed, there's a team-branded jacket, a water bottle, and a laptop sleeve with my initials on the tag.All very official.All very new.
My phone buzzes.
Maddie: Settled in with the testosterone brigade?
Me: Not yet.One grumpy clipboard guy.Zero visible egos so far.
Mad: Oh, honey.Just wait for the dining hall.
I text back a middle-finger emoji and shove the phone in my bag.
Down the hall, I follow the signs toward the physio suite.A man with dark hair and a tape roll in his hand catches my eye.
"You must be Katharina," he says.This one actually smiles, nice change."Jonas."
I shake his hand."Nice to meet you."
He gestures at a cluster of whiteboards with tangled arrows and scrawled shorthand that may or may not be in German.
"You'll be handling press access, sponsor content, content approvals, and general drama containment.Think of it like this: you're the adult in the room."
"And you're what—moral support?"I ask.
"Emotional interpreter," he replies smoothly."And a tape dispenser.Physio, officially."
We pause at the main whiteboard, where a thick black slogan looms over the week's training blocks: VISIBILITY WITHOUT VULNERABILITY
