I blink."Is that a strategy or a safe word?"
"You should've seen last year's," he says."'Fast Is the Only Language.'The slalom guys had a collective breakdown and demanded group therapy."
"Noted.I'll take this up with my therapist-slash-branding alter ego."
He chuckles."You'll fit in."
He slows just a little as we near the gym doors, glancing sideways like he's about to tell me something off-script.
"Quick heads-up," he says."The guys?They don't bite.But they don't filter either.Banter's non-stop, pranks are random, and if they start liking you, God help you—it only gets worse."
"Sounds charming," I say.
"They might behave better because you're a woman," he adds, then pauses."Or they might not."
I shrug."I'll take either.As long as I don't get a nickname in the first forty-eight hours."
He laughs."Oh no.You'll get a nickname.The question is whether it's insulting or affectionate."
"I'll aim for both."
That gets me a grin.The first real one.
"Yeah," he says."You'll be fine."
Back in my room, I unpack slowly.Line up the pens.Pin the schedule to the wall.Set the notebook on the desk, next to the untouched folder.
Then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare out at the glacier.
I'll meet the team.I'll smile, I'll brief, I'll spin stories out of snow and seconds and sponsor-friendly soundbites.
And he'll be here.
Of course, he will.The first race of the season, an Olympic year, and the whole men's team has already checked in.I knew that before I packed.Before I boarded the train.Before I said yes to this job.
So no surprises.No excuses.
When I see him—and I will—I'll keep my face neutral and my voice steady.I'll nod like we've never met or it meant nothing, whichever script keeps the scene tidy.
Because I didn't come here to replay one night.
I came here to build something.
A career with weight.A name that means more than borrowed credentials or a pretty line in someone else's highlight reel.
He might still be the story.But I'm not the footnote.
I'm the one holding the pen.
The room smells like fresh coffee and old wax.Wide windows, pine paneling, heat turned up just a notch too high for comfort.Half a dozen heads turn my way in unison as I step inside.
I take the empty seat at the front of the room, facing the cluster of racers.They're sprawled across chairs, gym bags at their feet, water bottles on the floor.It's a mix of familiar faces from last season's highlight reels: slalom technicians, GS machines, full-blooded downhillers.Everyone looks tired, tanned, and at least mildly annoyed to be indoors.
I clock a few double takes as I enter.Nothing rude, just the usual brief recalibration when a woman enters a room full of men who spend most of their days in compression shorts and locker-room headspace.
I'd expected some mild curiosity, maybe the usual 'do-we-have-to' vibe athletes save for media people.What I didn't expect was total apathy.A few nods.One yawn.The rest glance at their phones with the synchronization of a synchronized ski team.
Guess the novelty of my existence wore off fast.
