Brenner steps forward, crisp as ever."All right, guys.This year, we've got a backup."He gestures toward me without looking."Miss Berger here will be traveling with the team—handling post-race interviews, sponsor comms, media coordination, and team branding.Basically, anything with a camera lens or a microphone, she's across it."
"What happened to Elias?"someone asks.Deep voice, tired curiosity.I glance sideways and immediately recognize Lukas Steiner—older, weathered, and carrying the authority of someone knocked down and clawed back.
"Elias stays on for the full men's team," Brenner replies."Miss Berger will work specifically with your speed group."
There's a beat of silence.One of the younger guys squints."What's branding?Sounds scary."
"In addition to standard media," Brenner says, "she'll be supporting team PR, social media, sponsor content, visual identity—"
"Can you speak German?"another voice cuts in.
Before I can answer, the blond guy next to him smirks."She's here to make sure we don't sound like idiots."
"Too late for that," someone mutters, and a ripple of low laughter rolls across the room.
Brenner raises a hand."Guys."The tone is flat.Warning without effort."Miss Berger—Katharina—knows what she's doing.If there's a mic in your face, she's involved.
Follow her lead, and she'll keep you walking the line."
Then, a pause.The kind that suggests he's used this speech before.
"She's not here to babysit you," he finishes."She's here to keep your contracts intact and your public image semi-respectable.Try to behave like it matters."
I keep my face neutral.Chin high, shoulders relaxed, pen in hand.The picture of calm professionalism.Or close enough.
The rest of the briefing blurs slightly at the edges as I scan the room, quietly cataloguing names and faces.The tech specialists are here.The speed group, my speed group, too.
I mentally note three faces I'll need to brief before their next sponsor shoots, plus one guy who mumbled through his World Cup interviews last season and is already glaring at me like I'm a tax auditor.
This isn't just a meet-and-greet.It's a reputational minefield with ski boots.
But one face is missing.
He's not here.
My pulse jumps.Not a lot.Just enough that I notice it, and want to slap myself for it.
I'd prepared for this.Rehearsed every version of casual greeting.The nod.The polite half-smile.The dry, professional handshake.
And he doesn't even bother to show up.
As the meeting wraps up, I rise with the others, shake hands where I'm supposed to, murmur "Nice to meet you" on autopilot while my brain is stuck somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere up on a glacier, maybe.Two months ago.He, half-smiling over a beer.Or stroking my naked shoulder with that slow, arrogant confidence that made it hard to breathe.
Why isn't he here?
Did he skip on purpose?Is he injured?Late?Avoiding me?
I tell myself it's irrelevant.That it doesn't matter.That I came here to work.
But my fingers tighten slightly around my pen.
And for the first time since I arrived, I feel completely, unmistakably exposed.
I duck into the nearest bathroom, not because I need to, but because I need somewhere to breathe.
The mirror over the sink is too flattering.The hotel lighting is soft, kind.I lean on the counter anyway and stare at myself like I'm trying to find the version of me that doesn't care.
