His time.
Two racers are down already with decent times, shaking their burning legs.
But now it's Thomas Kern in the gate—bib 3—and the crowd leans forward like one held breath.
We watch the screen as he settles in the start gate, goggled face looking relaxed, planting his poles securely, getting ready to launch.
Their hero.Their golden boy.
Everyone's waiting to see if he'll pick up where he left off last season.
And honestly?So am I.
My pulse ticks high.
It's not just professional interest anymore, not after knowing him up close—too close.
Suddenly, the slope looks steeper.The ice sharper.The danger less hypothetical.
When I wrote race reports from behind a screen, the risk was part of the spectacle—gladiators on skis, chasing hundredths down walls of ice.
But one week inside this team, one week with these reckless, brilliant men, and it's shifted something.
I'm not detached anymore.
I'm invested.
And with him, especially, the stakes feel personal.
The final beep slices through the cold, and the cowbells go wild.
Thomas launches like a slingshot; clean, precise, carving that impossibly elegant line like the hill was made for him.
He floats through the first turns, skis silent, body still, his movement so efficient it barely looks real.
Then the first split lights up on the board with white numbers on vivid green.A massive lead.The shouting magnifies.
Two more splits.His margin builds.He hits the steep.
This is the part where everyone breaks.
Where they skid, hold the edge too long, lose tenths in desperation.
The ice is glass.The angle?Brutal.The burn in your legs?Unforgiving.
But Thomas Kern doesn't flinch.
He stays locked into that ridiculous line like gravity forgot how to apply to him.
He crosses the finish line a full second ahead of the field.
The crowd screams.Coaches pump fists.Camera flash.
I hold my breath as he bends to unbuckle his boots.
Glances at the board.
Flashes that perfect, maddening smile.
