One.
Go.
From the moment I launch, I stop thinking.
My skis slice through the top section like they've got something to prove.Aggressive edge angles.Straight line through the first delay gate.No correction.Just fire.
I attack the pitch like it owes me money.
The compression's coming.I drop low, trust the groove, and ride it like it's a rail.Bounce out fast, clean, and borderline reckless.
Every turn after that is instinct.Risk stacked on risk.The kind of skiing that either ends with a podium or in the nets.
But I don't crash.
I fly.
And when I cross the line, I know.
I hear the roar before I see the screen.
-0.92.First place.
I bend over, hands on knees, heart pounding.Not from exhaustion.From disbelief.
That should be good enough to fix the mess from my first run.
Unless the rest of the guys pull a miracle, there's no way to beat this run.
Fastest second run; I claw back from tenth place.
And I know damn well why.
Not just to prove I'm still the guy.Not just to send a message to the field.
I wantedherto see that.
And winning always felt good.Winning for her feels like flying.
The finish zone is a blur of noise and movement.FIS techs.Cameras.Coaches yelling into radios.Then I see her.
Katharina.Tapping her phone.
She locks her eyes with mine.
And for one second, before she schools her face, I see it.
Pride.
Not professional satisfaction.Not sponsor-friendly contentment.
The real thing.
Heat slams through me harder than the run ever did.My chest heaves, my thighs burn, sweat stings my eyes.I’m wired and restless, like I need to move, need to grab hold of something, or someone, to burn the adrenaline out.
I sit down in the red chair, still shaking from the run, shaking Niko’s hand like I didn’t just put the world on notice.We remain together across the finish zone, invisible thread still buzzing between us.
Winning always felt good.Winning for her feels like flying…and falling at the same time.
