"Life's not just work," I sigh."I do deserve some fun, you know.I have been working my ass off around the clock for the past two years.Built my portfolio, landed great gigs.But I need something bigger."
"I heard the Austrian federation is planning some changes in their media management section," Maddie says."This dinner might be your way in."
I laugh out loud.The idea that I would flirt my way to my career is not beneath me.It just seems ridiculous.
My phone buzzes.Maddie raises an eyebrow.I promised to switch it to airplane mode—to actually relax—but I forgot.Intentionally.
I check the notification.An email from the German federation.I skim to the end, already knowing the shape of it:
With your impressive portfolio… not hiring at the moment… We'll keep your details on file… let you know if anything opens up.
I close the message and exhale.Is Maddie right?Did I just crash into a chance?
No.Athletes—no matter how famous—don't open doors to careers.
From experience, they mostly shut them.
"Kern is not a way in," I finally say."If anything, this dinner is a possible complication."
"Sure it is.So, let us hope it's worth it."
Yeah, I hope it will be.
If it will be a complication, let it be one I control.
But no, hoping is not what I do.I'll dress up and makesureit's worth it.
Because that's what I do.
***
Thomas
The pub is dim and warm, all shadows and murmured voices.I picked a table far from curious eyes.No need to set off a storm of gossip just because I’m sitting with a girl.Even one who’s starting to feel dangerously unforgettable.
This has been my life lately.Low profile or bust.
In Austria, we World Cup skiers are basically celebrities.Gone are the days when I could pass out under a bar table without consequences or flirt my way through the tour.Not that I have the energy for that anymore.
Still, sometimes I feel too young for this.Too young to act like a responsible adult.
That's the price tag on the dream life.
I glance at her across the table.
What was her name again?
She told me.I know she did.But the way her mouth curved around her wineglass and her leg brushed mine under the table...it short-circuited the part of my brain responsible for names.
Too late to ask now.Two hours into dinner, a full-on connection happening between us, asking her name again would be a serious buzzkill.
"So, the GS skis," I start, trying to sound casual."Not the usual pick for a girl."
"For a woman, you mean," she corrects me with a confident little grin."And no, not usual.But I used to race on them.It's been years, but I've always loved the long turn.These days, I usually pick something less aggressive."
"Why did you stop?"I ask."Racing, I mean."
"I was..."She pauses, as if the question hurts, and hides her face in her glass of white wine.
