Shit, I might've touched a nerve.The last thing I want is to upset her and spoil this one smooth evening, and the apparent chemistry between us.
"...good," she finishes, putting the glass down resolutely."I was just good."
"Ehm, that's a bad thing?"I raise my eyebrows.
"For me, as I believe it would be for you."
"I'm good at skiing," I say with a snort.
“No, you’re not.You’re brilliant.It comes easy to you, Thomas.”
She says my name like it’s a secret.Like she’s allowed to use it in ways no one else is.My pulse spikes.I want her to say it again—closer.Slower.
Her compliments make me uneasy and delighted at the same time.Every sports magazine says this stuff about me, but hearing her soft, melodic voice say it with that spark in her eyes—it's completely different.
And no, it's not just those pink lips and long fingers playing with her wine glass.I'm used to being admired as a superstar, used to women looking at me like I'm some kind of Greek god.But not like this.This feels different.Like I'm seen.Like, I mean something.
I want her to know she is seen, too.
I want her to know she’s not just seen—she’sfelt.Right now, I feel her in my chest, in my gut, in the tension building in my legs under this table.
God, I need to show her that I understand, that I'm empathetic and sensitive and all that women love, right?Hard to do so, when I forgot her name the minute she told me.
"You were just good and wanted to be brilliant..."
She smiles, and her eyes shine in the dim light.Yes, I got it!Points for me.
"So you stopped skiing and decided to do something you are brilliant at.Am I right?"
“Yes,” she flashes her eyelashes, but her smug smile disappears.“I chose writing and sports marketing.You know, I figured I’d never make it to be the hero of Olympic stories.So, I’d rather be the one to write those stories.”
I tilt my head, studying her face.There’s something familiar about the way she tilts her chin when she talks.
“Wait,” I say slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
She blinks, caught off guard.“On the slope this morning doesn’t count?”
“No,” I shake my head.“Earlier.I’m sure I’ve seen you in Alta Badia last winter — the after-party, maybe?You bumped into me as I…”
A sudden memory stops me mid-sentence.The truth is, I had a nameless model on my arm that night, and she dragged me into a dark hallway, willing for anything.
She laughs, eyes knowing.But she doesn’t push, doesn’t embarrass me.
“As you were tending to the PR relations?Taking one for the team, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod guiltily.“Always a team player.”
She laughs again, the sound bright and unforced.
That laugh again.I knew it wasn’t just the crash that made her unforgettable.
“But not always that kind of player,” I feel the need to add.
“Relax, Thomas,” she says, and the way she uses my name warms my blood.“I’m the last person to judge you.Anyway, you seemed a little lost that night.”
“You noticed?”I raise an eyebrow.“The whole world wrote about the perfect champion being perfect in the post-race interviews.”
“Yeah, most people tend to miss most things.But I notice.”
