God, I miss her already.
And now I have no idea whether I want the Bormio races to come fast—
—or not at all.
***
Salzburg, Austria, December 24
Katharina
The living room smells like nutmeg and something vaguely fried.Probably the last round ofVanillekipferlor whatever my younger brother tried baking.The Christmas tree glows modestly in the corner, real candles flickering gently.The wax always melts too fast, and someone will say it's a fire hazard.But we still do it every year.Some traditions are too sacred to fix.
My mother places the final touches on the dinner table—carp, potato salad, warm apple compote.The classicHeiliger Abendspread.My dad, in a slightly too-tight wool sweater, cues up the old "Stille Nacht" vinyl like clockwork.
This is home.In its own precise, muted, slightly awkward way.
"Did they let you keep the team jacket?"my dad asks between bites of salad, as if it's the most pressing question about my work.
"I didn't steal it," I reply."It's part of the comms package.Branding.Visibility."
He nods, clearly not satisfied.
"And the skiers… do they tell you things?About setup, tactics, waxing?"
I smile into my fork."Dad, I'm not there to help them win races.I'm there to make sure the worldcareswhen they do."
He gives a low whistle."Still.It would be nice to know what skis Lukas is testing before the Olympics."
"Don't tell me you're stealing drills from me now," I tease.
"I just train the juniors," he mutters with a shrug, but there's a glint of something wistful in his eyes."Can't help wanting to stay sharp."
I nod slowly."You are sharp.They're lucky to have you."
Across the table, my mom watches the exchange quietly.She's always been more observer than participant when it comes to ski talk.Tonight, she wears a deep green blouse and her hair pulled back with a velvet ribbon.Elegant.Soft.A little tired.
When we were kids, she used to work part-time at the local physio clinic.Now she mostly volunteers and organizes community drives.Quiet things.She never complains about what she gave up, but I remember the winter I turned twelve and she stopped taking new clients altogether.Dad had just signed a contract to coach the national alpine team, and the travel schedule was relentless.
We'd open gifts without him.Eat dinner without him.Light candles, sing songs.He'd turn up a day before Christmas and be gone a few days after.And that might be all we saw from him all winter.
And she'd always say, "Don't worry, Papa's racing too.That's his Christmas."
I glance at her now, clearing plates while humming along to the scratchy carol.Her eyes catch mine, and she smiles, gently, knowingly.I wonder what she sees in mine.
She sits back down, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear."So.This Thomas boy.He's the fast one, right?"
I choke slightly on my sip of wine."They're all fast."
"But he's the one always on the posters.And in your quotes."
I look down."He's… the one who wins most often.So yes, the posters.And interviews.It's part of the job."
My mother tilts her head."He seems...intense."
"That's one word," I say, keeping my voice light."Focused.Media-trained.But real, in moments."
"That's rare."
