Kitzbühel, Austria, December 24
Thomas
My mother hands me a gingerbread cookie shaped like a ski boot.
"That's not regulation," I mutter, inspecting the icing job.“It´s missing a buckle.”
She snorts."You're not regulation either."
The tree glows by the fireplace—tiny white lights, no candles, thank God.There's a paper ornament of a snowflake I made when I was five hanging front and center.Apparently, no one has the heart to throw it away.
My father leans back in his chair, swirling his tea like it's whiskey.A wax-stained photo album is open on the table.He's been pulling it out every Christmas since my Europa Cup debut.Right now, it's open to a shot of me at two years old, shirtless, covered in wax flakes, holding a scraper upside down like it's a magic wand.
"I tried to teach you early," he says with gruff amusement.
"Yeah.That's probably why I still don't understand a damn thing about ski tech."
My mother laughs."And thank God for Roman."
"Roman's a genius," Dad agrees."He could make a garbage can glide if you asked nicely."
"I do ask nicely," I say."Usually with a beer in one hand and a question I already forgot."
"Still don't know your edge angles?"he asks, not looking up.
"I know they're sharp."
"That's what you always say," my mother chimes in.
I grin.This is our rhythm.Dry, deflective, warm underneath.Nobody gets weepy.Nobody asks how youfeel.If someone did, I'd probably choke on my beer.
Dad closes the photo album."You're lucky, you know.Most guys don't get a wax tech like Roman."
"I know."
And I do.I just never say much about it.
After dinner, I step outside.The snow is soft, fresh.Quiet.
I tug my jacket lower and lean against the railing, staring at the pale halo of light around the streetlamp.
A soft voice behind me says, "Still allergic to socializing, huh?"
I turn.It's Lena.
Wool coat, wine-colored scarf.The same soft eyes I used to adore.She's smiling.Like always.
"Hey," I say."Didn't expect you."
"I was dropping something off at my cousin's.Thought I'd say hi."
We hug.Polite.Familiar.Safe.
"Merry Christmas," she says.
"You too."
She pauses."Still skiing like a lunatic?"
