Which makes it easier to pretend it's just about her perfect ass.
But I'm not fooling anyone anymore.
Not even myself.
My phone buzzes.I'm already pulling it out before I realize I look eager.
Kat: “Merry Christmas.Don't insult the carols.Some of us are traditionalists.”
I smirk.Tap a reply.
Me: “Still not convinced ´Stille Nacht´ qualifies as music.But I'll allow it.”
Three dots.Then nothing.
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than I should.
Inside, my mom hums along to the stereo as she packs leftovers.My dad is inspecting my race gloves like they're evidence.
This is what I come from.
But what I want—what Imightwant—feels a lot more complicated.
I slide the phone into my pocket, exhale into the cold air, and head back inside.
Some things are easier left unsaid.
For now.
Chapter 7
Sometimes We Fly - In a Helicopter
Playlist:
Imagine Dragons: Enemy
AC/DC: Highway To Hell
Bormio, Italy, December 27
Katharina
The air in Bormio doesn't welcome you.It cuts.Dry, sharp, metallic.Like the taste of fear on your tongue.
I stop halfway up the fence-line, letting the cold hit my face full-on.The slope sprawls below, steep and hostile.There's no softness to this hill, no seduction.Just punishment carved into ice.
Even the snow looks angry.Brittle crusts breaking under boots, fencing flapping in gusts that smell like metal and pine sap.I've seen dangerous hills before.This one feels personal.
The coaches are huddled twenty meters down the ridge, gesturing with poles and clipped phrases.I can hear Leitner barking something about compression zones and snow pack, his voice cutting through the wind like ski edges through glare ice.
