I don't need to get closer to know what they're arguing about.Everyone here thinks the same thing: someone will get hurt.
Again.
A crackle from the speakers confirms it.
"Training run suspended.Reiner transported to hospital.Possible severe concussion."
That's two wrecks in forty-eight hours.One guy's already flying home with a shredded knee and broken ribs.Now this.
I go still.
Nobody's pretending this hill is easy.But nobody's panicking either.They've all been here before.
I haven't, though.
Down by the fence, two older locals watch like they've seen every run since the eighties.One mutters something in a dialect I don't fully understand—but I catchgladiatori.
Gladiators.
A little much.But not entirely wrong.
I shift my weight, trying to shake the chill working its way down the back of my neck.There's a tightness in my shoulders I didn't notice until now.Probably because I haven't slept well in three nights, and perhaps because I know who'll be launching off that hill first thing tomorrow.
And no, I'm not supposed to think about him.
I thought we'd talk again after Crans.Maybe run into each other at the next briefing.Perhaps he'd come find me to spend a minute alone.He didn't.And I didn't either, not even sure why.Days passed, and silence grew teeth.
Now I don't even know what I'd say if he did show up, expecting the connection we experienced before Christmas.What changed?
What changed after the party in Val d'Isère?We were honest, maybe too honest.Some things are better left unsaid.I warned him.
I pull out my phone and open a note.Usually, I'd write this sort of thing in my little paper notebook, as nothing beats pen and paper.But out here, it's touchscreen or nothing; there's no room for notebooks, and ink freezes in the pen.
I type with frozen thumbs:
Bormio doesn't forgive.The hill is dry ice and memory.Athletes respect it.The snow does not.
I stare at the words.Read them twice.
They're dramatic.Almost too much.
But they're true.
I press save on the note, then slide my phone back into my pocket.
It's just Bormio.They all know how to handle it.
I shiver.
Apparently, I'm the one who doesn't.
When did I start caring so much?
The conference room is packed.Most athletes usually miss these meetings, but after the two helicopter flights from the past few days, everyone is drawn into the safety debate.
No one smokes indoors anymore, not even here in Italy.
But the room still remembers when they did, with Italians, old habits die hard.
