Thomas is staring at the diagram like he's memorizing the bruises.Not the way a coach studies terrain.Not even the way a racer analyzes risk.It's deeper.Calmer.Scarier.
Like he's already there.
His eyes track the compression line, then Carcentina, then La Konta.I can almost see the run unfolding behind them, every twitch of muscle, every millisecond decision already playing in his head.
He's not bracing for danger.
He's courting it.
Leitner points again at the diagram and speaks again.
"You want a show, fine.But this isn't a ski-cross circuit.We've already got one athlete in the intensive care and another on crutches."
"Crashes happen," the Italian snaps."Always have.You don't redesign a hill because someone made a mistake."
"Not a mistake," Leitner fires back."A misread.There's a difference."
"There's also a start list.No one's being forced to race."
There's a hum of restrained agreement, or maybe just fatigue.One of the younger coaches mutters something under his breath in French.Sitting across the room, Jonas gives me a look and an exaggerated eyebrow.I suppress a smile.
Still, I jot down a note:acceptable risk.
I don't know who said it first, but it's hanging over the room like it's carved into the ceiling.
Thomas shifts slightly.Just a weight change, one foot to the other.Then he glances across the room, and for half a second, our eyes meet.
No nod.No expression.
Just that flicker of recognition.
Then he looks away.
I don't know what I expected.Maybe something subtle.A moment after the Christmas break.We barely exchanged a hello.
I hadn't been alone with him since Crans.I thought maybe he'd stop by before this briefing, or anytime really.He didn't.But I arrived only yesterday, and he is focused like everybody else.
I don't want to interfere with his focus.Not when the bravest of them all discuss safety and risks.
I am giving him room, just hoping he understands.
***
Thomas
I walk inside the tent and almost taste the tension, the metallic flavour of fear.It's as if everyone's nerves are the strings of an old guitar.It is funny, because this hill is nothing new.The injuries made it worse, and the media made a story of them, which gave fright to the less experienced athletes.The older ones know.
I head toward the corner table where the snacks and water are.My brain's still stuck in terrain math from the briefing, but I'm half hoping to run into Katharina on the way.Not that I'd admit that to myself out loud.
She'd been around—I knew that much—but somehow we hadn't crossed paths since the vans rolled into Bormio.Not sure if that was by chance or design.Either way, it pissed me off more than I'd admit.So now I've decided to finally break that awkward silence and talk to her.
And I'm genuinely interested in what she has to say.Even if I'd rather die than admit it out loud.
Not because I'm worried, just curious.Okay, maybe a little concerned.
She always knows what's circulating online before anyone else.If someone's aunt on Twitter posted something about a blown knee from three years ago, she probably bookmarked it with a note.That's what she does: turns chaos into strategy.
I almost asked her about the latest guy they stretchered off.
