I'm already walking past, cup in hand, pretending I didn't hear a damn thing.Pretending I'm not dissecting every flicker of her expression like I'm reviewing slow-mo gate footage after a bad run.
I nod.Quick.Flat.
Her smile falters.Just for a second.
Bellini notices.Of course he does.And smirks like he's just won something.
I think about stopping.About cutting in, saying something—anything.
But I'm not about to beg for her attention in front of him.
Not when my pulse is this high.Not when I don't trust what I might say.
So I keep walking, straight out of the tent.
I don't even know what I was planning to say.
Ask if she thought the hill would be softened?
If she still thought I was reckless… or worth watching?
Maybe I just wanted her to look at me like she used to.Like I was the only man in the world.
But I just saw with my own eyes that I'm not.
If I were, she sure as hell wouldn't flash those lashes at him, right?
Doesn't matter now.
Let her talk to Matteo.Let him flash that stupid Italian smile and wave his greasy media favors around like he's some kind of prize.
If that's what gets her attention—fine.
I'll do what I do best.
Let the skis do the talking.Beat the shit out of this hill that's supposed to make us shiver.
Show them both who the best skier in the world really is.
The race day is here.The course inspection is on the way.
The first time I skied Bormio, I was seventeen.I don't remember the whole run, just the sound of my own breathing and the moment I realized I'd either learn something here or break something.I didn't break anything that day.Not physically.
But this hill has a long memory.
Today, it's quiet.No music blasting from the finish zone.No influencers taking photos at the barrier.Just the sound of boots on ice and the scrape of edges.The occasional whistle from one of the gate judges.Everything else goes silent.Or that's how it seems.
I click into my skis and start side-slipping into the first pitch.My poles drag behind me, lazy, like I'm not here for blood.
But I am.
The sun's low behind the ridge, throwing half the slope into shadow.I let my eyes adjust, studying the surface like it's a live thing.The line is nearly identical to last year's, but that doesn't mean it'llfeelthe same.The snow's drier.The ice holds deeper.The middle section's tighter than I remembered.
I know which line Bellini will choose.
I know which I'll choose.
I imagine his run.Loose, flashy, arrogant.And fast, no doubt.Fast enough to make headlines if he holds it.
