And I ignore it.I don't want clean.I want undeniable.
The gate judge calls ten seconds.I roll my neck once, press my poles into the snow, and lean forward.
This hill doesn't care what anyone says on the radio.
It doesn't care about caution.
It only respects boldness.
And I'm done being careful.
Beep.
Beep.
Beeeeep.
I explode out of the gate—weight forward, arms compact, every muscle trained for the line I already mapped in my head.The top section comes smooth, rhythmic.Clean edge sets through the rollers, skis biting like they're meant to.
No crowd.No breath.Just the hiss of bases and that low thrum in my legs—rage, or maybe memory.
I ski like I'm proving something.
Not to Bellini.
Not to her.
Maybe to the hill itself.
Carcentina looms fast—the long diagonal into the turn where the pitch falls away and the hill tilts wrong.
It's slicker than inspection.Light's flattened out.
Every instinct says brace.Ease off.Play safe.
I don't.
I drop in like it's personal.
Skis rattle through the compression, which is worse than yesterday.Uneven terrain throws me higher than I meant to go.My right edge flutters.For a second, I feel the tail go light—
—but I land it.Fight it.
Stay forward.
I let it run into La Konta.No check.No adjustment.Just aggression.
The blind roll hits harder than expected, but I stay tucked, hips locked over the skis.
Then comes the double fall-line, where the course slides sideways under you while the pitch steepens.I hold it.Barely.
And that last bastard turn above the finish—the one where the gate's set too high and the surface changes without warning.
I nearly lose it there.
A hard check, edge deep.My ski grabs just in time.
The crowd detonates before I even see the green light.
