I'm standing in the Witch's Cauldron, and it's living up to its name.The finish area in Adelboden is called this way because the tribune is set against the final steep, and the racers seem to ski down into a cauldron.That's boiling with fans' excitement.
The air here doesn't just hum, it howls.Drums, horns, cowbells, thousands of boots stomping into the snow-packed ground like they're conjuring something.
The air reeks of beer and smoke bombs, alpine carnival pressed into one roaring throat.
The final wall of the Chuenisbärgli hill looms above me, almost vertical.It looks impossible from down here — a sheer sheet of ice scoured raw by racer after racer, each one wobbling, fighting, bleeding time and dignity.
And then the noise shifts.Not louder — sharper.Focused.
Because there he is.
Thomas.
I've seen him race a dozen times.Watched him fly in training, lose his mind in Val d'Isère, carve Bormio like it owed him something.I know how Thomas skis when he's on.
But this—this is something else.The atmosphere in Adelboden is raw and calls for raw emotions.
The Witch's Cauldron roars around me, a blizzard of sound, steam, and cowbells, and still, I feel it: the shift.The breathless beat of something sharp and hot in my chest.
He crests the final ridge like he's got a point to make.And maybe he does, lately he does not inform me of his mental state, so I wouldn't know.
The green split flashes on the screen-0.68—and the crowd ignites.
Everyone else today flailed, lost speed, and clawed their way down the final steep.He doesn't claw.He dives.His line precise, impossibly close to the gates, like the gravity lost interest in him, stopped trying at this point.
I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until he crosses the line and it comes out in one long exhale.
Not because he won.
But because for six gates straight, I forgot how to breathe.
Because no matter how many times I watch him, no matter how prepared I think I am—
He still does this to me.
And I still don't know if that thrills me or terrifies me.
Later, I find him in the hotel lobby.He's packed his bag, moving on to Wengen, to the next speed weekend.I'm staying behind for the slalom.
I want to say something, to cross the drift that somehow erupted between us in Bormio and during the separation that followed.
I miss him, flirting with him, and the quiet moments when I saw the real him.Not the trained media darling, not the professional I deal with when I brief him on his media obligations.I miss the moments when we joked around with the guys.Because even they seem to grow quiet once I approach, feeling something has changed.
I want to break it, but brace for the impact of me crashing into his walls.
I expect coldness.
But he greets me with that casual nod and a smile.
Wow, so we are talking again, aren't we?
He reaches into his bag, pulls out a bottle of Grüner Veltliner and two glasses, and sets them gently on the table between us."Thought you might need a drink to help with your press statements."
Warmth swamps my chest like a relief.I did not even realize how much I wanted to talk to him and sit next to him.
We sit in the corner of the lounge, half in the shadows, half pretending we're not still circling something that won't quite name itself.We drink.We talk about his last interview.It feels easy again.So familiar that I can feel the warmth of it.
We talk about the race, the slope, the crowd; just enough noise to keep things light.
