And then Bormio happened.His ridiculous jealousy and possessiveness.Like I was his, like he could decide who I talk to, even when my career was at stake.
That reckless, suicidal run that made me want him and fear for him in the same breath.I wanted to tell him how much I cared that day, but I tried, and he shut me out.Cold.Silent.There were moments I started typing messages I never sent.I wonder if he did the same.But maybe he didn't, because for him, I am just a fangirl.A pair of pretty, admiring eyes to fuel his motivation.
In France, he said I was the reason he raced so well like I was just a good-luck charm.Something pretty to keep him focused.Something replaceable.In Adelboden, he practically called me a crazy fan.
That sting still lingers.
It cracked something in me.And slowly, Matteo filled the gap.
I know I'm playing a dangerous game.Matteo is an athlete, too.He´s maybe even more arrogant than Thomas.If being with Thomas meant living in someone's shadow, Matteo doesn't even pretend otherwise.His women are accessories.He just expects them to shine when he needs them to.I know that much.
Still, I'm a challenge to him.With Thomas, I don't know what I am anymore.A tool?A distraction?Something to keep his blood hot before the start gate?
And when I finally stopped giving him that fuel, he turned sullen.Clipped replies.Tight jaw.Avoidant eyes.
All this, just when I was ready to give him everything I've wanted for us since October.
It's the downhill day in Wengen.
I sit on a café terrace tucked just behind the finish zone, a half-empty espresso cooling in front of me.The race plays on the big screen inside.Behind the glass, the crowd roars, but out here, I have just enough quiet to breathe.I don't have to be part of the action to do my job, not always.I am not sure I could do so today, not with the turmoil of emotions raging in my head.
The Lauberhorn downhill is a beast.Longer than Bormio.Faster than Kitzbühel.It stretches from the high ridges above town all the way to this sleepy Alpine village, winding through forests and gliding sections and jumps that feel like they were designed to test belief, not just balance.
The skiers have to endure painful 2 and a half minutes.Imagine holding a squat position for so long, with bumps and jumps hitting your feet, making the lactate in your thighs burn so hot that every brain cell screams at you to give up.That's how they feel.
That's how Thomas Kern feels at this very moment.Though his precise line does not give a hint of the pain he must be feeling.He is as smooth as always.
He flashes across the final interval.He's fast.Not winning-fast, but fast enough to stay on the podium.The split lights up green but barely.His skis chatter through the S-bend above the finish, holding edge by grit alone.
When he crosses the line, he throws his head back, not in celebration.In exhaustion.Lauberhorn does that; it makes you empty all the reserves of strength and will.Even if you are Austria's golden boy.
I breathe out.Relief, maybe.Gratitude.He's safe.He skied well.He made it through another monster course.
But none of that undoes the sting from Adelboden.
The way he made me feel small with one sentence.The way I poured myself into wanting more—only to be reminded, again, that I'm the one who always cares too much.
I watch and write as the race unfolds, smiling for myself, seeing Lukas in the red chair.He made it, he earned it, and I know that Thomas is happy for his best buddy.Maybe even happier than he would have been with a win.
The camera cuts to the leaderboard:
Lukas is first.
Thomas is in third.
And Matteo sandwiched between them in second, wearing that smug, unshakable smile like he's exactly where he planned to be.
I smile despite myself.Not for the leaderboard.For the way Matteo makes things simple—chosen, visible.It's pleasant.Yet, it isn't heat.
It's a dumb comparison, and I hate myself for making it.
But with Matteo, I don't question every glance.I don't leave the conversation wondering if I imagined the whole thing.And when he flirts, it's simple.Clear.He sees me, and he lets me know it.
It's easy because you don't care.Not really.
I hate that smartass reasonable voice in the back of my head.It voices concern in the exact moments when I am finally ready to be reckless.
Twenty minutes after the podium moment, my phone buzzes.The waiter is clearing my cup when Matteo's name flashes across the screen.
