“Can Lukas hold the new energy drink if he’s in the red chair?”
“What about Martin with the Omega?”
“Can Niko wear the Gilette jacket?”
Or hold a razor?”
A razor, for God’s sake.A man on the edge of blowing out his knees at 140 km/h, and they want facial grooming.
I can handle it.
I’ve done it before.
What I can’t handle, not really, is the part where I have to pretendthisis just another race.
Because it’s not.
It’s Kitzbühel.
The Streif.The Hahnenkamm.The race they all lie about not fearing.
The hill thatchangescareers or ends them.
It’s Austrian turf, Austrian blood, Austrian legacy.And Thomas Kern, golden boy, hometown hero, beautiful, reckless bastard, is standing in the start gate right now.
And I—
I’m not supposed to care.
The crowd surges.Drums.Horns.Boots stomping in rhythm like it’s a ritual.The finish zone buzzes, not just with anticipation but with reverence.
I glance at the screen.
Upper section: clean.Carved like glass, each turn so sharp you could slice your hand on it.Fluid and fast.He looks untouchable.
Then—
Then theSeidlalmsprung.
My gut tightens.It’s the jump where they fly nearly 40 meters off a crooked, falling ridge, mid-rotation.A test of angles, balance, and sheer nerve.I’ve seen veterans twist out of line and eat the netting below.
Thomas hits the rim.
And I see it.A fraction off.
His line is wrong.
Too much inside edge.Shoulders rotated just a hair too late.
He takes off like a missile with one wing bent.
Mid-air, he spins—but not clean.
He’s crooked.
Off-axis.
Too low.
