Because for those hundreds of seconds on the slope?
He wasn’t a man.
He was a storm.
And I loved every terrifying second of it.
***
Thomas
The anthem plays.My chest is rising and falling like it can’t decide whether to keep breathing or explode.
I stare straight ahead, chin up, boots anchored to the podium's highest step.There’s steam rising from the crowd.Thousands of flags.Faces blurred with the tears in my eyes.I hear the roar, feel it vibrating in my sternum, but it’s like I’m wrapped in glass.Like I’m watching myself from outside my own body.
I did it.
I won the Hahnenkamm.
I won at Kitzbühel.
The Golden Gams trophy is mine.And for a second, it’s not about points or seasons or contracts.It’s about the kid who stared at this hill with frozen fingers and stars in his eyes.It’s about my mother wiping her own tears on her jacket, about my father nodding like he knew all along.
They’re here.I see them.Right front row.My mother’s hand over her mouth.My father’s eyes shining like ice.
And I see her.
Katharina.
Tucked just behind the sponsor barricade.Press badge slung around her neck.Trying to look busy.
I smile at her.Can’t help it.
Because right now, I’m not angry.I’m high.I’m on fire.I’m untouchable.
Let her be what she wants.Let her choose clean lines and clever flirts and safe little dinners.I’m not here for her.
I’m here for this.
The hours after are a blur of noise and velvet ropes.
“Thomas!One quote for ORF?”
“Thomas!Over here!With the President!”
“Can we get you to hold the logo, just—”
Smiles.Handshakes.Flashbulbs.
Arnold Schwarzenegger claps me on the shoulder like we go way back.
“That run,” he says.“Pure Terminator shit.”
I laugh.Half-drunk on adrenaline.“I’ll take that.”
And behind the ring of lights, I catch her watching.Katharina.
Her gaze skims over me, but she doesn’t step forward.Doesn’t smile.Just nods to someone on the phone and walks toward some TV production van.
