Prologue
Playlist:
Barns Courtney: Champion
Pink: Just Like Fire
Val Gardena, Italy, Olympic Village in Ortisei, February 8
NICO
She looked at me like I was vermin, and for some pervertedreason, it only fired me up. That’s how we first met, at that wild party in France, long before tonight.
Her sweet perfume, that tilted head, and the way she studied me—like a child inspecting a strange bug. When she smiled, I felt ready for her to take me apart, wings first if she wanted.
Then her bull of a boyfriend ordered me to fuck off and dismissed me like an insolent puppy.
Now she’s here, pretending we’ve never met. She’s nothing like the glittering, posh creature from that night, just a woman in plain jeans and a buttoned-up shirt. But I know it’s her. I recognize that round, defiant chin and the way her mouth curves when she’s about to lie.
“You lost?”
Not my best pick-up line, but I’m too drunk to think of something clever.
She looks around the hall, unsure which door she entered or if she'll be sent back out.
The place is calm. A couple of Norwegians hunch over a foosball table. A muted TV in the corner lists tomorrow’s events, its captions promising dramatic snow conditions nobody believes.
The lighting glows warm, pooling softly over the room.
There’s the hum of the beer fridge, steady and expected.
And her.
Standing there like she had accidentally landed on the wrong planet. She tightens her grip on the strap of her purse, eyes flicking across the room, the tables, the athletes, the staff badges, the Olympic signs, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.
“Oh,” she says in flawless English with a barely noticeable French accent. “I thought this was the… café?”
“It sort of is,” I say. “A café. A bar. A place to make questionable decisions.”
She narrows her eyes slightly, just a hint of the cold, arrogant look I remember that still haunts me. But it is only for a split second before she shoots me a charming smile that could melt a glacier. I feel like melting, too.
“So this is how you got in.” I blink.
“Got where?”
“Here. To the so-called café you are not supposed to be in.”
“I am a reporter.” She shrugs and pats the journalist badge hanging around her neck.
I lean forward, reaching out to take the badge and examine the laminated plastic between my fingers.
