I zip my gear bag with a sharp, violent tug. I’m already mapping out the next race, the next gate, the next podium. Shethinks she’s untouchable, but she’s just like the Hahnenkamm or the Super-G globe. You just have to be fast enough to catch it. You just have to want it more than the guy next to you. I’ve spent my whole life chasing things that shine; I’m not about to let the brightest one stay on the shelf.
Chapter 2
The Golden Boy and the Ice Queen
Playlist:
Offspring: You’re Gonna Go Far Kid
Ruby Darkrose: Mine Tonight
Sölden, Austria, October 25, The Season Opener
ÉLISE
There are French prisons with more comfort than a World Cup VIP box on the glacier at Sölden. I stand, shivering in my fur coat, toes already numb despite heated insoles and the best that Hermès cashmere can do. The air is blue from cigarettes, filled with the low rumble of sponsor-dads with faces like enthusiastic clowns.
Above us, a ring of mountains gleams in the sun. The glacier stares down majestically, making people feel small. At least people who care about that sort of thing. As if the cold monster cared about people at all.
So much for “exclusive.” The only luxury is the view: a sea of fans below, half of them shirtless, painted in red and white, banging on drums and singing. It’s chaos.
Welcome to the circus, Élise.
I hate the cold. I hate all of this. And yet, here I am on a Sunday morning, pretending to enjoy the spectacle with a frozen smile. My father would have cheered himself hoarse. Me, I shiver and try to avoid the eyes of anyone I know, tracing the red-and-blue course zigzagging down the glacier, wondering how much longer I must play the dutiful daughter before I can escape to the spa. I promised to take his place, to represent the family, though I’d rather knock that smug smile off his face.
I want a life where my brain is useful and my last name is incidental; today I’m still the prop he sends instead of showing up himself.
Well, Dad, I’m not here to play your game. I’m here to burn my fingers on something far more dangerous.
A man in an Eiswerk jacket, mid-fifties, ruddy from years of alpine air, leans over with a practiced sponsor’s smile. “Mademoiselle Moreau, I am glad you made it. First time at a race? The atmosphere’s something, isn’t it?”
“It’s… loud,” I say, truth escaping before I can catch it. “And cold.”
He laughs, nodding toward the crowd. “Ah, you get used to it. Especially when you’ve got something to cheer for.” He checks his clipboard. “Second run. Only the top thirty get to race again, and the order is reversed. Makes it dramatic.”
I try to look interested. “So, who is the best of ours?”
He grins. “Reiner. He’ll start last. Eyes on him.”
Reiner. Of course, he’s the best. Like I’d fall for second best.
Reiner doesn’t know that night in Val d’Isère was the first time I broke script, or that I followed him into the Olympic village when I saw him the second time. That I couldn’t help following him.
Nor does he know I came all the way to the glacier to see him race. To meet him again.
“I don’t need it to remember your taste…”
“Reiner… he has an Olympic silver, right?” My voice comes out too soft, too sure.
Great start Elise, like you didn’t know. You fucked him while the silver hung on his neck.
