The mixed zone is a blur of microphones and cameras and questions I answer on autopilot.
"Nico, what happened out there today?"
I flash the grin. Easy. Practiced. "Spaghetti legs. Chamonix doesn't forgive hesitation, and I hesitated. That's on me."
"Do you think the focus on speed events is affecting your technical skiing?"
"Maybe. Or maybe the set just kicked my ass." I shrug, keep it light. "Either way, I'll do better next time."
"Next up is Saalbach. Are you worried about—"
"Nope. Saalbach is where it counts. This was just practice."
The joke lands. A few laughs. I wave, smile, and extract myself before anyone can dig deeper.
***
I'm alone now, carrying my skis back to the team cabin, boots crunching on packed snow. The sun is setting behind the mountains, turning the sky bruised purple and gold. Normally I'd stop to look. Normally I'd feel something.
Today I just feel annoyed.
It's fine.
It'sfine.
Chamonix is just Chamonix. A tech race on a brutal course in the middle of a speed-focused season. Nobody expects me to podium here. Hell, most the speed guys skip it entirely.
So why does it feel like I just failed a test I didn't know I was taking?
I shake my head, adjust the skis on my shoulder, and keep walking.
Saalbach is where it counts. Train harder. Focus more.
I'll figure it out.
I always do.
I pick up my phone.
French Princess.I smile. I saved her under that name the moment she texted me in Sölden.
Haven’t changed it. Wouldn’t change it.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Hey," I say, and just hearing her voice makes something in my chest loosen.
"Hey yourself." There's a pause. "Good race."
I huff a laugh. "Liar."
"I'm not—"
"You watched it."
"Of course I watched it."
"Then you know it was shit."
