The manager nods. “In this very discipline.”
I take a careful sip of coffee from the paper mug. “And this is…?”
“Giant slalom. There are four events. Downhill is the fastest, pure adrenaline. Super-G, also fast but with more technical turns. Giant slalom, what you’re watching now. And slalom; very tight, fast turns around poles.”
He says it like everyone grows up knowing the difference; I file it as “fast but not yet suicidal” and pretend that helps.
“And Reiner races in all of them?”
“All but the last. He’s a speed guy; downhill, Super-G, giant slalom. He’s the future.”
I nod, pretending to take notes, but my focus is gone. The course is a ribbon of blue lines on white ice. They announce hisname. The crowd erupts. A wall of noise and flags, energy hot enough to cut through all this Alpine frost.
Nico bursts out of the start gate like he’s been shot from a cannon. For a second he’s just a streak of blue and red against the white, and I actually forget to breathe. He drops into the first turn so low it looks wrong, body folded in half, knees like hinges that should snap but don’t.
He doesn’t move like the others I watched on YouTube last night, all smooth and elegant, like some polite little ballet on ice. He’s violence. Sharp, jerky, alive. He throws himself down the hill like he’s furious at it, carving these brutal lines that make the whole mountain look too small for him. Every time he hits one of those red or blue poles, it explodes in a puff of snow like someone fired a gun.
He keeps picking the crazy option. The closer-to-the-pole way, the wait-until-the-last-second way, the kind of thing any sane person would avoid if they liked all their bones where they are. His skis chatter so hard I’m sure they’ll fly off, his upper body somehow calm while everything underneath him is chaos.
“He’s going to fall,” I blurt, half-standing, clutching my coffee so hard the cup buckles. His hip scrapes so close to the snow it looks like he’s lying down, one breath away from being just another broken doll at the bottom of the hill. My heart is trying to escape through my throat.
He flies over a bump I didn’t even notice with the other racers, just lifts off for a heartbeat, nothing under him but air and speed, then lands as if the snow reached up exactly where he wanted it. Of course he meant to do that. Who skis like this on purpose?
By the time he shoots over the finish line, my whole body is buzzing. The crowd detonates outside, and numbers flash on the screen—time, rank, whatever. I can’t make sense of any of it. My pulse is louder than the announcer’s.
“He won, right?” I manage, aiming for bored and precise, like I’m just checking a line on a report.
The manager doesn’t even hear me; he’s too busy cheering. But the way the other skiers swarm Nico at the bottom, the way his name booms over the speakers, the way he rips off his helmet and throws his head back with that wild, boyish grin—I don’t actually need the answer.
Of course, he won. No universe would let someone ski like that and not win.
He’s still panting, adrenaline pouring off him, as the crew wheels out the makeshift podium and announces the top three.
“Oh,” I say, a playful glint in my voice I don’t even recognize. “I should be down there for the ceremony, shouldn’t I?”
“Not yet, Miss Moreau,” the Eiswerk guy answers in a fatherly tone I immediately resent. “This is just for the crowd. They’ll do the interview, and only then the official ceremony starts. I’ll make sure you’re in the right place at the right time.”
Face to face with Nico Reiner is definitely the wrong spot and the wrong time.
But this is what I came for, isn’t it?
***
The noise of the crowd is a living thing at the finish, pressing against me as I step out from behind the barrier with the trophy cradled in my gloved hands. The air is sharper here, thick with the scent of snow, sweat, and anticipation. Half the fans have already left, to enjoy their skiing holiday, to drink their beer, to have lunch. Two hours ago, I wanted nothing more than to be gone as well, but here I am, standing on my freezing toes, grinning in anticipation.
But I bury the thrill, I am the Moreau girl; I must behave.
Nico stands at the foot of the podium, helmet under his arm, hair a wild mess from the run, cheeks flushed and bright against the cold. His gaze snags on mine, eyes flaring wide before that cocky smile sharpens, locking onto me like there’s no one else here.
They announce third place, then second, and finally the winner’s name. The crowd roars, a wave of noise crashing over us, and someone nudges me to step forward.
I walk to the podium, conscious of every step, every sharp click of my heel on the icy mat. Every movement feels choreographed, exposed. I can feel the cameras, the sponsors, the team staff watching, weighing every blink and breath.
I hold the heavy silvery trophy in front of me like a shield.
“Congratulations, Mr. Reiner,” I say smoothly, my voice perfectly modulated; years of training wrapped around a pulse that’s completely out of control. Only my eyes betray me.
I hand him the trophy. His hand closes over mine, warm and steady, heat seeping through leather and cold. The contact is a jolt straight up my arm. He leans in, just enough that his breath brushes my ear.
