The door stays open.
And something in me snaps.
"So that's it, right?" My voice comes out louder than I mean it to. "I used to be the thrill. Your little rebellion. Now that I'm not a thrill anymore, I'm not desirable."
She stops in the doorway. Doesn't turn around.
"That's what this is really about, isn't it? You miss the version of me who was dangerous. Who was forbidden. Now I'm just... what? The guy who can't afford to take you to Saalbach?"
Silence.
"Élise."
Nothing.
She walks into the bedroom. And this time, she closes the door.
Not a slam. Just a soft, final click.
I stand there in the kitchen, hands empty, chest heaving, and the words I just said hanging in the air like poison.
***
The start gate at Saalbach feels different.
Not bad different. Just... heavier.
Maybe it's the altitude. Maybe it's the fact that anti-doping officers pulled me out of my bed at 5 AM and dragged into their room to make me piss in a bowl. I’ve done this before. But not twice in one month, they rarely target one athlete so soon after one control. Unless someone tells them to.
I shudder. Would he? He wouldn’t endanger his star athlete, but I’m clean and he knows it. So, the doping control is just a nuisance, a way to show me he can mess up life if he chooses so.
Or maybe WADA just targets me, because I am that good. Perhaps they got a call from some other federation, from the Swiss, maybe, they hate us enough to sink that low.
Still, it’s difficult to focus with that on my mind.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my legs. They feel... fine. Not electric, not buzzing, just fine. Like they showed up for work but forgot why they're here.
Good pressure, not bad pressure, I tell myself. This is what you wanted. This is what champions do.
The starter counts down.
I punch out of the gate hard, maybe too hard, and the first few turns feel like I'm skiing someone else's skis. My edges bite, but there's no flow, no rhythm. Just effort.
The course drops into a blind compression, a roll where you have to trust the terrain because you can't see what's on the other side. I know this section. I've skied it a hundred times in training.
But today, I take the direct line.
The one that's faster if you nail it. The one that's a disaster if you don't.
I send it.
For half a second, I'm airborne. The crowd noise cuts out. There's just wind and speed and the sick, weightless thrill of being untethered.
Then I land.
Wrong.
My tails hit first, my weight slams backward, and suddenly I'm fighting the mountain instead of riding it. My hands flail, my skis chatter, and I'm backseat, leaning so far back I can taste my own panic.
