***
Reiteralm, Austria, February 15
ÉLISE
He's on the floor when I get out of the shower, resistance band looped around one ankle, ice pack strapped to his knee with a neon-green wrap that looks like it came from a children's hospital.
He's counting reps under his breath. His face is tight, jaw clenched, and every time he extends his leg, I see the flicker of pain he's trying to hide.
"How's the knee?" I ask, toweling my hair.
"Fine."
"Nico."
"It'sfine, Élise. Just a little beat up. Happens."
I don't push. I've learned not to push when he's like this.
I sit at the table with my laptop, the screen glowing in the dim light of the flat. Outside, the mountains are black shapes against a darkening sky. Inside, the radiator clanks, the fridge hums, and Nico grunts through another set.
I pull up the tab I've been staring at for the last two days: Vektor's careers page.
Senior Crisis Communications Consultant–Salzburg.
It's perfect. It's exactly the kind of role I was trained for. High-stakes, high-visibility, the kind of work that would make my father's jaw tighten because he'd know I didn't need him anymore.
I read the description for the third time, my finger hovering over the "Apply Now" button.
Behind me, Nico swears softly and drops the band.
"This equipment is garbage," he mutters, sitting up and yanking the ice pack off. "Half the gym is broken, the wax tech is an idiot, and the federation keeps changing the travel schedule like we're cattle."
I don't turn around. "You said the gym was fine last week."
"Yeah, well, last week I wasn't skiing like I've forgotten how to turn."
I close the laptop. "You didn't forget how to turn. You just—"
"I skied out, Élise. In a downhill. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
I do know. I watched his second Saalbach race. I sat in this flat, alone, the TV on in the background, watching his bib number appear in the start gate. I watched him launch down the course, carving through the first section with that reckless confidence that used to thrill me.
Then I watched him miss the gate. The camera stayed on him the whole time, following as his skis went wide, as he fought to recover, as he realized too late and skied straight through. His name flashed red on the leaderboard. DNF. Did Not Finish.
The commentators replayed it. Over and over. The moment he missed the gate, skis chattering, his body fighting for control he didn't have. They called it "uncharacteristic" and "unfortunate." I called it terrifying.
I wanted to call him. I didn't.
"It happens," I say quietly.
"Yeah, to rookies. Not to me."
He stands, limping slightly, and grabs a water bottle from the counter. He drinks half of it in one go, then leans against the sink, staring out the window like he's waiting for the Alps to apologize.
I open the laptop again. Stare at the job posting.
"I'm thinking about applying for something," I say.
