Kvitfjell, Norway, February 25
NICO
"How's the knee?"
Coach Leitner is standing beside me at the start gate, arms crossed, eyes scanning my face like he's trying to read a course report.
"Fine," I say.
"Nico."
"It's fine. Just a little stiff. I warmed up. It's good."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he glances at the other coaches standing by the timing shack. But he doesn't pull me. Because we both know what's at stake. Points.
My knee feels warm under the tape. Not good warm. Awkward warm. The kind of heat that means something's inflamed, swollen, unhappy. The team physio wrapped it this morning, three layers of kinesiology tape in a pattern that's supposed to stabilize without restricting. It doesn't. It just feels tight.
Saalbach was a disaster. Chamonix was mediocre. If I don't perform here, the overall globe slips further out of reach, and the season becomes about damage control instead of dominance.
I can't afford damage control.
Not with Élise sitting alone in that flat, pretending she's happy while her LinkedIn tab stays open and her father waits for her to come crawling back.
She’ll forget about all that when I come back home the hero she fell for.
Two downhills. Two chances.
Make this one count.
The starter calls my name. Thirty seconds.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my legs. The knee protests, a dull throb that I shove down deep where I can't feel it. I grip my poles, lean forward into the gate, and focus on the first section.
Fast. Aggressive. On the edge but in control.
I can do this.
The beeps start.
The first section is good.
Better than good. My skis bite clean, edges carving tight arcs through the firm snow. The cold air slaps my face, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like myself again. Fast. Sharp. Alive.
The first jump comes fast. I launch off the lip, compact in the air, land deep and smooth. My quads absorb the impact, the knee holds, and I'm already setting up for the next turn before my brain catches up.
Good. This is good.
The course opens up into a long traverse, speed building, wind screaming past my helmet. I tuck tight, poles locked under my arms, skis tracking straight.
130 kilometers per hour. Maybe more.
The compression is coming. I know this section. Big roll, blind on the other side, a gate set just past the crest where you have to commit before you can see the landing.
I've skied it twice in training. Taken the safe line every time, arcing wide to keep my speed under control.
But safe doesn't win races.
