I'm wearing his hoodie as I watch it all go wrong.
The flat is cold. The radiator is doing its best, clanking and hissing in the corner, but it's not enough. I've got the hoodie pulled down over my knees, sleeves bunched in my fists, sitting cross-legged on the couch with the TV on.
Live coverage. Kvitfjell Downhill. Men's race.
The coffee I made an hour ago sits untouched on the table, cold now, a skin forming on the surface.
I've been watching since the first racer came down. Counting bibs. Waiting.
Nico is bib 7.
The commentators are talking about conditions, about the course, about who's favored. They mention him in passing. "Nico Reiner, Austria, looking to bounce back after a tough few weeks. He's got the speed, but consistency has been an issue."
Consistency has been an issue.
I dig my nails into my palm.
The screen cuts to the start gate. There he is. Red suit, number 7 on his chest, helmet visor down. I can't see his face, but I know what it looks like. Jaw tight. Eyes focused. That look he gets when he's trying to convince himself he's in control.
The beeps start.
He launches out of the gate.
I hold my breath.
The first section looks good. Fast. Clean. He's carving tight lines, tucking through the traverse, and for a second I think maybe this will be the one. Maybe this is where it clicks. Where he gets the result he needs and the pressure finally breaks.
Then I see his line through the compression.
He's not skiing the course. He's attacking it. Like he's trying to force something that isn't there.
"He's pushing too hard," I whisper to the empty room.
The camera follows him down, speed building, and I can feel it in my chest, the tightness, the dread. He's chasing something. Not the win. Not the podium.
Something that isn't on the hill.
The compression comes fast. He goes into it flat, no arc, just straight down into the roll.
"No," I say.
He crests the roll too fast.
His ski hooks.
I see it happen in slow motion even though it's real time. The way his weight shifts. The way his hands flail. The way his bodytwists, trying to save it, trying to pull back from the edge he just threw himself over.
Then he's falling.
Skis over head. Body tumbling. Snow exploding around him.
The camera loses him for a second, then finds him again, sliding, crashing into the orange B-net, the fence bending under the impact, holding him like a hand closing around something broken.
He stops.
Doesn't move.
The commentators go silent. Then one of them speaks, voice tight, professional panic bleeding through.
