"That's a bad crash. Reiner is down. Medical team is on their way."
The camera zooms in. He's on his back in the snow, one ski gone, the other still attached but twisted at a wrong angle. His hand goes to his knee. Grabs it. His face contorts, and even through the helmet, even through the distance, I can see the pain.
My chest cracks open.
They replay it.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Each time I see the same thing: the ski hooking, the body twisting, the knee buckling in a way knees aren't supposed to bend.
"Looks like a knee injury," the commentator says. "Hopefully not as bad as it looks, but that twisting motion—never a good sign."
The medical team is on screen now, red jackets surrounding him, blocking the view. Waiting for a helicopter. The stretcher appears. They're loading him onto it, careful, slow, and I can see him trying to sit up, trying to wave them off, but they don't let him.
The camera cuts away. Back to the next racer in the start gate.
Like Nico's season didn't just end in the snow.
Like the world didn't just collapse.
I grab my phone. My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop it.
I text.
Are you okay? Please answer ASAP.
The message goes to Delivered. Not Read.
Of course he does not answer, he’s being dragged to hospital.
But still, I stare at the screen, waiting for the typing dots. For anything.
Nothing.
I don't know how long I sit there. The race keeps going. Other racers come down. Times flash on the screen. Podium gets decided.
I pull the hoodie tighter around me, bury my face in the fabric that still smells like him. Like snow and cheap soap and effort.
And all I can think is:
I did this.
Not the crash. Not the knee. But the pressure that put him there.
I let him carry me. Let him think he had to prove something to my father, to the world, to himself. Let him turn this tiny flat into a kingdom he was supposed to defend while I sat here in his hoodie, playing house, pretending I was helping when all I was really doing was adding weight.
He wasn't skiing for a podium. He was skiing to pay the mortgage. To keep me here. To prove all Moreaus wrong.
And I let him.
My phone buzzes.
I snatch it up, heart hammering.
It's not Nico.
It's Katharina.
