Nico picks up a pretzel. Bites it in half. Chews like it's made of cardboard.
"I’m so happy for him," he mutters.
I don't answer.
The commentators move on to the standings. A graphic fills the screen, names and times stacking in order. Thomas at the top. Then a handful of others. Swiss. Norwegian. French.
No Nico.
Because Nico isn't racing. Hasn't been racing. Won't be racing for weeks.
"And of course," one commentator says, "Nico Reiner remains out after that crash in Kvitfjell. We're all hoping to see him back for Finals in Lenzerheide, but for now, the Super-G globe race continues without him."
Nico's hand tightens on the armrest. Not dramatically. Just enough that I notice. His knuckles go white.
On screen, they cut to a graphic showing the Super-G standings. Names. Points. A gap at the top that's still wide enough for someone to close if they have a perfect race or two.
Nico's name is there. Second. Frozen.
"Still mathematically possible," the commentator says, "but he'll need a miracle in Lenzerheide—and full fitness, which remains a question mark."
Nico reaches for the remote. Doesn't mute it. Just turns the volume down a notch. Then another.
They show another replay of Thomas’s run. Close-up on his skis, the way his edges bite, the way his body flows through transitions.
"Breakthrough moment," the commentator repeats.
Nico turns away. Just slightly. Like he's checking his phone. But his phone is on the table, screen dark. He's just looking anywhere that isn't the TV.
I watch him instead of the screen.
He's shrinking.
That's the only word for it. Shrinking into the couch, into the brace, into himself. Half person, half bandage. The golden boy reduced to a spectator in his own life.
And I did this.
Not the crash. Not the knee. But the pressure that built up until he had no choice but to throw himself at a blindcompression going too fast, chasing something that was never on the hill in the first place.
I wanted freedom. Wanted to escape my father's world, his control, his cage.
Instead, I moved us both into a box where neither of us can breathe.
***
He’s still on the coach watching some soccer game, as I sit cross-legged on the bed. Doors closed, the sound of the TV from other room barely audible.
My laptop screen glows in the dim afternoon light. I have seventeen tabs open. Most of them are job sites. The Vektor job application went mute. And I have not answered any other job listing since.
I scroll through the listings again even though I have already read them all twice.
Corporate communications. Minimum five years’ experience. I have none.
PR manager for a logistics firm. Fluent German required. I am fluent. But the name Moreau is at the top of my CV and I can already imagine the Google search, the raised eyebrows, the polite rejection email three days later.
I keep scrolling.
Then I see it.
