"You heard what the doctor said. You're not ready."
"He cleared me."
"You stubborn idiot!"
He sets his phone down, jaw clenched. "What do you want me to say? That I'm scared? That I don't know if my knee will hold? Fine. I'm scared. But I'm going, anyway."
"Why?"
"Because it's Finals. Because the globe is still possible. Because—"
"Because of me." The words come out flat. Certain.
He stops. Stares at me.
"You're doing this because you think you have to prove something," I say. "To my father. To me. That you can provide. That you're enough. That you deserve—"
"Don't."
"You're risking your career because you think if you don't win, I'll leave."
His face goes white. "Not everything is about you, princess."
"Ok, but I do play a role in this." My voice cracks. "And I hate it. I hate that you're doing this for me, even if only partially. I hate that you think this is what I want."
"Then whatdoyou want?" His voice is rising now, sharp and desperate. "You want me to sit out? To watch everyone else race while I stay home with my fucked-up knee? You want me to be the guy who quit?"
"I want you to be the guy who can do what he loves ten years from now."
"I will be here in ten years."
"You don't know that."
"And you don't know I won't." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands shaking. "I have to go, Élise. If I don't, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have done it. If I—"
He stops. Looks away.
I stand, cross to the couch, and sit beside him. Close but not touching.
"You are enough," I say. "Even if you never race again. Even if you never win another globe. You're enough."
He looks at me. His eyes are red, exhausted, and I see it then—the fear he's been carrying since Kvitfjell. Since Saalbach. Since the moment we moved into this flat and everything started falling apart. And maybe, just maybe, he has been carrying this fear ever since he started racing.
"I don't feel like it," he whispers.
I reach for his hand. Hold it tight.
"I know."
"Come here," he says quietly.
I hesitate. Then I move onto his lap, careful, straddling him with my knees on either side of his hips.
He pulls me down, kisses me slow and deep, hands sliding up under my shirt. It's soft. Tender. Desperate in a way that has nothing to do with passion and everything to do with holding on.
"I can't move much," he murmurs against my mouth. "You'll have to—"
"I know,” I say and stand up to bring a condom from the nightstand.
