I stop. Stand still for a second. Breathe.
It's just an inspection. You're barely moving.
But later today I'll be going 100 kilometers per hour through this section. Later there won't be time to ease off.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone.
Coach Leitner is waiting at the finish. Arms crossed. Face tight.
"How's it feeling?" he asks.
"Good. Snow's firm. The line's clean."
"I'm asking about your leg."
I meet his eyes. "It's fine."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he glances at the doctor standing a few meters away.
"Nico." His voice drops. Serious now. "You ski it clean, or you don't ski it. No hero lines. No sending it blind. You understand?"
"I understand."
"I mean it. I’m not signing off on a career-ending gamble so you can crash while chasing a shiny globe."
The words land harder than I expect.
"I'm not proving anything," I say. "I'm racing."
"Are you?" He studies me. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to win something that's already gone."
I don't answer.
He sighs, shakes his head. "I'll see you at the start tomorrow. Don't be stupid."
Then he walks away.
I stand there for a moment, skis still on, staring at the finish area.
The course is burned into my muscles now. Every turn. Every compression. Every place where I'd normally let it fly.
But so is the fear.
Not the good kind. Not the adrenaline that makes you faster. The other kind. The kind that whisperswhat if.
What if the knee gives out mid-turn?
What if I crash again, harder this time, and it's not a partial tear but something worse?
What if I walk away from this race and never come back?
I think about Élise. The look on her face in the bathroom. The way she said she'd love me even if I never won again.
I didn't believe her.
I still don't.
Because if I'm not fast, if I'm not winning, if I'm not the golden boy everyone expects—then what am I?
