Just some guy with a busted knee and a mortgage he can't afford.
I push off toward the team area, skis chattering on the firm snow.
The course is ready.
I'm not sure I am.
***
The start area is chaos.
Coaches shouting splits into radios. Techs scrambling with last-minute wax adjustments. Racers in bright suits doing practice starts, explosive bursts that shake the snow off the fencing.
I'm sitting on a bench twenty meters from the start house, warming up. Or trying to.
My knee is wrapped tight under the brace, strapped so firmly I can barely bend it. The physio taped it this morning with three layers of kinesiology tape in a pattern meant to stabilize without restricting.
It restricts.
Every squat sends a dull throb up my leg. Every practice start makes the joint feel loose, unstable, like something that used to hold and doesn't anymore.
I watch the other racers. Their knees bend smooth, explosive, and confident. Mine creaks.
On the big screen mounted by the start house, they're showing live coverage. A Swiss racer just finished his run. Clean. Fast. Top three so far.
The commentators are talking about the course. The compression in the middle section. "Unforgiving," one of them says. "We've already seen two racers nearly get bucked off their line there."
I think about the jolt I felt during inspection. The electric warning that saidcareful.
At race speed, there won't be time to be careful.
"Reiner! Start tunnel! Let's go!"
The starter's voice cuts through the noise.
I stand, grab my skis, and start walking toward the entrance to the start tunnel.
My heart is pounding. Not the good kind. Not adrenaline. The other kind. The kind that saysthis is wrong.
Thomas walks over, stops beside me. "You good?"
"Yeah."
"Knee holding up?"
"Yeah."
He studies me for a second, then nods. "Go get it."
I don't answer.
The start tunnel is narrow. Fencing on both sides. A covered pathway that leads directly to the start house. Two racers are already inside, waiting their turn. I can see them ahead—stretching, shaking out their legs, psyching themselves up.
I clip into my skis at the entrance. The bindings snap into place with a familiar click.
I should move forward. Join the queue. Wait my turn.
I don't.
