"Hi." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
She smiles, small and easy. "You looked good on that last run."
"Yeah?" I arch a brow. "Professional Vektor assessment or hopelessly biased girlfriend opinion?"
"Both," she says.
That word—girlfriend—slides warm under my ribs. Not like a trophy. Like a given.
"So," I say. "How’s the glamorous life of a PR queen?"
She snorts. "Emails. Schedule changes. Athletes who think ‘media slot’ is optional. Zero glamor."
"Still sounds like queendom."
"Then my kingdom is spreadsheets."
Her mouth twitches. Mine does too.
"How’s the knee?" she asks.
I bend it once, just to show off. No brace. No tape. Just that faint tug in the cold that will probably always be there.
"Good," I say. "Glacier physio and one very annoying doctor did their job."
"And you not trying to prove your manhood in every compression helped too."
I huff a laugh. "Yeah. That."
She glances up at the glacier, then back at me, eyes softer now.
"Do you realize," she says, "this is the first pre-season I’m here with a badge and a salary, not just a last name?"
She taps her lanyard. Vektor logo. Her name. Just Élise.
"It suits you," I say.
"Standing on my own?"
"That. And the jacket."
"Yours suits you too."
I glance down at my Austrian kit. Same colors as always. Different feeling.
"Standing on my own?" I echo.
She nods. "That. And the fact you didn’t try to die for a piece of crystal last season."
My throat tightens, just a little. "Turns out I like skiing more when I’m not wondering if this run ends my career."
"Radical concept," she says. "I’m proud of you."
I should say thank you. I don’t. I just reach for her hand.
She lets me take it, fingers cold through her gloves, stepping into my space like she belongs there.
Which, finally, she does.
