Katharina closes her laptop halfway. Fuck. That means I have her full attention now, and that's never good.
"Oh," she says, voice flat. "Just a hook-up. Thatserious."
I wave a hand, grinning wider because if I stop grinning, she'll know I'm lying. "Yeah. You and Thomas aren't the only people to enjoy a forbidden romance in the circus. Relax."
She doesn't relax. She leans forward, and suddenly she's not Katharina-the-PR-manager. She's Katharina-who-knows-what-it's-like-to-fall-for-the-wrong-person-in-this-world.
"Thomas and I were stupid enough when we started," she says quietly. "And we're adults. You're still basically a kid with a rocket strapped to his feet." Her gaze pins me in place. "She's a spoiled princess whose father ownsyour skis. That's not romantic, Nico. That's dangerous."
The knot in my stomach tightens. I shove more food into my mouth so I don't have to answer right away.
"You do realize," Katharina continues, softer now, "the guys are here for you if you want a piece of advice, right? Not just about lines and skis."
I swallow. Force the smirk back onto my face. "Advice like 'stay away from her'? Too late."
"No." She shakes her head. "Advice like 'how not to screw this up.' Seriously. Call Thomas. He knows exactly what happens when you mix racing, sponsors, and sex."
For a second—just a second—I almost take her seriously. Almost pull out my phone right here and text Thomas:Help. I'm in over my head.
But then the weight of Birds of Prey crashes back in. Inspection in two hours. My first real shot at podium speed on American snow. The guys watching to see if I can carry the team now that Thomas is gone.
I can't afford feelings right now.
I stand, clap Katharina on the shoulder, grin down at her like none of this is heavy. "If I call Thomas before the Super-G, he'll talk for an hour about feelings, and I'll miss my start."
I grab my tray, toss the rest of my terrible coffee back like a shot. "Anyway. Today I'm married to Birds of Prey." I flash her my best golden-boy smile. "Mistress calls later."
Katharina watches me go. I can feel her eyes on my back, the weight of her worry, the certainty that she doesn't believe a single word I just said.
I don't believe me either.
But I'm really good at pretending.
World Cup level of pretending.
***
The snow here is weirdly perfect, like a FIS official married a snowcat and they had a very precise baby. In Austria, the hill always feels a bit wild, a bit drunk. This one feels… American. Overachieving.
Even the Beaver Creek village beneath us looks like someone googled "alpine charm" and built it from stock photos.Everything is cute and clean and somehow still feels like a shopping mall. I half-expect a Starbucks at the start gate.
The chairlift ride up is brutal and quiet. Three of us crammed onto the Birds of Prey Express, skis dangling, wind cutting across the open seat. No walls, no shelter, just cold mountain air and a clear, brutal blue sky that makes everything look sharper than it should.
I've got my headphones in, but nothing playing. I just need the illusion of distance for a while, Lukas's nervous energy vibrating off him beside me, the weight of being the guy who has to carry this now that Thomas is gone, pulling me down.
I stare out at the mountain rising around us, other chairlifts crawling up parallel lines with other teams dangling from them like prey. The course cuts down through the trees below, steep and unforgiving even from up here.
Race mode settles over me like armor.
We step off at the top into air so thin it bites. Over 3,400 meters. Every breath puffs white, sharp and cold in my lungs. The start gate sits just above The Brink, that first steep plunge that separates the brave from the broken. Coaches and servicemen stamp their feet to stay warm. Radios crackle.
I drop my skis on the snow, clip in, and the world narrows to me and the course I am about to inspect.
Red gates. Blue gates. Terrain names that sound like predators: The Brink, Talon, Pete's Arena, Golden Eagle, Harrier, Red Tail.
Lukas mutters beside me, adjusting his goggles. "Only here do you get three separate volunteers asking if you're 'having a great day' while you're trying not to puke from nerves."
I smirk, but my eyes are already tracing the first pitch. "It's brutal. I can feel the speed just standing here."
