"It's set for Bellini's style," Lukas says. "The Italian coaches wanted it aggressive, fast, steep, and straight. Golden Eagle's in, and the jumps are stacked."
Coach Roland skates up beside us, face unreadable under his Oakleys. "You're not here to kill yourself, Nico. But we believe you've got the power, the skills, and the guts for this." He claps my shoulder once, hard. "Trust your instincts, stay ahead of the terrain, and attack every turn. This course will test you, but you're ready."
I nod. Don't say anything. Words would break the focus starting to hum in my veins.
We push out to slip the course, one by one, carving slow S-turns down the monster.
At The Brink, I stop and look over the lip.
Steep. Icy. Blind.
Commit or die. No flirting here.
I side-step back up to re-inspect the compression into Talon, and my mind flicks to Elise without permission.
Like I am the junior idiot again.
Fifteen years old. Falling in "love" with a different ski club girl every weekend. Missing an inspection because I was kissing somebody behind the lift hut. Showing up to the start gate with my head full of her instead of the course. Getting benched by a furious coach and listening to my dad say, voice flat and disappointed,"Girls after the finish, Nico. Before the run, you love the mountain."
I learned to shove the girls in a box and lock it until the race is done.
Élise is no different. Right now I'm in love with the mountain.
Girls after the finish, Nico.
***
The start house smells like wax and adrenaline.
Wind buffets the tent. Radios crackle with split times. Coaches and servicemen move in practiced patterns around me, checking skis, adjusting poles, speaking in low voices I don't hear anymore.
Start number twelve.
Two minutes.
I hop in place to keep my legs warm, slap my thighs through the suit, test my bindings with a sharp click. My breath rasps in the cold. Heart steady but coiled, a spring wound tight and ready to snap.
On the TV monitor bolted to the tent pole, Bellini attacks the Brink. Rides Talon clean. Then gets bucked hard over Golden Eagle, landing deep but holding it, somehow staying on top of the beast beneath him. Split times flash green and red.
My brain files it like data, not drama. Where he risked. Where the course bit back.
I step into the gate line, into the shadow of the starting tunnel.
The guys disappear down the slope one by one, swallowed by the abyss. Until my knees are kissing the start gate.
The beep sequence starts.
Three.
Two.
One.
Green.
I explode out of the gate.
Tips hunting speed immediately, shoulders low, chin over the skis. Not defending. Attacking.
