I look up at the board.
Green.
Not by hundredths. Enough that the stadium roars harder.
First place.
For now.
My brain is still on the last gate while the world is already celebrating.
Then it hits.
I scream, punch the air, slam my fist against my chest. The sound that rips out of me isn't words—it's pure, animal triumph.
I just owned Birds of Prey.
***
The red chair feels like a throne I'm not supposed to be sitting on.
Leader's seat. Hot seat. Whatever the Americans call it—I'm in it, watching the board, watching the course, watching guys come down and slot below me.
Seventh. Twelfth. Fifth.
My name stays on top.
I can't stop grinning. Can't stop bouncing my knee. Can't stop replaying Golden Eagle in my head, that perfect, terrifying moment of air and commitment that somehow,somehowworked.
The best guys have already gone. Claessen. Reese. A few others who could've taken it.
They didn't.
I did.
But there's still time. Still racers. I won't let myself believe it until the last guy crosses and my name is still green.
Then Matteo Bellini, the second best and a living legend, comes to shake my hand.
Helmet off, sweat-soaked, breathing hard. He's grinning—not the fake podium grin, but something real and a little rueful.
He extends a gloved hand.
"That was a hell of a run, Reiner," he says in German, Italian accent thick, eyes bright. "Golden Eagle—you went for it. Respect."
I blink. Take his hand. Shake it.
"Thanks," I say, caught off guard. "You skied clean. That line through Talon was perfect."
He shrugs, still grinning. "Perfect gets you second today." He claps my shoulder, hard enough I feel it through the padding. "Enjoy it while you can. Next one is mine."
I grin back, can't help it. "You can borrow my view from up here anytime."
He laughs, shakes his head, and strides off toward the media zone.
I watch him go, surprised.
Thomas and Matteo Bellini had this wholething—some stupid fight, some rivalry I never really understood. Thomas always made it sound personal.
