As the Super-G winner, I draw attention without effort at the afterparty.
PR people steer sponsors toward me for photos. A few young women; brand reps, VIP guests, someone's girlfriend's friend, hover at the edge of conversations, then step closer.
My name gets mispronounced in American English. I correct it playfully once, then give up and smile anyway.
One woman in a perfectly styled après-ski outfit asks for a selfie. She leans into me a little too close, her hand staying on my arm longer than necessary.
Later, another laughs at everything I say and casually drops that she's "staying just across the hall" at my hotel. As we talk, she lets her fingers trail over my start bib, the big 12 still pinned to my chest.
"I've never been this close to number one before," she says, voice low and teasing. "Kind of addictive."
In my head:Winners don't have to hunt. They just stand still and the world lines up.
None of this is new. In the last two seasons on the World Cup, I've learned that a good result usually comes with at least one warm body interested in joining me under hotel covers. Having options usually feels like power.
Habit says: pick one. Let the win end how wins are supposed to end. Sex and sleep, then downhill.
Except this time, it feels wrong.
Not guilty in some moral way. More... off-brand for what I actually want right now.
"Tempting,“ I say finally. “But downhill tomorrow. If I do anything stupid, coach will kill me before the course does."
She laughs, accepting the excuse.
I know the "downhill tomorrow" line is a half-truth.
I've done stupid things before big races and still skied fine.
The real reason I let her walk away is a flash of someone else's mouth. Someone else's eyes frozen in panic watching crash videos at night.
Élise.
I catch myself thinking,It would feel cheap after her,and the thought almost makes me laugh.
Not because I suddenly believe in true love, but because anything else would feel like watered-down victory.
After one forest and one gondola, my princess has become the standard everything else is measured against.
I'm not pissed about it. I'm genuinely surprised. Almost amused at myself.
Congratulations, Reiner. You're turning down easy sex because your brain is stuck on the one woman who can't even admit she likes you.
***
Walking back toward the hotel through the manicured Beaver Creek village, bouquet still in hand, I feel that double sensation.
On the surface, I'm glowing. First speed win. Respect from rivals. Women clearly available if I wanted.
Underneath, there's a thin, insistent ache where the party failed to touch me.
The only person I actually want to celebrate with is on a different continent, possibly sitting in a marble room pretending not to care.
I check my phone for the first time since the race.
No message from her.
The high dips for a heartbeat.
