"You met him, didn't you?" my father says. "At Reiteralm. During the test event."
My heart kicks.
I swallow. Keep my voice light. "Briefly. He was... charming."
"Charming." Father smiles, like the word amuses him. "Yes. I imagine he is."
He doesn't press. Doesn't ask more.
On the screen, the countdown begins.
And I can't breathe.
The starting order flashes on screen, and my father glances at the list.
"Reiner's drawn thirteen," he says. "Not bad. Middle of the pack, avoids the shady hours but still gets a clean course."
"Second in overall now," I say, keeping my tone casual. "First in the Super-G ranking after yesterday."
Father nods.
"The PR team at Eiswerk," he continues, eyes back on the screen. "I heard you had a meeting with them last week. How are they responding to you?"
"They're efficient. Ready to please. They know their place."
"Good," he says again, and takes a sip of wine. "That's important. Respect has to be established early."
On screen, they cut to the start house.
And there's Nico.
Tight shot. Mirrored goggles. Mouth set in a line of pure concentration. He's bouncing on his skis, shaking out his arms, that coiled energy I recognize from Reiteralm barely contained.
My heart slams against my ribs.
The beep sequence starts.
Three.
Two.
One.
Green.
He explodes out of the gate.
My father leans forward, wineglass forgotten. "Look at that aggression. Beautiful."
Nico dives over the Brink. The camera angle makes it look steeper than it is, a sheer drop into nothing, but he commits without hesitation. His skis chatter on the ice, edges biting, and he drives forward into the first compression.
My hands are sweating on my own glass.
Through Talon he's clean. Precise. The commentators are shouting in German about his line, his speed, and my father mutters, "Yes, yes, stay on it."
Like he's watching a racehorse he bet on. His racehorse. His investment.
Pete's Arena. The terrain rolls. Nico carves through it, hunting speed, and I can feel the rhythm of it in my own body, muscles tensing with every gate.
