Golden Eagle approaches.
I stop breathing.
He launches.
The camera catches him mid-air, body compact, skis aligned, and for one terrifying, beautiful moment he's flying.
Then he lands.
Hard. Deep. The compression should break him, but he absorbs it, explodes out of the crouch, and keeps driving.
"Perfect," my father says, almost laughing. "He stuck it. That's the line."
My lungs remember how to work.
Through the middle section he's hunting. Greedy. Taking risks on every turn that make my chest ache. The announcers are talking about tenths, about podium pace, and my father is nodding along like he's conducting an orchestra.
Then.
Harrier section. A sharp left-hand turn.
Nico goes in tight. Too tight. Pressures the inside ski and the edge doesn't hold.
It happens so fast.
One moment he's carving. The next his skis are sliding sideways, out from under him, and he's going down.
He hits the snow. Tumbles. One ski ripping off and jumping in the air. The other still attached threatening to pull his leg to an awkward direction. The red netting rushes up, and he slams into it, body tangled, and the world stops.
"Shit," my father says flatly.
I can't move. Can't breathe. The camera zooms in. Nico's on his side in the netting, one ski torn off, the other still attached. His airbag deployed, bulky material around his torso.
"What was the idiot doing there?" Father's voice is sharp. Annoyed. "He was on the inside ski. Completely avoidable."
On screen, Nico moves. Pushes himself up to sitting.
My heart restarts.
"This could ruin our season," my father continues, voice cold with calculation. "If he's injured, if he's out for weeks—"
"For God's sake, he's ahuman being."
The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
The room goes silent.
My father turns. Slowly. His eyes leave the screen for the first time since the race started and focus entirely on me.
The television keeps chattering. Announcers talking about the crash, about Nico's grit, about whether he's injured. But the noise feels distant now. Irrelevant.
All the air has left the room.
Father sets down his wineglass with careful precision.
"Élise," he says quietly. "That was quite a reaction."
His eyes sharpen.
