Charlie and the Church: Fighter
Val Gardena, Italy, December 18
NICO
The Dolomites look fake.
Pink light on rock faces, blue sky too clean, the Saslong carving a white scar down the mountain like someone took a knife to the forest. From our hotel in St. Christina, you can see the slope right out the breakfast window, the TV version and the real thing overlapping in my head.
I hitch my skis higher on my shoulder, boot bag thumping against my back as we walk the steep street to the lift. Lukas is complaining about coffee strength. Martin is trying to decide whether the Italian ladies will like his hat.
I’m quiet.
Beaver Creek feels both far away and right under my skin. Birds of Prey, the eagle, the crash, the one-ski finish, the fight on my phone after.
I shove her into the back of my head.
New hill. New weekend. Use it.
Super-G here is my chance to prove Beaver Creek wasn’t a one-off miracle with an American bird and a lucky landing. This is starting to feel like my discipline. My thing.
“She’s pretty, huh?” Martin says, jerking his chin toward the hill. “Not as dramatic as your American girlfriend in Beaver Creek, but still.”
I snort. “You talking about the slope or the women?”
“Both,” he grins.
Lukas nudges me with his elbow. “You ready for the Italian fan club, or are you still busy with the American one?”
Something in my chest tightens for half a second.
“As long as someone’s cheering when I’m on the podium,” I say, easy and light. “You two can have whoever’s left.”
They laugh. I let them.
Élise has been… present but not really there since Beaver Creek. Two polite texts about branding.Can Eiswerk count on you to wear the new helmet in Alta Badia for Italian coverage?Please repost the Super-G win with the correct tags; it’s good for the brand.
Nothing about us. Nothing real.
Fine.
She doesn’t get to follow me into the start gate.
The air grows colder as we ride up, first the gondola and then the chairlift. At the top station, we unload into the athletes’ area. Servicemen have already laid out the skis, edges gleaming. The Saslong drops away beneath us, quiet and waiting.
I roll my shoulders. Free skiing, inspection, warm-up. That’s all I need.
The rest stays at the bottom.
***
The inspection’s already done by the time the real nerves kick in.
The line is in my head. The rolls, the blind bits, where the snow talks back. Now it’s just about switching the body on.
