This is belonging.
I rail the final pitch, tuck the finish jump, and cross the line in a spray of snow that tastes like metal and victory.
I look up.
Green. Comfortably green.
First.
Relief hits first, then joy, cleaner than Beaver Creek, less shocked, more natural.
I throw my arms up, ski tips together, let out a sound that’s half yell, half laugh. My legs are burning, but I feel like I could do it again right now.
***
When I reach the red chair, Katharina is already at the fence, grinning, holding out the radio. I take it, breathing hard, heart slamming.
“Reiner to top,” I say into the static. “Snow is fast, consistent. Light’s good. Ciaslat bites if you’re late. Camel Humps are clean. Send it.”
Lucas’s voice crackles back. “Copy. Good work.”
I hand the radio back and slide into the red chair.
Leader’s seat.
This isn’t a fluke.
This is two Super-Gs, back-to-back. Two for two this season.
I lean back in the chair, breathing slowing, a grin still plastered on my face.
Okay, Reiner. You’re not just the kid who got lucky with an eagle. You’re actually good at this.
The thought sits there, solid and real, as the next racer crosses and slots into third.
Still green. Of course it is. I don’t even feel nervous, ’cause I know it’ll take a miracle to beat my time.
***
The podium in Gardena is smaller than the one in Beaver Creek but somehow louder. Italian cowbells clang like church chaos, flags snapping in the cold wind, red, white, and green mixing with Austrian red and white. The crowd is packed tight, pressed right up against the barriers, close enough that I can see individual faces grinning up at me. It feels more intimate, less stadium and more festival.
I stand on the top step, anthem playing, and let myself feel it. Second speed win. Back to back. Super-G leader. The high is there, sharp and boyish and real, but it doesn’t knock me sideways the way Beaver Creek did. This time I expected it. Thistime, I earned it without taking unhealthy risks and a miracle landing. This time it feels like mine.
The trophy is heavy and cold in my hands. I grin for the cameras, throw an arm around the Swiss guy in second, and wave to the crowd. I pop the champagne like a pro, like I’ve done it a thousand times, and we spray each other like idiots, sweet liquid sticking to my neck as we clink bottles and take a sip. The crowd roars at our little show, and I lift my bottle toward them.
For the first time, I feel like I belong here, at the top of the podium.
Back in the dining room of our hotel, I finally get my phone back.
The screen lights up like a slot machine. Team group chat is blowing up with fire emojis and champagne GIFs. A voice note from my mom that’s probably her crying happy tears again. My dad’s text is short: Solid. Clean. Keep it up. Three messages from the Eiswerk rep, one from my fan club, and one from some energy drink I don’t even remember signing with.
I scroll through it all, half-smiling, not really reading.
I’m looking for one name, and I hate myself for it.
Nothing.
My jaw tightens.
