By the time he climbs down, someone’s handed him a team jacket and a cap. He’s zipping up when a print journalist steps in with a notebook, pulling him aside before he can even fully catch his breath. Nico leans against the barrier, laughing at something the man says, wiping champagne residue from his jaw with the back of his glove.
Yesterday, I showed up at his hotel room after the Super-G wearing a dress I’d chosen specifically because it made my collarbone look like something worth kissing. I’d kissed him first, tasted his surprise turn to heat, felt his hands drag mecloser, his body answer mine… and underneath it, that thin line of resistance.
So I’d leaned in harder, shameless in a way I don’t allow myself to be, trying to tip him over the edge.
He’s the one who stopped. Hands closing around my wrists, breath rough, eyes dark. No.
Not because he didn’t want me—my body had felt every argument to the contrary—but because he “needed to focus” for the downhill.
Focus over me. Over us.
I went for him, risked being caught, braved all my fears, just to be with him. And he said no.
Now he’s down there basking in camera flashes, and I’m up here with men in Eiswerk jackets who haven’t looked at me once.
His interview ends. A cluster of fans presses against the barrier, waving flags and phones. A young woman in an Austrian scarf calls his name.
He turns to her immediately.
She asks for a selfie. He leans in close, arm around her shoulders, says something that makes her throw her head back and laugh. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t calculate. Just tilts her phone, grins, and clicks.
Three seconds. Easy.
My fingernails dig into my palms through the silk lining of my gloves.
For a second, I picture myself doing that—stepping up to a barrier, asking for a photo, smiling without weighing every angle against the risk of a headline.
My father’s voice in my ear: I trust you’re not doing anything stupid, Élise.
The girl in the scarf walks away, still grinning, checking the photo on her screen.
I stand perfectly still and hate how easy she made it look.
Nico finishes with the fans and scans the crowd. His eyes find me at the edge of the restricted area. Something shifts in his expression—expectation, maybe. He pushes through the barrier and heads toward me, still half lit by that media glow, the easy smile lingering.
He’s waiting for me to say something. Congratulate him. Tease him. Play the game.
“Second place,” I say. My voice comes out smooth, controlled. “Not bad for a poor boy from Salzburg.”
The smile dies.
I meant to tease, not cut, but it’s hard to tell the difference when my pride is still bruised from last night’s ‘no’.
His jaw tightens. The light in his eyes goes flat.
I feel the ice in my own words a heartbeat too late.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
A roar goes up from the crowd as another time flashes on the board. His gaze has already slid past me toward the team area, jaw still locked. If he heard the apology, he doesn’t show it.
His hands grip the barrier between us. They’re still shaking—knuckles scraped and red, fingertips white from the cold. Up close, I can see the fine tremor in his shoulders, the way his breath comes too fast, uneven. His pupils are still blown wide, black swallowing brown.
He looks wired. Fragile.
Raw.
“Come have a drink at the lodge,” he says. His voice is tight, stripped of the charm he gave the cameras. “Or wait for me at the hotel.”
