I hit send.
The message leaves in a small, traitorous blue bubble.
Behind me, my father says my name once, a warning dressed as concern.
“Coming, Papa,” I call over my shoulder.
But my hand stays on the phone a second longer, thumb resting on the screen, as if it is the only real thing I am holding.
Chapter 9
Hinterstoder Ghosts
Playlist:
Aaron Pierre, Tiffany Boom: Tell Me It’s You
Idina Menzel: Let It Go
Hinterstoder, Austria, January 2
NIKO
The Hannes-Trinkl Strecke looks harmless from the bottom.
From up here, it looks like a bad idea carved into a mountain.
I shuffle my skis to the edge of the start pitch, jacket zipped to my chin.
Thomas poles to a stop above the compression. "This one'll eat you if you're not careful," he says, nodding at the narrow dip. "Drop the hip too soon and it folds you."
"Right," I say. "Respect the monster. Got it."
He glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Respecting the slope. Nico's all grown up since I left."
The words land harder than the joke they're pretending to be.
I shrug. "Had to. Someone needed to keep your seat warm."
"Warm?" Thomas snorts. "You set it on fire and left me the ashes."
It’s weird, skiing inspection beside him.
He’s been out with a torn ACL for most of this season. Now he's back, ready to take his leadership, as if he never left.
For a year, he’s been a ghost in my head—the guy they kept comparing me to, his horrific crash replaying whenever I closed my eyes. Now he’s flesh and breath next to me, boots clunking, voice low, talking about lines like it’s any other day at work.
Admiration sits warm in my chest. He made it back to his hill.
Right beside it, a smaller, meaner thought whispers: You only got to be king because he was gone.
