I slam on the brakes, spray exploding around me, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to rip the suit open. For a second, I hear nothing but my own breath in my helmet.
Then the time comes over the speakers.
I don’t catch the number, just the tone, the roar from the crowd.
First.
I stare up at it anyway, just to make sure. My name. My flag. Bib seven. Rank one. 1,2 seconds ahead.
Holy shit.
A laugh tears out of me, part victory, part disbelief. I glide past the line, bleed off speed, then pop my bindings and step out. The corral is just noise and flags as I shove my skis toward control and walk toward the team zone.
***
By the time I drop into the red chair, my legs are still buzzing, and my heart hasn’t figured out we’re done.
The leader’s chair is bright red and shaped like a luxury car seat, wrapping around me while the cameras close in. I flop into it like I don’t care, legs sprawled, hands laced behind my head, pretending my heart isn’t still doing Super-G in my chest.
Cameras shove in, lenses inches from my face. I flash the grin they all expect, shrug like this is normal.
Inside, I’m still on the hill.
I know who’s coming. Bellini from Italy, the living legend, Ryan Cole from the US, with glide like he’s got a motor hidden somewhere. The Swiss duo, Meier and Frei, one smooth, one pure chaos on skis.
Bib ten. The German guy. Fast at the top, bleeds time in the middle. I watch the splits on the screen, numbers flipping green, then red, then redder. He slots in behind me.
Bellini is bib twelve.
He blasts out of the start like his ass is on fire. First split, green. Second split, greener.
“Shit,” I breathe, too quiet for the TV mics.
He comes over the blind crest ragged but hanging on, dives into the compression lower than I dared. For a second, it looks genius.
Then the track spits him wide. He fights, recovers, but you can see the speed bleed out of him like air from a tire. By the time he hits the finish, the clock’s gone red. Fourth.
I exhale so hard my vision fuzzes for a moment.
Ryan Cole gets closer. Meier skis clean but safe, not enough. Frei nearly blows out and somehow stays upright, ends up somewhere around sixth, pounding his fist into his thigh at the finish.
Martin and Lukas show up in the start list, and I’m on my feet before I realize it, yelling “Go, go, go!” at the screen like they can hear me through the mountain. Martin has a solid run, finishing in the top fifteen. Lukas makes a big mistake but saves it, skis into the finish, shaking his head and still grinning.
In the middle of all this, my jacket buzzes.
I fish my phone out, half hidden from the cameras, thumb swiping the screen.
ELISE:You flew. Proud of you. Try not to break the podium this time.
No emojis. Just that. It still hits like a warm hand on the back of my neck.
I bite down on a smile, type nothing, and stuff the phone away again.
Later. Field first.
Then: Thomas.
Seeing his name on the start list does something strange to my chest. So it does to the crowd that starts chanting his name.
