Martin arrives, dumps his granola as if it wronged him, and slumps down. We eat in the usual quiet. The TV in the corner yells about snowstorms; I barely register it. The weather is just another variable. You adjust. You always adjust.
***
By the time we head to the gym, my mind feels almost clear.
The gym is all glass and mirrors, rubber flooring, the metallic tang of sweat and disinfectant. A few endurance guys grind away on bikes, faces like they haven’t smiled since 2008. Music thumps low, something aggressive trying to scare the weights. I warm up, stretch, and grab a barbell. My body remembers what to do without asking my permission, which is a relief, because my brain is still busy replaying a French girl who may or may not exist outside my dreams.
“Careful, superstar,” Martin says. “Media day’s tomorrow.”
I grin, racking the bar. “Autographs already?”
“Expectations,” he says, like he’s naming the weather. “They multiply fast.”
There it is. I laugh it off because that’s what I do.
“Relax. I’m just getting started. Peak Nico is still loading.”
Across the room, Lukas adjusts plates on his rack. His face stays neutral, but his eyes skim over me a heartbeat too long before he looks away. I pretend to check my grip; the move is too quick to be natural. Whatever. I added more weight than planned. Just to prove a point. To whom I don’t ask.
Martin whistles. “Compensating for something?”
“Your personality,” I shoot back. “Someone has to.”
Laughter. Good. Noise is good. I push through the set, muscles burning, breath steady. The pain is clean. Honest. It doesn’t ask questions. I can feel my body slotting into the familiar groove:load, push, burn, repeat. No room for ice queens or silver medals or the word “winner.” Just weight and will.
Coach Leitner walks in, tablet under his arm, scanning the room like a general counting soldiers. He pauses near Lukas, murmurs something. Lukas nods. A second later, Leitner’s gaze cuts to me. Not hostile. Just measuring.
I rack the bar harder than necessary and clap my hands once, chalk dust blooming in the air.
“Okay,” I announce, louder than I need to. “Who’s ready to get unreasonably strong today?”
Martin laughs. Lukas gives a tight smile. Leitner doesn’t. He steps closer, just enough that I can hear him over the music.
“Focus,” he says. Not unkind, not loud. Just sharp enough to land.
“Always,” I answer, wiping sweat from my forehead, grabbing my towel and water bottle like armor. Clear mind, I tell myself. Training. That’s all I need. If I keep moving, keep lifting, keep smiling, nobody will notice that under all the noise and muscle, something in me is already bracing for impact.
***
The sponsor night is held in a gleaming hotel conference room, all polished wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, and trophy cases that catch the light. The space hums with the scent of expensive perfume, fresh snow tracked in on boots, and the faint sweetness of après-ski cocktails. Waiters in branded vests weave through clusters of athletes and executives, balancing flutes of champagne.
I love this shit.
Thomas always grumbled about events like these, but I straighten my cuffs and scan the room. A woman in Eiswerk blue nudges her colleague, whispers behind her hand. Threeexecutives from Fischer pause mid-conversation, glasses frozen halfway to their lips. The Austrian tourism minister abandons his canapé tray and strides toward me, hand already extended.
My name ripples through the crowd in hushed tones, and I feel my spine lengthen, my smile widen. I reach for a flute of champagne.
Martin’s at my side, already eyeing the canapés. “Think they’ll ask us about missing Thomas again?” he mutters.
“Bet on it,” I grin. “If anyone cries, it’s your turn to hug them.”
He snorts, adjusting his tie.
Katharina, our PR manager and part-time team therapist whether she likes it or not, sidles up. She’s all business, shunting us toward a cluster of journalists with her classic “don’t fuck this up” smile.
“Guys, remember the talking points. Pressure is a privilege. Team is ready. You miss Thomas, but you’re here to win.”
“Easy,” I say, flashing a row of teeth.
