"Three Jägerbombs and whatever the champion wants!"
The shout comes from somewhere near the bar, and I don't even know who said it, but the whole place roars in response.
I push through the door, and the noise slams into me like a physical thing. Cowbells clanging, someone already butchering a Schlager song, voices layered on top of voices until it's just one big wall of sound.
“Raaaadler ist kein alcohol, Raaadler ist kein alcohol…”I sing with them as soon as I enter. My voice drowned in the crowd so I turned even hear how off-key it is.
The floor's sticky under my boots, and the air is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat and wood smoke from a fireplace that's working way too hard.
Red-white-red flags hang from the rafters next to old race bibs, some with names I grew up watching. The walls are actually sweating, condensation running down the wood paneling because there are too many bodies crammed in here and the glass protects the topless fans from the cold.
I grin so wide my face hurts.
"Nico!" A guy in a cow-print hat waves at me from a corner table, foam sloshing over the side.
Lukas and Martin are already here, sprawled at a long wooden table near the back, boots up on chairs, beers half-gone. Thesecond they spot me, Lukas bangs his palm on the table like a drum.
"NI-CO! NI-CO! NI-CO!"
Someone shoves a beer into my hand before I even reach the bar.
"On the house," the bartender says, mustache twitching with a grin.
"Next one's on me," I tell him.
"Damn right it is."
I turn and nearly crash into Élise.
She's standing just inside the door, coat still buttoned, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her eyes are scanning the room fast, flicking from face to face like she's looking for someone who might recognize her.
She flinches when a guy stumbles past her with a tray of shots.
I weave back through the crowd and hand her the beer.
"Drink," I say.
She takes it but doesn't.
"Nico, I don't think—"
"Nobody here knows who you are," I cut in. "Trust me."
She doesn't look convinced, but she follows when I head toward the table.
Lukas pulls me into a headlock the second I'm close enough, knuckles grinding into my skull.
"You beautiful bastard!" he shouts.
"Get off—"
Martin shoves a shot glass into my free hand. "To the king of Hinterstoder!"
I knock it back, still half-strangled by Lukas, and the schnapps burns all the way down. The little pear in the tiny glass almost dropping down before I chew on it.
The door opens again, and Thomas walks in.
He's moving carefully, weight shifted slightly off his left leg, but his face is open and loose in a way I haven't seen all last season. He's glowing, proud, like he just remembered what winning feels like.
