The edge of the mountain. Sixty-nine percent gradient, and you hit it blind unless you've memorized the breakover in inspection.
I did.
I know exactly where the snow tips away into nothing, exactly when to load the outside ski and trust physics to hold me. I launch off the lip, chest over my tips, skis loose under my boots for one weightless heartbeat.
The landing is a hammer. My legs buckle, absorb, then explode back as the course whips left into the Hausberg traverse. This is the turn that breaks people; sharp left at over a hundred kilometers an hour, ice under your edges, crowd so close you can smell beer and grilled sausage through the fence.
If you're tentative, you lose the line. If you're aggressive and miss by a centimeter, you're in the B-net with a broken collarbone.
I'm not tentative.
I tip onto the inside edge and carve it like I own the mountain, like Kitz was born to watch me do this. The skis hold. The turn spits me into the final pitch; the Zielschuss, the finish straight where you just tuck and let gravity finish what you started.
A hundred and forty kilometers an hour. Maybe more. I don't check the speed, I feel it in my bones, in the way the world blurs into streaks of red and white, in the way my suit snaps against my ribs.
The red line rushes up.
I cross it in a white explosion of adrenaline and noise.
Green.
The whole stadium detonates. Cowbells, air horns, a wall of sound that hits harder than any compression on the hill. I throw my skis sideways into a spray of ice, rip my helmet off, and scream at the sky.
My name flashes on the board. A gap big enough to hurt.
I slam my fist into my chest once, twice, feeling my heart trying to break through my suit.
For that whole stretch, from the moment I crossed the line to the last note fading into the alpine air, there is no Élise, no impending scandal, no French godfather to scare me.
Just Kitzbühel and me, and the hill that finally let me win.
***
They've got us crammed into a long table under a wall of sponsor logos for the press conference. Thomas and I, and Coach Leitner, sitting off to the side looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. The lights are too hot, the microphones too close, and every journalist in the room has their phone aimed at us like we're performing seals.
I'm still buzzing. My legs feel like they're vibrating under the table, and I keep catching myself grinning at nothing. It’s been hours since I crossed the red line, but the energy of winning the Kitz still hums in my veins. And after this press nuisance is over, we head to the ceremony and bib draw for tomorrow, into an arena surrounded by tens of thousands of screaming fans. I’d have to be made of stone not to vibrate with all that in mind.
First question comes from ORF, predictable: "Nico, how does it feel to win the Super-G in Kitzbühel?"
I lean into the mic. "Like Christmas and my birthday had a baby on the Streif."
A couple of laughs. Katharina, standing in the back corner with her arms folded, doesn't crack a smile. She seems a bit tense, told me to be careful before we went here. But in my elevated state, her warning could not reach me.
Next question, from a German outlet: "You're stepping into some big shoes with Thomas out of competition for so long. Do you feel the weight of Austrian expectations?"
I glance at Thomas. The amused look in his eyes dared me to answer honestly.
"Thomas's shoes are too big," I say. "I'm just trying not to trip over them tomorrow in the downhill."
More polite laughter. Thomas doesn't react, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
A woman from Kurier leans forward. "Nico, we've seen you looking into the stands quite a bit this season. Is there a special someone here cheering you on today?"
My stomach clenches, but I keep the smile easy. "Family, friends, the fans—Kitz is full of love today. Hard not to feel supported with this crowd."
I don't look at Katharina. I can feel her stare from across the room.
The tabloid reporter doesn't wait for the moderator to call on her. She just jumps in, loud enough to cut through the shuffle of notebooks.
