"Nico, is it true you're in a relationship with Élise Moreau who’s family owns Eiswerk? There are photos circulating from this morning—"
Katharina's voice slices through before I can even open my mouth.
"We're not taking personal-life questions in this session." Her tone is polished steel. "If you'd like a lifestyle angle, please contact the federation office, and we'll find a separate slot. Right now, we're staying with performance, and tomorrow's downhill. Thank you."
She holds the reporter's gaze just long enough to make the line crystal clear, then nods to the moderator to move on.
I keep my face neutral, maybe let a tiny PR smile touch my mouth. Inside, I feel both protected and cornered; grateful she blocked it here, pissed that Élise's name just landed in this room at all.
The next question is something technical about my line choice through Hausberg. I answer on autopilot, talking about edge angles and inspection notes, but my brain is somewhere else entirely.
The session wraps up fifteen minutes later. Katharina catches my elbow in the hallway before I can escape to the locker room.
"We need to talk about this." Her voice is low, clipped. "You can't have Streif wins and soap opera in the same news cycle."
I yank my arm free, not hard, just enough to make a point. "Élise is handling it. We'll write the story ourselves. Maybe we should all sit down and talk about it, but I'm not hiding."
Katharina's jaw tightens. "You don't get it, do you? Your skis, your salary, and your…" She pauses, choking on the word like it tastes bad. "…princess? Same man signs checks for all of that."
The word hangs there between us. Princess. Not girlfriend. Not partner. Princess. Like I’m just another knight on her father’s payroll.
Heat climbs up my neck. "So what, I'm supposed to just—"
"I'm saying be smart," she cuts in. "You're twenty-two, and you think you're invincible because you won Kitz. Fine. But when sponsors decide you're more liability than asset, don't come crying to me about contracts."
She doesn't wait for an answer. Just turns and walks back toward the media center, heels clicking on the linoleum.
I stand there in the hallway, fists clenched, adrenaline from the race curdling into something uglier.
Everyone is telling meno. No mess. No feelings. No Élise. On the very day, I proved I belong on the most dangerous hill in the world.
I gave the mountain everything.
Tomorrow night I get to have her.
I can handle both.
***
At least I thought so. I could not win the downhill on Saturday. Because Thomas is back to claim his throne, on his hill, in his hometown.
The place goes feral when he crosses the line and takes my lead away from me. Their hero returning. My hero, actually. It still tastes bitter, as I smile and clap and cheer in the red chair, knowing the cameras are aimed my way.
Then he comes to the red chair, grabs me by the shoulder, and pulls me into a hug that's half congratulations, half warning.
"Easy, Nico,” he says into my ear, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Breathe any closer down my neck and I might have to get even better to keep winning."
I laugh, but it's sharp. Inside, I'm a mess of contradictions; genuine joy that his comeback is crownedhere, on this hill, and sharp, childish rage that it should have been mine. Both of them. Super-G and downhill. The whole weekend.
It should have beenmine.
The silver gams is enough to put me in the spotlight on the most glittery evening of the season. Kitz Race Club party is the highlight of the season, with all the important people from around Europe, celebrities, politicians and rich schemers.
And I will be there with my princess, she said we should be the ones holding the pen. Not the press, not random would-be influencers taking photos and posting it with snide remarks. She says she knows what she’s doing.
***
By the time the team car drops me at the Kitz Race Club, the sun is already gone and the town has shifted into its second personality.
