Lukas recovers first, grinning. "Well, well. Look at that. PR upgrade complete. Do we get royal table service now, or do we have to bow first?"
Élise laughs, light and easy. "Only if you ask nicely."
I feel something tight and complicated coil in my chest. Pride, because she's here, sitting with us instead of the sponsors and the oligarchs. Discomfort, because even here, surrounded by my teammates, my people, she doesn't quitefit. She's too polished, too composed, like a queen visiting the provinces.
She crosses one leg over the other, the silk of her dress catching the light, and pulls out her phone.
"Don't move," she says to me.
I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth. "What are you—"
She's already angling the camera down. I follow her gaze and realize what she's framing: my legs stretched out under the table, tux trousers riding up just enough to show the edge of kinesiology tape wrapped around my calf, the faint purple bruise blooming along my shin, my feet propped on the low table like I own the place.
The shutter clicks.
She types something quickly, then shows me the screen.
The photo is already posted. Caption underneath:My golden gams.
Heat climbs up my neck, equal parts thrill and panic. She saidmy. Like I belong to her. Like this is real, not just a strategy.
But it's alsotraceable. Permanent. Out there for her father to see, for the press to screenshot, for the whole circus to dissect.
"You just did it again," I say quietly. "Without asking."
She looks at me, eyes cool and amused. "You're welcome. Now you're not just a racer. You're a story."
Across the table, Katharina's eyes flick to Élise's phone, then to me. She doesn't say anything, but I can see the calculation in her expression.
Lukas raises his glass again. "To Nico. Fastest legs in Austria, now with photographic proof."
Everyone laughs. I force a grin.
But under the table, my hand finds Élise's, and her fingers lace through mine like this is normal. Like we're not performing for an audience, neither of us invited.
***
My legs burn when we get into the room. Like we went miles in those black polished shoes not meant for walking. Élise introduced me to everybody, we paraded the carpets so that all reporters could get a shot of the golden couple. Strategy she called it, but it was her turf not mine. As much as I smiled at the jokes that were not funny, complimented the women who weren’t pretty, I still didn’t feel like I belonged.
But I tried, for both our sakes.
We didn't say goodbye to anyone. We just slip out a side door and into the cold night air, her hand in mine, the party noise fading behind us.
My hotel is a ten-minute walk, but we take the service elevator up to the top floor, where she stays. The suite door clicks shut behind us, and I breathe out for the first time all night.
Finally.
I yank off the bow tie and toss it onto the marble dresser. My shoes hit the floor next. "I'm not built for penguin suits."
Élise laughs softly, kicking off her heels. They land with a soft thud on the carpet.
I flop onto the edge of the bed, tux jacket still on, and rub my face. "I nearly tripped over that minister. The one with the mustache."
"Minister Berger," she corrects automatically, unzipping the back of her dress. "He oversees the sports funding."
Of course, she knows that.
I watch the silk slide down her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She's wearing nothing underneath but black lace that makes my mouth dry. "You did handle it, though. No one dared ask me anything tonight."
