Chapter 1
The Start Gate of My Life
Reiteralm, Austria
ZLATA
The bus doors hiss open, and the cold hits my face like a start gate snapping. I look up at the white slope, and joy floods my chest. For the first time in forever, every hour on this mountain belongs to me.
The bus driver barks something in German, but I barely hear him over the scrape of metal on concrete and Eva’s running commentary on how all Austrians are born with skis surgically attached. I laugh, hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder,and step down into the churned-up slush of the Reiteralm parking lot.
“Move, racer girl,” Eva mutters behind me. “Some of us are here for a gentle holiday, not for… whatever masochist thing you call fun.”
We spill out of the bus in a knot—three women, skis, and poles everywhere. My backpack thumps between my shoulder blades as I step onto the concrete. I shrug my jacket straight and shove my skis at Eva.
“Here, hold these a sec?” I pass the skis to Eva while I zip my jacket all the way up to my chin.
She takes them and immediately groans. “What the hell, Zlata, did you smuggle lead plates in these? Normal skis don’t weigh this much.”
“Careful,” I say, working my hands back into my gloves. “Edges are sharp. I’m expecting ice.”
“Ouch,” she mutters as she touches the edge of one ski. “Thisissharp.”
I grin and tug my gloves on. “I finally bought my own tuning set. If I messed them up, I’m gonna regret it all day.”
Eva gapes at me over the skis. “Since when are you doing that yourself?”
“Since last week,” I admit. “I decided to learn so that I can sharpen them every day if I need to.”
Anna picks her way across the slush toward us, helmet hooked over one arm, her skis balanced neatly on the other shoulder. She’s smiling already, that soft, amused curve she gets when she’s watching a sitcom only she can hear.
“Of course you’re sharpening your own skis now,” she says. “Next, you’ll turn up with your own private coach.”
“If only I could,” I say, and something clicks into place in my chest. “I mean… I can, right? No one’s going to yell at me for wasting a Saturday anymore.”
Eva’s expression softens, even as she pretends to struggle under the skis. “Damn right. If you want to spend every weekend burning your thighs off instead of clubbing with idiots, I fully support this.”
“Especially if we get to sit in the hut and watch you scorch past,” Anna adds. “Ideal friendship setup.”
I laugh, warmth spreading under my puff jacket that has nothing to do with the temperature. For years, holidays meant standing in some smoky bar while Peter held court and pretended the mountains were a backdrop to his jokes. Now it’s just me, my friends, the lifts, and however many turns my legs can take.
“Trust me,” I say, hoisting my boot bag again, “you two are infinitely better company than what I’ve dragged on ski trips before.”
Eva snorts. “Low bar, babe.”
“Extremely low,” Anna agrees.
We herd our mess of gear toward the cluster of low buildings at the base station. The lift bullwheel hums overhead, gondolas gliding past with that steady, hypnotic rhythm—people swooping up toward the line while we stomp through puddles and old, refrozen snow. A big piste map looms over the ticket machines, all colored lines and names; my eyes go straight to the red and black snakes and the neatly marked training lanes.
Preunegg Jet, I read automatically. Reiteralmhütte. Gassi run. The slope numbers arrange themselves in my head into possible routes: warm-up, then long GS turns, then something steeper once my legs wake up.
“Look at her,” Eva says. “We’ve lost her already. She’s mentally dating the piste map.”
“I’m just planning where not to kill you,” I say. “Blue first, then you can graduate to a respectable red.”
“Excuse me, I am here for views and Aperol,” Eva announces. “Anna, back me up.”
Anna is studying the map too, though with less hunger. “I’m here to survive,” she says. “Preferably without tearing anything. Views optional.”
