“Comforting,” she says dryly. The corner of her mouth lifts, just a little. It lands somewhere low in my stomach.
I tilt my head. “Not a fan of gondolas?”
“Not a fan of dangling.” She taps her glove lightly against her knee. “But I like skiing more than I hate this, so.” A small shrug.
“Fair enough,” I say.
For some reason, my mouth feels a little too ready to keep going, to fill the quiet she’s perfectly happy to leave alone.
“You’re here for the day?” I ask. “Holiday?”
She hesitates, just a fraction. “Sort of.” Her gaze flicks to the skis in the rack and back. “A long weekend.”
She strings the explanation out, then seems to hear herself and clamp down. The break between her mouth and her eyes is fascinating.
“With friends?” I try to keep it casual.
“Yeah, they’re having some après-ski fun already. I…” Another tiny pause. “I wanted to use the clean slopes for some GS turns. It will be crowded during the weekend.”
She gives more detail than I asked for, then seems to regret it halfway through. The over-explaining and the little stumble don’t match the efficient way she swung those skis into the rack. It makes me want to poke at the gap.
I nod toward the rack. “Those are not some commercial GS skis. And that’s a wild radius for ‘some turns.’”
Her shoulders hunch a millimeter. “I… do some races,” she says, eyes back on the floor. “Hobby stuff.”
There it is again—the reluctance, like the word sticks in her throat.
“You race,” I say. “You’re a racer.”
“Not a real racer,” she replies quickly. “Just a hobby.”
I shake my head. “You race, you’re a racer. Period.”
That makes her look up, properly this time. For a second, it feels like she’s seeing me—not the face from TV, not the name on the start list, but the guy who actually believes what he just said.
She narrows her eyes, and a smile lights up her face. “Okay, I’m a racer, if you must.”
The way her face opens on that admit-defeat smile does more for my mood than any clean training run would have today.
But then she sighs. “But my racing is…nothing like… this.” A quick, vague gesture in my direction, like she’s waving at the whole World Cup circus, not me.
There it is again, that tiny distance. She’s not squealing like a fan, and she’s not pretending she hasn’t recognized me either.Just… filing me under “separate category” and refusing to poke it.
It shouldn’t bother me. It does. I’ve spent a month wishing people would treat me like I’m normal. The first one who does, and my ego immediately throws a tantrum. Great.
“What kind of a little?” I push, gentler than I would with a journalist, more curious than I’d like to admit. “Local races? Club racing?”
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Masters, usually. Some regional stuff. Giant slalom, mostly.”
Her voice lifts on the word like she can’t quite help it. It does something annoying and pleasant to my pulse. There’s nothing sexier than someone who clearly wants the same stupid blue and red plastic sticks I do, especially when she’s pretty.
That’s when it clicks. She’s not just shy; she’s embarrassed to call herself a racer in front of me. It’s ridiculous that anyone would feel small next to me, when half the time I feel like I’m faking it. Ridiculous and, somehow, weirdly sweet.
“GS is a good choice,” I say. “Smart people’s discipline.”
She huffs out a laugh, genuine this time. It scrapes against my nerves in a good way. “Is that how you sell it to the speed guys?”
“That’s how I sell it to myself when they get the better weather,” I admit. Her laugh widens, and suddenly I want to see what her face looks like when she laughs without holding it back.
