“So,” I say, before I lose my nerve. “Alta Badia.”
He makes a low sound that’s almost a groan. “You start with that?”
“I start with the classics,” I say, a little steadier now. “What happened on Gran Risa? You looked… not like yourself.”
That gets his full attention; I can feel his chest expand against my shoulder as he draws breath to answer.
“Gran Risa is evil,” he says finally. “But that day I made it worse.”
“How?”
“Second run, I skied like an old man,” he says, voice going a little flat. “Safe line, no risk. Ninth for my trouble. The kid behind me sent it and stole my podium. I still hear about it every time I see our coach.”
I feel the word safe like a tap on my own ribs. My fingers curl against my thigh to stop them doing anything stupid to his.
“You looked… tight,” I say carefully. “From TV, I mean. Like you didn’t trust your legs.”
He huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Great. Even from the couch you could see that.”
“From my couch you were still terrifyingly fast,” I say, too quickly. “Just not… you at full send.”
His thigh shifts under mine, a small restless roll of muscle, and my body reads it as closer, not away. Heat licks low in my stomach.
“Okay,” he says. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“You make me talk about Alta Badia, that’s rude,” he says. “So now I get to be rude. What are your races like?”
“Mm. Smaller.”
“That’s not an answer.” His hand gives a gentle squeeze on my side, as if to underline it. “You said Masters. Where? What kind of hills?”
I swallow. The part of me that has spent years minimizing wants to shrug it off with a joke. The part that booked this trip without asking anyone’s permission sits a little straighter under his arm.
“Mostly Czech stuff,” I say. “Regional GS. Proper sets, just… shorter, slower, no TV.”
He chuckles. “And results?”
“Decent.” I hear the dodge as soon as it leaves my mouth. So does he, so I make myself go on. “I either finish first or second, but… usually there are two of us in the category. Three if some local girl is brave enough to join the race and complete our podium.”
“Why does that sound like you’re hiding a globe in your backpack?”
“I’m not,” I protest. “I just… it feels stupid to brag in front of you. I don’t race for podiums, I mostly race against myself, to be better every other time.”
“Why should that be stupid?” His tone is mild, but there’s a line of curiosity under it now. “You race. You train. You try to better yourself. That’s the best way to race, actually. More decent than us chasing points and prize money like wild dogs.”
His thumb is still moving on my ribs, lazy circles that have nothing to do with racing and everything to do with the way my nipples have suddenly remembered they exist.
I take a breath that feels like stepping onto ice. “Because my stuff is… hobby. I teach languages for a living.”
He’s quiet for a beat. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face again.
“And?” he asks. “You light up every time you mention skiing, and then look embarrassed. I don’t get it.”
His statement lands lower than it should. My throat goes tight. The cabin creaks, gives a little sway, and the jolt makes the truth jump out.
“It might have something to do with my ex,” I admit finally. He’s a stranger. But we are hanging in a gondola in a storm, and his arm is pulling me close. So, none of that matters now.
