His arm doesn’t move, but everything in him feels more focused. “What did he say about your racing?”
I could laugh it off. I hear myself not doing that. The stopped cabin, the dark, his body holding me in place—it all strips away the usual brakes. If we’re dangling here for hours, I might as well stop editing.
“He had this line,” I say. “Any time I got excited about a race weekend, or training instead of going to some bar. ‘You and your stupid kids’ races.’ Like I was skipping real life for… kindergarten.”
I stare at the fogged window; our reflection is a blur of faces and jackets pressed together. My voice comes out thinner than I’d like. His hand on my ribs has gone completely still.
“Sounds like a fun guy,” he says, very calmly.
“Mm. Hilarious.” My mouth tastes like metal. “And if I came back proud of something, like getting a better hourly rate from a language school, he’d roll his eyes. ‘Relax, you’re not a high-powered executive. You teach verbs to bored teenagers.’ Everyone would laugh. I’d laugh too.”
My cheeks are burning under the buff. Saying it out loud in this little metal box with another man’s hand on my body feels obscene and, somehow, necessary.
“For seven years, that was the joke,” I finish. “He was somebody. I was… the girlfriend. So, calling myself a racer in front of you feels… just wrong.”
There’s a long, thick beat. The only sound is the wind punching against the cabin. Then his fingers flex, careful and deliberate, like he’s checking I’m really there.
“He was an idiot,” Fabio says quietly. “About you. About skiing. About a lot of things, I guess.”
“I was an idiot for being with him, why don’t you say that?” I blink away the tears that threaten to spill over.
He lets out a laugh, low nasty sound. “Maybe because I spent months posing for Instagram photos with a girl who now threatens with a lawsuit if I don’t return paintings I never saw.”
“That sounds like a fun lady,” I snort.
“Yeah, and herteamis not happy about my silence,” he adds.
“Is that the blond you were with at the New Year’s party?” I ask before I stop myself. “She seemed pretty.”
“That she was,” he says, voice bitter.
“But I hated her, of course,” I add shaking my head at myself. “This is weird, I even know about your personal life. More than I should.”
“Yeah, damn social media, right?”
“No,” I protest looking at him for the first time, and finding his eyes sparkle with amusement. “What would poor fan girls do without your topless training reels?”
He laughs, but it’s laced with disbelief.
“I broke up with her in early January,” he says. “Now what about your happy ending?”
The words slide under my skin more efficiently than the jacket does. Something in my chest loosens, then floods with heat that has nothing to do with fear.
“Two months ago,” I say. My voice wobbles, so I speed up to outrun it. “Anyway. I’m trying to do it right now. My life and even the skiing. I found a training group in Prague, we set GS almost every Saturday in the mountains. I finally bought a proper tuning set, so I can sharpen edges myself instead of waiting for some shop kid to ruin them.”
The words start to tumble, too fast, like I’ve opened a gate and can’t close it. And it feels much safer to talk about skiing than our exes.
“I changed my boots this year, too. Got them properly fitted, not just whatever was on sale. I booked this trip without asking anyone if it’s a waste of money. I’m… trying. To be serious. About it. About everything.”
I risk a glance up. He’s looking down at me like the training lane outside has moved into the cabin. Focused. Engaged. No trace of amusement.
“Good,” he says simply. “You should.”
The way he says it does more to my pulse than his thigh against mine. My body is still buzzing from the closeness, from the constant quiet friction where our legs meet, from the pressure of his palm, but now there’s this new layer—being listened to like I belong on the same mountain.
My mouth is dry. My imagination is definitely wild enough now.
“Sometimes,” I hear myself say, softer, “I feel like I’m faking it. Like I’m just playing at being a racer until somebody laughs and reminds me I’m… the girlfriend. Again.”
