“You’ll both be fine,” I say, stepping up to the ticket machine and fishing my phone out. “We pick up the online passes, we ski, we eat, we ski more. Perfect day.”
“Look at her,” Eva mutters, leaning in to watch me scan the QR code. “All organized. Race skis, tuning kit, pre-bought tickets. You’re not our Zlata, who are you?”
“Someone whose time is finally her own,” I say lightly, eyes on the screen as it spits out three plastic cards. “You’re welcome.”
The tickets clack into the tray; I hand them out, slide mine into my sleeve pocket. The readers beep us through the gate, and then we’re shuffling onto the moving walkway toward the gondola: Preunegg Jet cabins swinging slowly around the corner, doors opening and closing like mouths.
“Okay, briefing,” Eva says. “What are we even doing here, apart from watching you attempt to murder your quadriceps?”
“Skiing?” I suggest.
“You know what I mean,” she says. “You dragged us to some training Mecca. There was a whole TED talk in the group chat about it.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest tightens with a flicker of excitement. “This whole place is a skiing Mecca. In Schladming, everything is about skiing. And Reiteralm is the slope where the World Cup racers come to train during the season.”
“So,” Anna says, stepping into the gondola cabin as the doors slide open, “we might see famous people.”
“We might,” I say, loading my skis into the outside rack and swinging my bag onto the bench. The cabin rocks a little as Eva flops down opposite me. “Actually, my personal favorite racer will be here, skipping one race to train and reset. That’s what I gathered onInstagram.”
“Your personal favorite,” Eva says. “The one you raved about so hard in the car, you forgot the speed limit.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “Yeah, he’s having a bad season. Some rough results before Christmas in Alta Badia….”
“Yeah, skip the racing part,” Anna says. “And show us the topless training reel again.”
“Right,” I say, automatically. The doors thump shut, the gondola lurches forward, and we rise away from the station, over the parking lot, toward the white sweep of slopes and nets.
I pull out my phone and open Instagram. I scroll to his profile without having to search; the app knows my guilty pleasures by now. Thumbnails of gates and podiums blur past until I tap the one I already showed them—him on a sunlit mountaintop, race shorts low on his hips, sunburnt nose, abs carved like someone drew them on for TV.
Eva leans in so close her helmet bumps mine. “Oh my God,” she says. “Yes. That one. I fully support this obsession.”
Anna laughs, a softer sound. “You weren’t kidding,” she says. “He really does look like he was designed by a committee of ski coaches and horny sponsors.”
I flick to the next clip, grateful for any excuse to look at something else. Gates flash past him, snow spitting off his edges, the caption a string of emojis and some sponsor tags. It’s stupid, how familiar this looks to me. I’ve watched this run more times than I’ve watched some of my own training videos.
“That’s from Alta Badia,” I say before I can stop myself. “First run. The second one went to shit, and he ended up eleventh, but the top section here is… insane, actually.”
“Yeah, he’s a great skier, we get it,” Anna smirks. “Show us some other topless guys in your feed.”
“So now he’s sad and failing and has to train here in disgrace?” Eva asks, far too cheerful about it.
“Not failing,” I say automatically. “Just… not winning everything. A couple of bad races, one DNF, one ninth place. Everyone’s acting like he forgot how to ski.”
Anna arches a brow. “You really do follow this like a soap opera.”
I shrug, watching the endless lines of perfect snow come into view below.
“It is a soap opera,” I say. “Just with more Lycra and fewer scripts.”
Eva grins. “Well. If we bump into your sad, hot Austrian in the hut, I’m taking credit.”
“You can’t even recognize him with goggles on,” I say.
She leans back, satisfied. “That’s why we bring a professional.”
I snort, but inside something tight unfurls. Lifts, snow, a whole day to burn my legs the way I like, and, as a ridiculous little bonus, the chance that somewhere on this mountain my favorite skier is chasing his next win.
For once, I’m exactly where I want to be.
