They start chatting about which pistes are too steep, what the snow was like yesterday. I answer in short, polite bursts, the way I always do. Meanwhile, across from me, Zlata is half-hidden behind her buff and goggles, shoulders shaking the tiniest bit.
She looks like she’s going to choke on a laugh.
I’ve never resented a selfie more in my life. Here I am, doing the polite ghost routine while the woman who just had her hand under my suit five minutes ago sits three seats away, cheeks still pink, coat zipped up to her chin, pretending we’re strangers.
Under the bench, something taps my boot. Once. Deliberate.
I tap back.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
The couple falls into that lift silence people get when the view takes over. The cabin hums back up to speed, trees moving below us like a conveyor belt. Every sway reminds me of where her body was a minute ago. Every pylon we pass is one fewer I get to spend in this suspended, ridiculous, almost.
By the time the top station comes into view, I already know this can’t be the pattern. Not for long.
When the doors finally open and everyone spills out into the bright, cold air, I wait until we’re just out of earshot of the older skiers. Then I catch her arm lightly, just above the glove.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say, low.
She freezes, turns, hurt flickering across her face before she’s had time to hide it. “Oh.”
“I don’t mean that,” I say quickly. “I mean… this.” I gesture vaguely back at the gondola. “Half-finished, rushing, hoping nobody gets in with us. I’m not built for almost with you.”
Her eyes search mine, some of the stiffness draining out of her shoulders.
“So, what are you built for?” she asks.
“Something that doesn’t swing on a cable,” I say. “Maybe starts with dinner. Maybe ends somewhere with a bed and a door that locks. But not… only this.”
The wind whips a strand of hair out from under her helmet; she tucks it back with a hand that isn’t quite steady. For once, she doesn’t have a comeback ready.
“Think about it,” I add. “I’ll be around.”
I clip into my skis and push off toward the training lane before I can say anything stupider. Behind me, I can feel her eyes on my back all the way to the first gate.
Chapter 8
Not Waiting In the Line
ZLATA
I let him pick the restaurant. Something close to his team hotel but not in it, nothing with white tablecloths, nothing with TV screens showing race replays. In the end, we settled on a small place just off the main street, all wood and low lamplight and too many candles. It looks more like a family Sunday spot than a date, which helps. A little.
I get there five minutes early and immediately hate myself for it. Sitting alone at a table for two in my best black sweater, picking at the edge of the napkin, feels too much like the old days—waiting for Peter to finish talking to everyone else before he remembered he came with me.
This is different, I remind myself. I chose this. I could have asked for more sex and nothing else.
The door opens, and a gust of cold air sneaks in with him. No helmet, no race suit, no sponsor logos. Just jeans, a dark shirt, a jacket that looks like it cost more than my entire ski setup, and that same focused look he gets in inspection photos, only softer around the edges.
“Hi,” he says, shrugging out of the jacket. “Sorry, did you wait long?”
“Two minutes,” I say. “I’ll survive.”
He smiles, a real one this time, not the fan-line version. “Good.” He hangs his jacket on the back of his chair, and for a second, I just look at him. No goggles, no buff. He looks younger and older at once. Less like my phone screen, more like a person.
The waitress appears, drops menus, and rattles off the specials. We order quickly—soup, schnitzel, something involving potatoes and cheese, a glass of wine for me, mineral water for him. Race weekend rules.
Once she leaves, silence settles over the table, thick enough to cut. The last time we were this close, there was a storm trying to shake us off the mountain.
