You talk like you know him. Like he’s yours to defend.
And then he’s in the start.
The stadium noise dips for a heartbeat, like the whole valley is holding its breath. Camera tight on his face under the helmet: jaw set, mouth in that neutral line I’ve learned means he’s actually calm. The light is flat, that grey Swiss winter that turns everything into a black-and-white photo. The snow on the first pitch is rutted but holding.
“Here we go,” Dad says. “Half a second isn’t much here.”
The beeps count down. When the last one hits, he explodes out of the gate. No tentative feel-out, no safe line. He commits from the first gate, skis snapping clean arcs over the first rolls.You can see the difference even from the couch—hips higher, shoulders calmer, turns finished instead of feathered.
He builds on his lead through the mid-section. The splits flash green, then greener: plus six, plus eight, plus nine. Every time he comes over a roll, the set bends more; he bends with it, riding the outside ski like he’s dancing with it, not fighting. My fingers clamp around my mug.
“Whatever happened to Baier, he’s got his drive back today,” one of the commentators says.
“Looks like the break last weekend suited him,” the other agrees, and I have to bite down on a smile. If only they knew.
They hit the last timing interval before the wall: minus 0.95. Nearly a full second.
“Hold it,” I whisper. “Hold it, hold it—”
He crests the blind bump into the final pitch and disappears for a heartbeat, dropping into nothing. When he reappears, it’s in that horrible, beautiful chute where the slope pitches to sixty percent and the gates are set across the fall line just to be mean. The blades scream on the ice; the crowd roars, cowbells a wall of noise even through the TV mix.
A lot of guys ski that section like they’re tiptoeing down a staircase with a bomb in their arms. He doesn’t. He keeps the skis pointed down, throws himself at the red-blue-red corridor like he did with me in that hotel room: full send, no flinch. Every turn, you can see the outside ski knifing in, spraying a fan of shavings instead of skid smoke.
“Look at that,” Dad says, sitting forward. “He’s really going for it now.”
I realize I’m holding my breath.
Three gates from the finish, he gets bounced by a big rut—just for a fraction—and recovers with a savage, almost angry pressure on the next gate that makes my thighs ache in sympathy. He crosses the line, and the time flashes up in green:
-1.02.
One point zero two seconds ahead.
The stadium goes feral. Flags and bells and people screaming his name in three languages. In our living room, Dad lets out a low appreciative whistle.
“That,” he says, “is how you answer people who say you’re finished.”
On screen, Fabio’s face finally breaks. Not just the polite winner’s smile—the real one, eyes creasing, dimples all in. Kern barrels into the finish area and straight at him; they collide in a hug that nearly knocks them both over, laughing, helmets banging together as they yell something we can’t hear over the noise. Two men who just survived Chuenisbärgli and know exactly what that means.
“Nice sportsmanship,” Mum says.
I hum in agreement, but my throat is too tight for words. My sad, hot Austrian, I think, then correct myself: My sad, hot Austrian who is decidedly less sad right now.
The cameras cut to slow-mo replays; the commentators dissect his line into the wall, that one recovery, the sheer brutality of gaining half a second on a pitch designed to eat people alive. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket.
“I’ll make tea,” I say, a little too brightly, and escape to the kitchen.
The second the door swings shut behind me, I’m leaning against the counter, phone already out, thumb flying.
Not bad for my sad, hot Austrian, I type, and delete it.
They said on TV that whatever you did last weekend worked to get your drive back. I look at it and add, perhaps you should do more of that…
I hesitate, then delete the last part and add a civil:
That second run looked like you again. Proud of you.
For a heartbeat, I hover over send, ridiculous nerves fluttering under my ribs. Then I tap, and the message goes.
