I blink. “Strategy?”
“Yes,” she says patiently. “We didn’t come all this way for you to stare at him from behind a fence and then go home to your race videos. What’s the plan?”
Anna leans in, eyes bright. “Imagine,” she says, “you’re in the hut, he comes in, he stands right there.” She taps the floor by the bar. “Helmet hair, race suit, tragic eyes because of his last races. What do you do?”
“Order another coffee and pretend I’ve never seen him on TV,” I say.
Eva rolls her eyes. “Wrong answer. Correct answer is: ask for a selfie, then accidentally sit on his lap.”
“I’m not sitting on anyone’s lap,” I say, grinning. “I have some dignity left. I’ll at least buy him a beer first.”
Anna snorts into her tea. “Okay, no lap. Yet. But you should at least get a picture. You’re a fan, it’s allowed. Once-in-a-lifetime content.”
“Oh, I know it’s allowed,” I say. “I also know he probably takes a hundred selfies a day. I’d be, like, fan number 5,206. He’d forget about it before we even got back to the apartment.”
Eva gives me a look that says she’s not buying it. “You,” she says, “are finally single on a ski trip in Austria. This is literally the moment for reckless decisions.”
“I am making reckless decisions,” I protest. “I’m timing my own runs with an expensive app. I’m sharpening my own skis. I booked this whole holiday without asking anyone’s permission.”
“Exactly,” Anna says, smiling. “You’re unhinged. Wild. I like this version of you.”
The word unhinged makes me laugh, but it also pokes at something sore. For years, I’ve been the girl hovering at the edge of a group while Peter lit up the room, his hand on my waist like I was part of the furniture. The night he joked about me “always looking like I just took a helmet off,” and everyone howled. And I laughed too, because what else do you do when you’re the punchline?
“Imagine hooking up with your favorite racer,” Eva says, oblivious to the little bruise forming in my chest. “Snowstorm, stuck in a hut, you, him, his tragic season. I would absolutely volunteer as a consolation prize.”
“Oh, in my head I’ve already done unspeakable things to him, or other hot guys that we might meet here,” I say dryly. “But in real life? Please. I can’t even ask for extra ketchup. I’m definitely going to ask a world champ for his dick.”
They both choke on their drinks, then burst out laughing. Eva actually has to put her mug down to wipe tears from her eyes.
“Oh my God,” she wheezes. “There she is. My girl.”
Anna leans against my shoulder, still laughing. “You say you’re not wild,” she says. “Listen to yourself.”
I laugh with them, because it’s easier, because their joy is warm and loud, and I don’t want to spoil it by admitting my chest feels hollow for a second at the memory of those nights.
Anna’s laughter tapers off into a smile. “Seriously, though,” she says softly. “I love seeing you like this. Booking trips, talkingabout your races, making filthy jokes about ski gods. You were so… careful before.”
“Careful and miserable,” Eva adds. “Leaving that asshole was the best thing you ever did. I still want to send him a fruit basket that says Thank You For Fucking Off.”
“Please don’t,” I say, but I’m smiling, the hollow spot in my chest filling with something warmer. “He’d probably post it on Instagram.”
“Then we’ll send it to you instead,” Anna says. “Congratulations, you are now the main character of your own holiday.”
“Exactly,” Eva says, lifting her mug in a mock toast. “To Zlata: unhinged, wild, and definitely getting at least a selfie with her sad, hot Austrian.”
I clink my cup against theirs, the porcelain ringing softly. I still don’t believe I’ll do more than watch from a distance if I see any of my ski heroes, but for a moment, with my friends’ eyes on me and the mountains outside the window, the idea doesn’t feel completely impossible.
***
By the time we’ve done a few more laps, the morning crowds have thickened, and the snow around the base station is turning into gray soup.
We stop by the big piste map again, skis planted, helmets pushed back, breath puffing in little clouds. Eva squints up at the colored lines like she’s reading a legal contract.
“Okay,” she says, stabbing at the board with her pole. “We have now officially survived Reiteralm. I vote we go over to Planai and tick that one off too. It’s on all the posters in the hotel. I want my tourist photo.”
“Of the finish slope,” Anna adds. “So we can lie to people later and pretend we raced it.”
“You barely survived the last red,” I say. “And now you want to ski the Night Race hill.”
