I turn to the kettle, heart racing, which is stupid. Now, he’ll be giving interviews, signing kids’ helmets, and perhaps he does not even have a phone on him. Whatever he makes out of my message, I’ll have to wait to find out.
I bring the tea to the living room, where father has already switched the TV to a biathlon event.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he waves a hand toward the TV. “The races were over.”
“Of course, it’s fine,” I say quickly, though I would do anything to watch his shining eyes on the podium. I sit down, drink tea, and watch the biathletes on the screen without really watching them. Father shouts at the screen every time somebody misses a shot. He’s a bigger fan of this sport than I am.
But before he can celebrate our national relay’s success, my phone buzzes, and the start-gate beep makes my heart beat faster than before.
FABIO: Was just about to text you.
FABIO: Glad my golden girl approves.
My heart makes something stupid in my chest. And for a brief moment, I forget why on earth I waited until today to text him.
***
Adelboden, Switzerland
FABIO
My text is a crude understatement. I was about to text her every day of the previous week. But I didn’t. She said she didn’t want this, not properly, and chasing her isn’t going to change that. You don’t chase a cat until it wants to come to you. And from what I’ve learned about my golden girl, she’s more like a cat than anyone I’ve ever dated. All I could do was make myself irresistible enough that she wouldn’t want to stay away. Turns out defeating the brutal hill in Adelboden in style did the trick.
I pocket my phone and duck back into the noise—sponsor tent, microphones, stupid jokes about being “back from the dead.” I answer, smile, and do the routine. As much as I’d like to dive deeper into conversation with her, I want actual quiet when I do that. Not ten-second gaps between interviews.
An hour later, I’m finally in my room, half undressed, towel slung over a chair, thinking about a shower before the very decent celebration waiting downstairs. I grab my phone almost without thinking. The notification badge is ridiculous; myscreen is drowning in congratulations. I swipe past family chat, team chat, sponsor emails, and open the conversation I renamed “Golden Girl.” Six new messages.
ZLA: More than approves.
ZLA: The last pitch was like magic.
ZLA: Told you, you’ll get them.
ZLA: And get them tomorrow, too…
ZLA: Can’t wait to see you again…
ZLA: On TV, I mean…
Cute. Dangerous, but cute. I lean back on the bed, thumbs already moving.
FAB: Can’t wait to see you again…
FAB: For real, I mean…
Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear. She probably didn’t expect that. What did she expect, exactly? She doesn’t want to date me; that much she made very clear. She’s scared and probably even more messed up than I am. I get it. But I’d rather not overthink this into dust.
There are guys around me who rant that relationships are poison, that girls ruin your focus. It’s nonsense. Either a girl makes you happy, or she makes you miserable. Being happy or miserable has everything to do with racing. The girl herself doesn’t. There are plenty of other ways to blow up your head.
My phone finally buzzes.
ZLA: And how exactly do you imagine doing that?
Good. A question is not a no.
FAB: Have you ever been to Kitzbühel?
FAB: You can come next week, watch the speed races, ski a bit, then root for me on slalom day. For real.
