Okay. Decision time. Slalom, Ganslern, first run. This is not where you play superhero. Solid. Clean. No wild dives, no desperate saves, just enough risk to stay in the game. Get a good second-run number, then see what’s left in the tank. I nod once to myself, more a physical agreement than a thought.
I skate up to the wand, plant my poles, and feel the plastic bar resting lightly against my shins. The starter’s voice comes in that familiar cadence, slow then sharp. “Ten seconds.” The world narrows to the track under my skis and the tiny digital display ticking down in front of me. I rock gently, feeling the response in my legs, the snap ready in my thighs. My breath settles on itsown.
“Five… four… three…” The beeps take over. High, insistent, cutting through everything.
On the last tone, I drive forward, poles biting hard as I push through the wand. The first few gates come up fast, but my body moves on automatic, slightly more cautious than I’d like—edges set a fraction earlier, pressure a hair more controlled as I test the snow. It’s grippy, unforgiving, the kind that punishes laziness but rewards commitment. Good. No surprises.
The course drops into the middle section, where the rhythm picks up, and the combinations start stacking. Here, finally, I feel something loosen. The turn shapes I rehearsed in inspection click into place, and my skis start talking to the hill in a language I understand. I nail a couple of key offsets cleaner than I managed even in my head, shin-blocking the poles away with that satisfying crack, hips moving just where I want them.
Then the delay gate appears, the one I’d circled in my mind as the trap. I come into it with a decent setup, but some small survival instinct taps the brakes a touch early. I feather the edge instead of letting it run, just for a moment. I feel the time bleeding out right there—nothing dramatic, no huge mistake, just that tiny, polite hesitation you never get back. I know it even as I’m doing it, and a flicker of annoyance flashes hot and brief through my chest. Too safe.
No time to dwell. The lower part pitches back toward the finish, the stadium noise swelling as I drop into view. I take a respectable line—nothing ragged, no late scrambles, no wild saves for the highlight reel. I’m moving well, but I can feel I’m leaving a little speed on the table, choosing clean over crazy. For the first run, on this hill, that’s the deal I made with myself.
The final gates blur past, the last compression hits my legs, and then I’m flying over the line, skis still carving instead of skid-stopping. The roar of the crowd folds over me as I straighten, glance up at the timing board, blinking away the sting in my eyes.
My name pops up as second—I don’t even catch the exact place at first, just the gap within about three tenths to the lead.
A sharp, disbelieving breath punches out of me, half laugh, half exhale. “Better than expected,” I mutter into my chin guard, chest heaving. Top group for the second run. In slalom. On the Ganslern. I let the numbers settle, let the reality of it sink its hooks in.
“I’ll take it,” I tell myself, and this time the thought lands not as an excuse, but as a promise.
***
Back in the tent, the air is thick with wet wool, liniment, and adrenaline cooling off. Jackets hang from every hook, dripping; boots steam under benches. Coaches hunch over tablets, replaying the same combinations on repeat, scratching lines in the air with their poles.
Max drops down beside me, shoulders still dusted with snow. “For a GS dinosaur,” he says, “you didn’t look half bad.”
“Write it on my helmet,” I mutter, peeling my gloves off. My forearms are still buzzing from the last pitch; my brain is already halfway into run two, rewinding that one delay where I hit the brake.
Coach comes closer, a tablet in hand, scrolls back to that section on the screen, and taps it with a knuckle. “Here,” he says. “You check. Trust it next time. You’re higher than you think.” One clean cue, nothing more. It lands. We know each other’s language by now.
When the coaches move on to the next guy from our team, the noise around me turns into a low, familiar hum—zipper sounds, nervous laughter, someone complaining about the set. I sit back on the bench, unwrap the corner of an energy bar, and fish my phone out of my inner pocket with my free hand.
Family chat. Team chat. One sponsor message about “great exposure already.” No Golden Girl message. Which is fine. Sensible. She’s probably in some freezing start corral in Czechia, worrying about her own line instead of mine.
I’m about to lock the screen again when her name pops up at the top.
Curiosity beats whatever self-control I was pretending to have. I swipe it open.
First photo: a narrow strip of piste at her Czech resort. Bit of orange netting, a crooked homemade banner flapping in the wind, three Masters racers milling around in a mix of retro and modern suits. It looks like someone set a race course in the schoolyard.
Second photo: a cluttered pub table masquerading as a race office. Bibs stacked next to a laptop, beer mats, and a handwritten “RACERS” sign taped above it. Bags and jackets everywhere.
Caption underneath:Masters circus, stage 1. Pec sayshi.
I huff out a laugh without meaning to. The guy lacing his boots opposite me looks up; I shake my head, wave him off.
Kitz outside is all polished ice and TV towers. Inside my phone is her tiny circus with its pub and its crooked banner and the same stupid need to be timed. The feeling is exactly the same in both places.
My thumbs are already moving.
ME: Nice glamor shot. Don’t let those retro rockets beat you.
I add another line before I can talk myself out of it.
ME: How was your first run, racer?
“Fabio,” one of the coaches calls, tablet in hand. “One more look.”
