I snort at “tourist,” then zoom in on the selfie. The contrast to my day makes me grin. I flip my own camera, push damp hair back, and on impulse grab my crumpled race medal ribbon from where it’s steaming on the radiator. It goes back on over the ancient hoodie like some kind of idiot crown. Couch, cat tail at the edge of the frame, medal crooked around my neck. Click. I send it before I can decide it’s not enough.
ZLA: Masters circus did not kill me.
ZLA: Lines much less sexy than yours, but I stayed in the course twice.
ZLA: Also, slalom tourist looked disgusting on that last combo, in a good way.
The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.
FAB: Did you actually wait at the top of the turn, as we said?
I roll my eyes at the replay on TV—him, exploding through the same combo like it offended him personally—and type back:
ZLA: So, patient, I almost bored myself. Ruts still tried to murder me.
FAB: That’s racing. Proud of you, racer.
The word sits on the screen like a warm stone.
ZLA: If you were here, I’d make you watch me and point out every mistake.
I hit send, before I can dress it up.
FAB: If I were there, we’d start with video and end with you not being able to walk tomorrow. From skiing. Mostly.
Heat hits hard and low enough that I have to take a sip of rum-tea just to have something to do with my mouth. I pictureEva’s face if I ever show her that line and decide I won’t. Not yet.
ZLA: Big talk, Baier. Pec might kill you. It’s a different kind of venue.
FAB: You know, I don’t like you talking down your races.
FAB: Masters are real races, you just don’t get paid for it like I do.
I shake my head at the phone. Of course, he doesn’t get it.
ZLA: In Austria, they may be, not ours.
ZLA: We’re just a bunch of ski nerds who like to chase each other’s tails.
FAB: You know I hate that self-humiliating talk of yours.
That lands sharper than I expect. I blow out a breath, watch the cat’s ears twitch at the sound.
ZLA: It’s not that, I’m proud of myself. You just don’t understand.
Before he can argue, I open my gallery and let the evidence talk. One by one, I attach photos: the tiny P-marked lay-by half buried in slush—fifteen euros to park and five minutes uphill with skis on my shoulder. The pub with racers half-changed inside, plastic tablecloths, steam on the windows. The start hut wedged between trees, tourists shuffling past in rental helmets, my “warm-up” lane a snake through terrifying weekend chaos.
The podium shot: me on a wobbly chair, Johann and his Polish friend flanking me in ancient national-colors suits, both grinning like pirates. A close-up of my tricolor medal and the bottle of supermarket wine, already half wrapped in a plastic bag. The raffle loot—Lidl energy drinks, a manicure set, and a poor guy standing there with the mountain bike, who has noidea how to get into his tiny city car. Finally, the car park full of people scrambling in thickening snow, skis on roofs, exhaust hanging low.
This is our circus, I caption the last one, and hit send.
He goes quiet long enough that I start wondering if I overshared. Then his reply arrives.
FAB: Johann is my hero.
I bark out a laugh, scaring the cat off my lap.
ZLA: You should have seen him climbing up the chair in ski boots.
