ZLA: If you were in Prague, there’d be no lesson tomorrow. Or I’d be teaching “present perfect continuous” with very vivid real-life examples.
FAB: Present perfect continuous?
ZLA: You know. Like… I can’t walk because Fabio has been…
I leave the sentence open on purpose.
The dots appear, disappear, reappear. When his next message lands, I feel it before I read it.
FAB:Fabio has been thinking about that gondola, which means he’ll have trouble getting to sleep.
My skin prickles like I’m back in that cabin, jacket zipped over both of us. This is insane. It’s also exactly what I wanted when I told Eva I was done being the sensible girlfriend in the corner.
ZLA: Go to sleep. You have to put up with the young guys at breakfast tomorrow. We’ll see each other soon enough.
FAB: You have to terrorize the corporate managers into obedience. Goodnight, Golden Girl. Can’t wait.
The nickname sits under his name like a little glowing brand. I put the phone down on the coffee table and stare at the ceiling. On TV, Kitz is looping itself again—crowds, cowbells, him or the Swiss guy who won in slow-mo. Somewhere in Kitzbühel, the man from my posters is lying on a sagging hotel mattress, thinking about me, desiring me, wishing I were there. The feeling is intoxicating, and a part of me refuses to believe it.
I pick the phone back up, scroll once through the evening—his damp hair and trophy, my medal and couch, Johann on the chair, the messages that slid from skiing into filth without ever quite losing the edge of respect. Then I lock the screen, tuck the phone under my pillow like a teenager, and let the alcohol in my mug lull me into oblivion with cowbells and his voice tangled together in my head.
Chapter 12
Their Line to Carve
Salzburg, Austria
FABIO
Salzburg Hauptbahnhof always feels too big for me: high arched roof, steel and glass, announcements bouncing around in three languages. Nobody here cares about start lists or split times; they’re hauling rolling suitcases and shopping bags, arguing with kids about ice cream. I weave through them with a small duffel over my shoulder, cap low, and for once, nobody looks twice. No team jacket, no ski bag, no giveaway. Just another tall guy trying not to get run over by a womanwith a stroller.
I stop under the arrivals board, tilt my head back. Her train from Linz blinks on the screen, five minutes late, platform twelve. Right. Enough time to do the thing I’ve been doing too often since she texted that she booked tickets. I pull my phone out, thumb over the last messages.
ZLA: Changing in Linz / almost in Salzburg.
A photo of a paper coffee cup and her skis leaned against a bench in a black ski bag. No cancellation, no,I can’t make it. A small, stupid part of me has been bracing for that since she wrote, she bought the ticket.
Platform twelve is colder, breath hanging in the air, smell of brakes and burnt dust. There’s a kiosk doing bad coffee and pretzels, a couple of kids stamping their feet, and an old man reading a paper. I take up a position where the bike/ski section usually stops, lean my shoulder against a pillar, and pretend to scroll news. My body doesn’t buy it.
Weight shifts from foot to foot, fingers tap a nervous rhythm against the phone. It’s ridiculous; I’ve stood in Olympic start gates with less static in my head. This isn’t a race. It just feels more tense than any race gate I’ve ever nearly vomited in.
The regional train rattles in with a squeal, a gust of warm air puffing out when the doors hiss open. People spill onto the platform in that familiar wave—students with backpacks, families dragging kids and plastic bags, two guys wrestling a pair of skis out of the doorway. I scan for a race bag. There.
She steps down from the carriage with skis in one hand, race bag pulling at the other shoulder, a smaller backpack wedged somehow in between. Overloaded, of course. Her hood is down; her hair’s in a messy braid that probably looked neatwhen she left Prague. Travel is written all over her—creased jeans, tired under her eyes—but her posture is still that efficient athletic stance.
She moves a couple of meters away from the door and slows. Thumb brushes over her phone screen, like she’s about to type something. Half a second, maybe less, but I see the micro-stall, the little inward curl of her shoulders. That’s the moment. The one where she could still sendI can’t. Turn around. Go back to the safe, known world of language schools and Masters, where nobody is watching.
She doesn’t. The phone goes back into her pocket. She lifts her head and scans the platform. Our eyes catch across the crowd. The noise in my ears drops a notch.
I push off the pillar, suddenly much too aware of my own clothes—jeans, jacket, cap. No bib, no armor. Naked in a way a race suit never makes me feel. My heart rate ticks up like I’m standing in the start wand. My brain offers the usual easy scripts—smile, flirt, play the media-trained charmer—but they feel wrong in my mouth before I even get to her.
“Hi,” I manage, brilliantly, stopping in front of her. One hand comes up halfway, like I’m about to offer a handshake, and then I catch the look in her eyes—wide, bright, a little wild—and scrap the idea.
I open my arms instead. Not lunging, just a slow, clear offer. She can step into it or not.
For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move. Her jaw tightens. Then something in her lets go, and she steps forward. Her body presses along mine—front to chest, hip to hip—the way it did in that cabin in the storm. My arms close around her back on puremuscle memory. I can feel every place we touch, like someone’s tracing it with a pen. Her hands land on my ribs, fingers tense for a second, then soften and curl in the fabric of my jacket.
“You really came,” I say into her hair before my filter can kick in.
