“You keep it up,” he says, planting his poles firmly. “I have my own training to go to.”
“Okay,” I feel relieved and disappointed at the same time.
“We’ll meet at the ski depot, you’ll leave your skis there, and we’ll have dinner,” he says, skating toward me and planting a light kiss on my cheek.
“And don’t slack it,” he grins. “I’ll know tomorrow if you did.”
“On it, coach,” I say, and before I can think better of it, I lean in and kiss him properly—mouth to mouth, just a brush of tongue, enough to taste salt and cold air and him. Something I can carry with me for the rest of the day, tucked away under all the layers.
When he pushes off toward his lane, I watch him go, a bright slash of speed against the white. Then I turn back to my own run, heart too full and too loud, telling myself one more time that I’m allowed this. I’m allowed to be happy—for a time.
***
Our little Eden lasts for two more days. We ski together in the morning or the afternoon, depending on his training schedule. We meet, and I tune my skis at the ski depot using their professional tools, sometimes having Max stop by to comment and help me improve them. Then we have dinner and glorious sex in Fabio’s apartment.
During our skiing time together, he drills me, then I practice alone and watch as I turn better with every hour. And on Sunday morning, paradise comes with a stomach full of nerves.
“It’s just GS training,” Fabio says, as if that means anything to the butterflies currently doing their own slalom course in my gut.
“On Reiteralm. With actual racers.” I pull my gloves tighter. “And children.”
“Juniors,” he corrects, amused. “They won’t bite.”
We glide into the training area, and there they are: a group of girls in race suits, braids tucked into helmets, stickers on their skis, that easy teenage looseness in their bodies that says they’ve been doing this since they could walk. I suddenly feel every year of my age and every hour of my desk job back home.
They notice Fabio first. Of course they do.
“Baier!” one of them whispers, stage-loud, nudging her friend. A couple of heads swivel. Then their gazes hop to me, to my very non-race outfit, my weird ski brand, the way I hover too close to him like a satellite unsure of its orbit.
He ignores the looks, all business. “You’ll run with their group,” he tells me. “I talked to their coach. I’ll give you feedback between runs.”
“Is that… allowed?” I murmur, watching two of the girls push off into the course, carving clean, aggressive turns through the blue and red.
He gives me a sideways look. “Everything’s allowed if you ask nicely in the end.” His smile is quick, reassuring. “You’ll be fine.”
Easy for him to say. His name is on the results lists here. Mine is on utility bills in Prague.
When it’s my turn to slide into the start, one of the girls gives me a polite smile. “Good luck,” she says. Her eyes flick past me to Fabio waiting below, hands on his hips, watching the set. And I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about the training lane.
I breathe out slowly, lean into my poles, and try to remember everything he’s drilled into me the past two days. Shins forward, hands quiet, look ahead, not at the gate you’re about to hit.
The course drops away beneath me. The first few turns are pure survival—late, defensive—but somewhere after the third red, I catch the rhythm. The gates come in a beat I can almost dance to. When I cross the finish line, I’m out of breath but still upright, which is more than I expected.
Fabio skis up to me, eyes bright. “Good. Late in the middle, but good.” He taps his own shin. “Commit earlier. Trust that the ski will come around if you let it.”
I nod, still panting, trying to imprint every word.
While we talk, I can feel the girls’ eyes on us. Not hostile, not even really jealous—just curious. Their coach glances over too, then away again, giving us space like he’s used to World Cup guys dropping in with their mysterious projects.
Between runs, I find myself standing a little apart, watching them load the T-bar. They chatter in rapid German about line choice, school, and someone’s crush. Now and then one of them sneaks another look at me and Fabio.
On my second run, I’m braver—and pay for it with a near miss, late, and scraping around a blue. I hear Fabio’s sharp “Yes!” from the side, a sound that’s half warning, half approval. By the third and fourth, I start to feel something new: not just fear and effort, but fun. Real fun. The kind that fills your lungs and pushes everything else out for a few seconds.
In the break, we stand off to the side while the juniors cycle through again. My legs are shaking; my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“See?” he says. “You’re getting earlier every time.”
I follow his gaze up the course. Two girls in matching helmets are gesturing animatedly at their phones, then casting quickglances down toward us. One of them holds the phone up, lens glinting in the sun.
