Anna tops up our glasses and gently clinks hers against mine. “Then finish this, brush your teeth, and call him from bed. At least do the ‘adult closure’ thing.”
We finish the prosecco in quiet sips, the fizz softening the edges of the evening. Eventually, we both yawn at the same time and laugh.
“Go,” Anna nudges me. “I’ll deal with the rest. Oscar and I will guard the door.”
***
In my room, the darkness feels oddly comforting. I crawl into bed in an oversized t-shirt, phone heavy in my hand. The chat with Fabio is still open, our earlier messages now shadowed by my last text.
My heart pounds as I hit the call button. It rings only twice.
“Zlata,” he says, and there’s irritation under my name, thin and sharp.
“You called,” I say, uselessly.
“I called because you broke up with me over a text,” he snaps. The hurt in his voice is louder than the anger.
I close my eyes. Honesty, I promised myself. “It wasn’t the right moment,” I say. “My ex came by. It wasn’t… nice. And when you called, I couldn’t talk.”
There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing. “So what you wrote is still valid?” he asks finally. “We’re over?”
My throat tightens. “Fabio, I told you. I’m a mess. I need to sort out my life. Don’t push me, please.”
“So what, I should wait until you sort out your life?” he says, frustration creeping back in. “Like your toy on a shelf?”
“Wait?” I repeat, stung. “You have a season to race. You have a life that’s so full I barely fit in it as it is. I wouldn’t call that ‘waiting’.”
I hear myself getting irritable, my voice sharpening to defend something I’m not even sure I believe in fully yet.
He exhales, a harsh, tired sound. “Fine,” he says. “Good luck with… sorting things out.”
The distance in his tone hurts more than if he’d shouted.
“Good luck with your races,” I manage. “I’ll be watching.”
There’s a beat where I think he might say something else. He doesn’t. The line clicks dead. I’ve just hurt the only man who didn’t ask me to bend.
I lie there in the dark, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the silence on both ends of my life and trying to believe that choosing myself, for once, will be worth the cost.
Chapter 15
Slovenian Ice
Kranjska Gora, Slovenia
FABIO
I’m halfway through hamstring stretches in the hotel gym when my phone starts buzzing across the mat. The screen flashes Vincent’s name. Of course. Nothing good ever starts with our PR manager calling mid-day instead of texting.
“Baier,” I say, clamping the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can keep my heel dug into the bench.
“Fabio,” he answers, too polite to be relaxed, too clipped to be casual. “Tell me you’ve seen it already.”
A small knot tightens in my gut. “Seenwhat?”
He blows out a breath. “Check the tabloids as soon as we hang up. Blick, Heute, all of them. ‘Mysterious girl with comeback king Baier in Reiteralm.’ Cute headlines. Cute photos. Some juniors got over-excited with their hashtags.”
I sit up, stretch forgotten. “Photos.” My mouth is suddenly dry. “Doing what?”
