“Skiing. Talking. You standing next to a training lane looking at a woman like she just invented turns,” Vincent says. “Nothing explicit, thank God. But then Maria reposted one with a comment, and now it’s a thing.”
I close my eyes. Of course she did. “What did she write?”
He reads it out, flat: “‘Am I surprised Fabio moved on to a next object so soon? Not at all. But I wish him the best.’ And then she goes on some lifestyle show and hints about your ‘new affair the whole of Austria talks about.’”
“Fabio,” he sighs. “Everybody loves a rebel…”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not a rebel,” I snap. “I just don’t have the best luck with women. And this was nothing. She’s a friend. I was teaching her to ski. You won’t find a single photo of us doing anything other than skiing and talking.”
Or so I hope.
“Everybody loves a rebel,” he continues like he didn’t hear me. “As long as they can still count the scandals on one hand. When people can’t keep up with the number of girls attached to your name in one season, we have to think about how it reflects on the team. On sponsors.”
I bite back the first answer that comes to mind. Something about how nobody cared when I was crashing instead ofwinning: now that I’m useful again, every woman is suddenly a risk assessment.
“Tell them I’m not sleeping with anyone,” I say dryly. “That will calm them down.”
“I’m not your lawyer, I’m your PR guy,” he replies. “I don’t really care about what you do, as long as it makes you happy. But I do care about how it seems, cause it’s my job to make the sponsors happy.”
“And how am I supposed to disprove the rumors?”
“Listen,” Vinc says calmly. “You have scheduled an interview with Krone. Today, late afternoon, I hope you remember. But they may ask some personal questions.”
“I never answer them,” I snap, stubbornly.
“I know, but this might be the good time you did. I’ve emailed you the questions they’ll definitely ask and the ones they’ll sneak in. Read them. Prepare.”
He pauses. “And for once in your life, Fabio, try not to improvise.”
The line goes quiet. I stare at my reflection in the dark gym window—bare feet, training shorts, t-shirt damp with warm-up sweat. I look like any other racer the day before a GS. My life is supposed to be simple here: eat, stretch, sleep, ski. Instead, there’s a knot of tabloid headlines, ex-girlfriends, and one woman who doesn’t want me at all sitting right in the middle of my ribcage.
Back in my room, I open my email. Vincent’s forwarded message is short, efficient, merciless.
Sample questions from Krone:
– “Alta Badia and Adelboden. We saw two different Fabio Baiers. What changed?”
– “How much does your mental training factor into this form?”
– “Does your miraculous resurrection have something to do with the mysterious girl we all talk about?”
I snort. Of course. Wrapped neatly between talk of recovery and mindset. One careless sentence and tomorrow’s headline writes itself.
I close the mail before I can start drafting some stupid, defensive joke. Instead, I open Instagram.
Her profile comes up from muscle memory. New profile picture: not her face, but a close-up of a cat. Oscar, I assume, looking vaguely offended at the world. Her posts are now set to private, where there used to be photos and little windows into her life; there’s just a grey padlock. No reels. No glimpses. No comments. Had it been set on private before, I wouldn’t have been able to track her down after the gondola encounter. Now, it feels a safer choice. A wise choice.
“Clever girl,” I mutter. Either she did it to keep the tabloids from finding her, or she just doesn’t want me—or her ex—to see what she’s doing anymore. Maybe both.
What is she doing? And what washedoing in her apartment?
The thought of him in her flat needles under my skin. “It wasn’t nice,” she said last night, voice too even. Then there was the text that cut everything off like a rope:I’m falling for you, and that’s exactly why I need to stop. I need to figure myself out.
And here I am, in Kranjska Gora, stretching my hamstrings and reading questions about mystery women while my PR guy tries to pre-empt my next disaster.
Another scandal. Another “girl of the week.” Another story for people like Maria to tell. I used to think I was above caring—that as long as I skied fast, everything else was just noise.
Guys like Thomas Kern have it easy. Childhood sweetheart at home, a life that’s always been lined up. He flies back, she’s there, dinner on the table, the same smile waiting at every finish. He doesn’t spend nights wondering if he ruined the only good thing that wasn’t built around racing. He doesn’t lie awake replaying a phone call with someone who actually saw him and chose to walk away. And I’m supposed to be the grown-up here.
