But I’m the one who falls for the most complicated women in any given radius. I thought if the girl was different this time—if she were strong in ways that had nothing to do with publicity and show business—it would be different for me too. Or did I even think before I fell for her?
Anyway, here I am. Name in the tabloids, ex stirring the pot, team PR furious, and a race ahead of me that actually matters because this year I can get the big Crystal globe, win the overall title. Everyone is asking if my personal mess is going to cost me the season.
I toss the phone onto the bench and drop to the floor for another stretch, folding myself over my leg until my hamstring protests. This, at least, makes sense. Load, pain, recovery, repeat.
I pull deeper into the stretch until something in my leg finally gives a little. If only the noise in my head worked the same way.
***
Podkoren slope: steep, bumpy, no mercy. Blind rolls, changing light, offset gates that will spit you out the second you start thinking about anything but the next turn. This hill doesn’t care who you slept with or what the tabloids say—it only cares if you commit.
I clip into my skis for the second run and replay the first run in my head like a bad video.
Too tight up top. I gave the pitch way too much respect, set every edge like I was in a demo instead of a race. The skis never really ran; I was holding them on a leash the whole way down. Clean line, sure, but there was no attack in it. No risk, no teeth.
I can feel it in my legs even now—no real burn, just that dull ache you get from braking all the way instead of letting it flow. That’s not how you win here. That’s how you hang on to a lead until someone braver takes it off you. The second run is when I set it right. I must set it right.
I skate to the start hut, let Max give my skis the last check, fist-punch the coaches, and get ready.
Three beeps. The start wand drops, and I launch, legs snapping into the first few turns like they’ve done a thousand times.
Out of the gate, it actually feels good—better than the first run. I let the skis point a little more, trust the edge instead of babying it. The top section comes at me in a tight rhythm: blue, red, blue, terrain rolling under my feet. I’m finally attacking, finally letting the hill come to me instead of tiptoeing down it.
Then I hit the compression.
There’s a blind roll into a combination that sets harder than it looked in inspection. I come over the lip a touch too straight, just a fraction late setting up for the next red. The snow dropsaway under me, the gate arrives a beat earlier than my brain expects, and suddenly I’m chasing the line instead of leading it.
I try to fix it mid-air, tipping the skis, angling my hips, but I land with my weight a hair inside. The outside ski chatters, searching for grip. For one sick second, I’m balanced on nothing but wishful thinking and muscle memory.
“Stay in,” flashes through my head.
I fight. I jam the edge, throw my upper body back over the ski, and force the turn anyway. The gate slams my shoulder as I squeeze past it, rattling my whole frame. The line is gone now; I’m low and late, trying to salvage something out of a disaster.
The next blue comes at a bad angle. I’m still recovering when it hits. The ski hooks, then lets go. My inside hand clips the panel, my feet shoot out from under me, and the world flips into a blur of white and color and noise.
I slide on my hip, then my side, skis skittering, one pole ripped from my hand. The net comes at me fast; I dig my edges in, scrubbing speed, snow spraying my face in a cold slap. By the time I stop, I’m halfway tangled in fencing, lungs burning, but everything feels intact.
No sharp pain. No eerie quiet in a limb that should hurt and doesn’t. Just breath, pounding in my ears, and an instant, hot rush of anger.
I slam my fist into the snow once, hard enough to sting. Stupid. One mistake. One lazy setup on the roll and the whole run goes to hell. I know better. This hill punished me exactly the way it should.
Patrollers and coaches are shouting, skis carving up to me, but it all comes through muffled, like I’m underwater. I unclip, getto my feet, and nod that I’m fine. Physically, I am. My body will walk away from this without a bruise worth mentioning.
That’s not where it hurts.
As I ski slowly down the side, course workers already resetting the gate I took out, the real ache settles in somewhere behind my ribs. I know exactly what was in my head when I came over that roll, exactly how much space I wasted on everything except the next turn—on Zlata’s messages, Maria’s dig, Vincent’s voice, the mystery girl narrative I didn’t ask for but created anyway.
No broken bones. No torn ligaments. Just a clean DNF on the result sheet and the cold, solid knowledge of what’s been gnawing at me all along.
***
Thomas Kern is slouched in the lobby armchair, suitcase by his shin, scrolling his phone when I drop into the seat next to him. My race bag hits the floor with a dull thud.
“Hey,” I say, nudging his leg with my boot. “Rookie win today. Nice work.”
His head snaps up, face splitting into a grin he tries—and fails—to tone down. “Yeah, not bad, huh?”
“Not bad,” I echo. “You owned that second run. Proper stuff.”
