Then I drop into a section that’s a nasty cousin of where I crashed in Kranjska Gora. Same rhythm, same roll. A sharp thought hits like a slap.
Don’t screw this up again. Kern’s coming. Kids are chasing you.
It’s pure fear, straight to the gut, not about women, not about headlines—about being overtaken, replaced. For a heartbeat, my whole body does what it’s been doing all season: wants to brake, go safe, guard the line.
There it is, I think. The loser’s brain in the wrong body.
For once, I don’t argue with it. I don’t start a whole internal debate about pressure and expectations. I just recognizeit—Okay, that’s fear of being hunted—and choose one tiny physical thing instead.
Outside ski. Two gates ahead.
I press into the outside ski like I mean it, eyes already on the rhythm past the roll instead of on the rut under my feet. The ski chatters once, then locks in. The gate snaps past my hip. The next one comes on time because I’m already there, not two thoughts behind.
I ski straight through the doubt instead of letting it steer.
By the time I hit the last offset, my legs are screaming, but something in my chest is light. I let the skis run over the last rollers, no safety brake, and cross the imaginary finish with my hands still down, chest open, pulse hammering.
I know it’s good before anyone says anything. Not perfect, not race-ready yet, but finally racing, not damage control.
Roland’s voice crackles over the radio. “That one, Fabio,” he says. “That’s the one.”
When I come to a stop near the fence, breathing hard, I see it in Thomas’s face before I see the split times. He’s standing there with his helmet off, hair sweaty, goggles pushed up, looking at me like I’ve just reminded him who I am.
“Shit,” he says, half-laughing. “You finally woke up, old man.”
I grin, bent over my poles, lungs burning in the best way. “Saw something you want to steal?” I throw back.
He shakes his head, still a little breathless. “I’ve been trying to steal from you my whole career,” he says. “That’s my job.”
The line lands deeper than it should. My rookie-brain tries to brush it off with a joke.
“Yeah, well,” I say, straightening up. “Good luck catching me tomorrow.”
But as I slide over to the side to click out, it hits me properly.
I’ve been skiing like the kid chasing Luca, but there’s no Luca in front of me anymore. I’m the one ahead. The young guys aren’t just hunting me—they’re watching me. Learning. If I keep skiing like a scared rookie guarding his lead, I’m not just failing myself. I’m failing them.
I’m the champion. It’s time I start behaving like one.
On the next lift ride, Kern swings into the chair beside me, skis dangling. We sit in that familiar training silence for a few seconds, catching our breath.
“So,” I say finally. “Anything in that run you want to see again on video, tell me. I’ll send you the clip.”
He snorts. “You offering coaching now?”
“Maybe,” I say. “You see something you like, tell me. I’ll tell you what I was thinking. Could save you a few years of trial and error.”
He turns his head, studying me with that sharp, unfiltered way only the kids have. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, looking down at the lane carving its way through the slush below. “You’ve been learning from me anyway. Might as well be on purpose.”
He laughs, but there’s a flush of something like pride under it. “I already am,” he says. “Since I was a junior. I had your Val d’Isère run on repeat.”
For a second, the chair might as well not be attached to anything. The world tilts.
What if that’s the new job, I think. Not outrunning them. Not panicking every time they get close and being the guy they can chase and learn from, not the grumpy bastard glaring over his shoulder.
The thought settles in my chest with surprising ease. Less hunted, more… dad of the team. Not in age, but in role. The one who holds the door open to the hill and says,Here, this is how you do it. The globes would be nice. I still want them, hard. But maybe Kern and the others are skiing their best because I showed up like a champion—that’s an achievement, too.
