And so far, I’ve been failing at that.
I look over at Thomas again, at the way he’s still processing my offer like I’ve handed him a secret map. And I feel like an idiot. For years, I’ve been the angry kid, the solitary guy, focused on my performance, always standing apart from the rest of the team. I’ve been a selfish bastard.
Suddenly, a memory of Zlata emerges again. Not some filthy image of her perfect body in my hands. But her in the finish of the training lane, listening to my instructions. That’s how she made me a better person. With her, I realized I have something to offer beyond my dick, money, and grumpy responses.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll meet during the inspection. With Martin, too. I’m still best acting alone, but I know this track, and I can share some secrets.”
He grins, sharp and fierce. “Deal.”
As the lift carries us back up into the grey light, I feel something shift. Not a magic cure, not a solved season. Just a new line to follow.
Same hill, same sport.
New story.
Chapter 17
Ghosts to Chase Away
Prague, Czechia
ZLATA
The room feels dark, the shadows on the walls as heavy as the deep red wine I swirl in my glass. I’m glad Anna is out tonight; I wanted to watch the evening races from Saalbach properly, when I can savor them. And I’m glad she isn’t here to witness me practically salivating over the sad, hot Austrian I deliberately dumped weeks ago.
Only he doesn’t look sad anymore, which shouldn’t bother me, but it does. After Adelboden, I let myself believe I was the reason he found his drive again, that I’d somehownudged him back into focus. Now I’ve dumped him, and he’s gone and demolished the competition in both GS and slalom over one weekend, delivering his best skiing of the season. I hate myself for thinking like this; I should be happy for him. But some ugly, selfish part of me obviously hoped that our little breakup wouldn’t work quite that well in his favor.
It looks like I was just a fling after all. Which is good, right? I haven’t hurt anyone; I shouldn’t be wishing for the opposite. Fabio skied like the champion he is, and what’s more, he even seemed genuinely happy for his teammate. He looked like he wouldn’t have minded Kern beating him, which didn’t happen in the end. The commentators were amazed by this new version of Fabio Baier, talking about how the angry kid who used to smash his poles when someone beat him, teammate or not, seemed to be gone. They said he’d grown up.
I wish I could say the same about myself.
I take a sip of wine to chase away the bile rising in my throat as my mind circles back to my last therapy session. I’d been so sure my therapist would praise me for my decision to dump Fabio—for choosing to handle my messy life first, to get my head straight before jumping into a new relationship.
“It’s your choice, Zlata, and only you know why you did it,” she said, wise and slightly condescending as always. “Just be careful you’re not sabotaging your chance at happiness and masking it as the need to do the right thing. Because you do deserve to be happy, even when your mind’s not perfect, or your motivation isn’t entirely clean. You’ll never be perfect. Nobody is.”
I’ve spent days journaling, meditating, thinking it over from every angle.
Is it possible I was just scared of commitment? That I walked away from my one shot at happiness with a genuinely good guy because, deep down, I don’t believe I deserve it?
None of my previous relationships were as toxic as Peter, but none of them were good. I’ve always seemed to fall for the wrong man, the complicated one, the one who needed fixing. And I’ve spent enough time in therapy, learning about the little mysteries of the subconscious, to know that’s not a coincidence.
So is this it? The moment I finally meet a man who isn’t an ass, I run.
Too late for that thought now, isn’t it? Fabio got dumped, and there is no universe in which a man would take me back after I broke up with him over text. Definitely not now. When I met him, he was the sad Austrian whose life was falling apart. Now he’s back in full focused-champion mode. What could a Czech hobby racer possibly offer him now?
The doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected, cutting straight through the fog of my thoughts. It rings so hard it rattles the glass in the door. I jump, sloshing wine onto my fingers.
Nobody who likes you rings like that, my stomach says.
I wipe my hand on my leggings and go to the door anyway, more annoyed than afraid. Old habits make me glance through the peephole.
Peter.
He’s swaying a little in the harsh stairwell light, one hand jammed in his coat pocket, the other hovering near the bell again. His smile is broad and too loose, like it might slide off hisface if he stops concentrating. Even through the door, I can tell he’s had a drink or five. Typical.
Of course. Saturday night, and my past is standing on the doormat.
I open the door on the chain, just enough to see him properly. “Peter. It’s late.”
