With that, I put down the phone. I don’t really care whether he’ll actually ask for the file, but if he does, he’ll find the medical record saying that I suffered from a mild concussion “resulting from blunt force trauma to the head, with the location and character of the injury consistent with a punch delivered by a person significantly stronger and taller than the patient.” And it would not be a lie, I visited the hospital the moment I gathered my senses that evening, told the staff exactly what happened, and also told them that after I leave here, I’ll take the medical record straight to the police.
Which I did, so the second thing in the file would be my testimony made a few hours after the assault that I gave at a police station. Eva’s husband told me exactly what to say and even called the station before I came in to ensure they were helpful and friendly. Only then did I allow Anna to take me home and search for a lawyer.
That part was trickier, with my teacher's salary, I cannot afford expensive lawyer services, but Eva directed me to a domestic violence support organization. They found a lawyer for me. I felt bad when I met with her. Not that I would want to play down what happened to me, but from what I learned about her, she helped women who went through hell. My one toxic ex and a slap that ended badly because I lost balance seemed tiny in comparison.
“Your ex hit you, that counts as domestic violence,” she said firmly. “Anyway, you deserve protection. There’s no reason to suffer, just because someone else suffers more.”
She was adamant in pursuing people who beat their closest people, not just men who beat women, but also stepfathers abusing children, and from an article I read, even one woman who would lock her husband in a basement and starve him.
She also said I’ll most assuredly get my money back:
“Bullies shrink when you stand up to them,” was her actual formulation.
And now, sitting in my living room, coffee warming my hands, staring at my open laptop, I know precisely how I will use the money. My money.
With the warm thought, I clicked on the browser icon and set out to choose a place to stay in Courchevel, the place of this year’s World Cup finals.
Time to get my happy ending with the man who deserves it.
Chapter 18
Ask the Champion
Courchevel, France
ZLATA
I don’t know what I’m going to say to him when we meet.
I only know I came for him.
The thought keeps circling as I shift my weight on my skis, fighting the slope. The fence shakes with every cowbell, every thump of the crowd. We’re somewhere in the middle of the steep, where the course pitches from “this looks sporty” to “this is stupid.” On TV, the Courchevel slalom hill looked like a white strip with some colored toothpicks stuck in it. In person, it’s a wallof polished ice.
Half the people pressed against the net are on skis, the other half in boots, clinging to poles or to each other. Every few minutes, someone loses a battle with gravity and slides a few meters down, arms pinwheeling, taking two other fans with them in a tangle of jackets and skis. The whole fence ripples with laughter and shouted apologies, then settles again.
I dig my edges in a little harder. No way I’m joining the human avalanche before the final.
“Next at the start, bib number twelve, Christian Leitinger,” the announcer booms from somewhere below, voice bouncing off the trees.
The next racer drops in, and the noise around me swells. I’ve watched slalom on TV my whole life. I know the camera angles, the slow-mos, the perfect replay of the best two turns. Up here, though, it’s something else entirely.
On the screen, slalom is a dance—quick feet, neat arcs, a little spray.
Here, the gates look like they’re trying to kill people.
The man in front of me slams his shin guards into the plastic so hard the sound makes my teeth clench. Poles crack, panels whip back, snow explodes off his skis in ugly chunks, the sound of edges grinding on the firm icy surface loud enough to be heard over the crowd. The skier’s upper body is almost still, legs a blur. He drops past my line of sight, and for a second, all I see is his helmet and the stuttering trail he leaves behind.
“Wow,” I murmur under my breath. “Madness.”
The next one is worse—in a good way. Even from halfway down the hill, I can feel the force he’s putting into the snow, the way he’s riding the outside ski right to the edge of a fall.My body flinches with every blind roll; I know exactly what my quads would feel like by that gate. It’s brutal, efficient, nothing like the smooth elegance TV sells.
I’m mesmerized. I’ve never been to a World Cup slalom in person. I thought I understood it. I didn’t.
The commentator rattles through names and splits, all of it washing over me as colored helmets flick in and out of my window on the course. I clap when other racers come by, ring the little cowbell Anna insisted I bring, shout for the random bibs that hang on for dear life. I’m genuinely into the race; I can’t not be. But under the cheering, there’s that steady hum in my chest.
He’s still up there.
Winning the first run means he goes last. Longest wait, biggest pressure. Everybody else’s time on the board, nothing between him and the globe but sixty seconds and a hill that can spit you out any moment.
