I jab my poles into the snow, twist my skis downhill, and push off from the fence.
The slope drops away under me immediately. There’s no space to make graceful, event-poster turns; I’m slowly slaloming through a forest of legs and forgotten skis and abandoned cups, dodging people who are trying to stand still and failing. A guyin a retro French team jacket goes down in front of me; I hop his tail, mutter a quick “sorry,” and keep going.
The roar from the finish pulls me down like gravity. I weave past a kid in a cow costume, duck under a rogue flag, and aim for the gap by the bottom fence where I’ll be able to leave my skis and go closer to see the podium.
If I’m going to plant myself in his path, I want to see him lift that globe first.
***
By the time I skid into the finish area, the podium is already set up—three white blocks on the snow, FIS banners behind, speakers stacked like Lego against the fencing. The air down here feels different; heavier with bass, hotter with bodies. Flags are everywhere, red-white-red, red-white-blue, and all kinds of other colors whipping and slapping against my shoulders.
I stack my skis against a hut and head to the fan area. The big screen above the finish is replaying his second run in slow-mo for the third time. Even in close-up, it still looks like he’s about to fall off the hill and somehow doesn’t.
The announcer’s voice booms over everything, switching from English to French and back, reciting splits and points and sponsors. My brain catches about every third word; the rest is just noise.
Race podium first. Third place climbs up, then second, then him. It’s only been a few minutes since I saw him drop past my spot on the hill, but he already looks like a different species fromthe man in my DMs. Helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, slalom suit half-unzipped. There’s a cap with a sponsor's logo covering his sweaty hair, shading his shining eyes, and his smile is doing that stunned, slightly crooked thing that makes him look fifteen instead of twenty-something.
I clap with everybody else as the flowers and little race trophies change hands. It’s automatic. But underneath is this weird, swelling pressure in my chest that has nothing to do with fan thrill and everything to do with the fact that I know how much this cost him.
He did it.
He actually did it.
The thought is so big it almost knocks the air out of me. For a moment, I can’t shout at all. My eyes sting in the cold.
Once today’s race trophies and the slalom overall title trophies are awarded, the atmosphere changes. The announcer’s tone shifts, climbing toward something heavier. Course workers bring out a separate, low plinth with a single trophy on it. Even from the crowd, I can see the difference: this globe is bigger, the glass thicker, the engraving denser. It looks less like a prize and more like a year made solid.
“And now,” the voice booms, “the winner of the Overall World Cup title…”
He draws it out, rolling through the stats—starts, podiums, points total—as if reciting a spell. My gaze stays on the glass, light fracturing through it.
“…and the big Crystal Globe goes to… Fabio Baier!”
If the noise for the run was a wave, this is an avalanche. People scream in my ear, flags slam me in the side of the helmet, hornsblare. The snow under my skis vibrates with it. It’s too much and exactly enough.
A man in a dark coat—FIS official, probably—steps up with the globe in both hands. Up close, it’s smaller than it looks on TV, but denser and heavier. The kind of thing you could break a foot with if you dropped it. Fabio turns slightly to face him, hands coming up, and for a second, he looks almost careful. Gentle, even. Like he’s taking a child, not a lump of glass.
He wraps his fingers around the stem and base, thumbs spread wide for balance. They pose for the official photos—shake hands, smile for the long lenses. The globe catches the lights and throws shards of brightness back at the crowd. On the big screen above them, his face fills the frame, eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed from effort and cold, and maybe a little from trying not to cry.
I’ve never been this happy for somebody else’s result in my life. Not even for friends. Not for Luca, not for any of the gods I used to watch from my couch with rankings printed out in my lap. This is different. This landed inside somewhere that was hollow for a long time, and I didn’t know it.
He lifts the globe.
First, just to chest height, testing the weight, then higher, arms straight, a glass sphere over his head, an Austrian flag behind him, the whole stadium going feral. Some guys kiss it. He doesn’t. He just looks up at it and laughs, disbelieving, like he might not trust it to be there still when he puts it down.
On the screen, his eyes flick toward the slope, scanning the sea of helmets, flags, and lenses. He can’t see me, not really; I’m just one more blob in the mess. But for a heartbeat, I pretend he can.That some part of him can feel me here, wedged into the snow, heart beating way too fast for a person who hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
What was I even thinking, letting this guy go?
The question lands cleaner now, without the former follow-up of shame. I know exactly what I was thinking: that I was broken, that I didn’t deserve this, that I’d only drag him down—all that old, familiar rubbish.
It’s not that those thoughts have magically disappeared. I still hear them, like distant commentators on a channel I don’t have to watch anymore.
But standing here, listening to an entire valley scream his name, watching him hold a year of work above his head, I feel something louder.
Icouldhave him for myself.
Not like an object. Not like a prize in a fan contest. Like… a partner. A person I meet at the same eye level, even if his podiums are made of glass and mine are made of cheap metal and Czech beer.
