And I will get him.
The certainty slots into place inside me with the same solid click as a boot into a binding. No drama. No grand epiphany. Just a line chosen and accepted.
This time, I am not going to sabotage my own happiness to feel morally tidy. I am not going to run because I’m scared it might hurt later. I’m allowed to want this man and try to make him happy. To be happy with him.
***
By the time the last anthem dies and the officials start to drift away, the finish has turned into a slow-moving animal. People peel off toward the beer tents and buses, and others surge toward the low opening in the fence where the racers will walk out. Security tries to organize it into a lane. It doesn’t work; it never does.
I shuffle along with the rest, elbows bumping elbows, the heat of so many bodies making the spring air feel suddenly thin. Flags smack my helmet, someone’s cowbell rings directly in my ear. I keep my eyes on the gap ahead, on the strip of trampled snow where they’ll pass.
The first guys come through, caps pulled low. They sign hats and flags, bend down for kids, and pose for photos with people. It’s chaos, but it’s familiar chaos. Then the noise lifts again, a higher, rawer pitch. He’s coming.
Helmets and shoulders shift in front of me as people lean in. Phones shoot up like a forest. For a second, I lose him, then I see the edge of his jacket—Austrian red—and the big globe cradled in one arm like it’s a football he stole and refuses to give back. His other hand is busy, signing, waving, touching.
My heart slams once so hard I almost miss a step.
Move, I tell my legs. They listen.
I wedge my hip between two fans who are too busy trying to get their cameras to focus to notice. “Sorry,” I murmur, ducking under a flag, stepping over a wayward boot. The fence jolts as someone behind me leans, and for a moment I’m pressed up against it, breath knocked out of me, face suddenly much closer to the exit lane than I planned.
He’s right there now, meter by meter eating the distance, globe tucked in, race-suit still on, medal glinting against his chest. Up close, he looks tired in the bones—eyes a shade darker, smile a little too wide to be entirely controlled. Max is half a step behind him, arms full of spare skis and random gifts people have shoved at them.
“Fabio! Fabio, here! Photo, please!” people are shouting, phones thrust out, merchandise waved. He stops every few steps, takes a cap here, a flag there, signs, poses, keeps moving.
It’s ridiculous to think I’ll get a clean second with him in this mess.
And yet, it’s a better entrance than a text I don’t dare to send.
He’s one body-length away when I lift my phone, fingers suddenly steady. I lean in, not far—just enough that my voice won’t get lost completely.
“Mr. Baier,” I say, as neutrally as I can manage. “A selfie, please?”
He turns at the sound, an automatic polite smile disappearing as he recognizes my voice, eyes sweeping up to meet mine.
For a heartbeat, the whole world narrows to the startled shock in his eyes as he realizes who’s standing on the other side of the fence.
Chapter 19
The One Selfie I Wished For
FABIO
Ever since they handed me the globe, I’ve been half-convinced I was going to drop it.
It’s heavier than it looks on TV, and the surface is slick—cold, perfectly smooth, little engraved dots catching on my gloves. I’ve held it in my hands when Luca let me last season, but now it feels heavier.
I stroke the glass surface and think that this is the best thing I’ve ever touched. Then a stupid thought appears:
The best thing I’ve ever touched wasn’t cold, but warm. It wasn’t glass, it was skin.Her skin.
Zlata flashes through my head so hard I almost miss the photographer’s cue. Ever since I arrived here, it has been a blur, and I haven’t had time to think about who screwed up more, who owes what, who left whom. But I intend to figure it out.
“Fabio, look here! One more! Hold the globe a bit higher!”
I hoist it up again, shoulders already starting to complain, and try to focus on not looking like an idiot in every picture that’s going to be printed tomorrow.
Then I’m in the exit lane, and someone says my name the way tourists always do. “Mr. Baier, a selfie, please?”
