Only it’s not the way tourists always do.
The voice is clean and low, the consonants rounded in a way I know, and it hits me like a gate to the shoulder.
I turn around, globe tucked into the crook of my arm so I don’t drop it. I start to say “Sure,” and then my brain catches up with my eyes.
Her.
For a second, I honestly think I’ve hit my head somewhere on the way down, and this is some stupid, post-race hallucination. She’s wedged against the fence, helmet still on, cheeks flushed from warmth and effort, phone held up between us. There’s a chaos of people behind her—flags, phones, faces—but they all fuzz out. She’s in my focus.
“Hi,” she says, very politely. “Congratulations.”
My mouth has forgotten how to work. “Zlata,” I hear myself say, too quiet for anyone but her.
She smiles, and it’s not the careful, slightly apologetic curve I remember from Reiteralm. It’s bigger, steadier. There’s a littlefox light in it, the one I saw when she asked that insolent question in the gondola. The one that started it all.
“You look like you’re about to drop that thing,” she says. “Let’s make it quick.”
Right. Selfie. Fans. People watching. I shift the globe tighter against my chest, free my other hand, and lean in over the fence. The snow under my boots is slick; for a second, I have to widen my stance to keep from skidding into the net.
She holds the phone up, thumb ready on the screen. I slide my free hand around the back of her helmet, more out of habit than anything—how many times have I done this pose?—and my fingers find the edge of her goggle strap, a bit of loose hair, the warm skin at the back of her neck.
The moment my fingers touch her neck, I feel her shiver and hear her breath catch. And that sends electricity up my spine.
We’re both in too many layers for it to be anything but PG, but my body doesn’t care. It remembers the weight of her on top of me, the way she’d gone soft and heavy after, the heat.
The phone clicks once, twice. On the screen, I catch a glimpse of us: me with my suit and globe and idiot grin, her with that new, clear-eyed smile, like she knows exactly what she’s doing here and isn’t sorry at all.
“Got it,” she says, and lowers the phone.
I don’t let go immediately. I want to say a hundred things at once.
What are you doing here?
Why didn’t you tell me?
Are you okay?
I’m glad you’re okay.
Instead, I manage, “You—”
She steps back a fraction, enough that my hand falls away from her helmet. The contact breaks, cold rushing back into the gap.
“See you around, Mr. Baier,” she says lightly, as if we’ve never called each other anything else.
Then she shifts, making space. Someone shoves a kid with a program into the gap she leaves; another phone appears in front of my face, and another voice is shouting my name two decibels higher. Security nudges me forward; the line needs to keep moving. Interviews are waiting, sponsors, and more cameras.
I move because I have to. That’s what the circus demands.
But for the first time all day, the globe in my arm isn’t the most important weight I’m carrying.
***
The mixed zone is a blur—lights, microphones, the same three questions in five different accents. I talk about the hill, about conditions, about “taking it gate by gate” so many times, I start to hear my own voice from outside my head. Somebody shoves a camera in my face and asks about “the mysterious girl,” and for once, I don’t improvise; I shrug, say something bland about focusing on skiing, and Vincent’s face in the background relaxes by half a centimeter.
Eventually they herd me into one of the little prefab huts behind the finish. It’s warmer inside, at least, the air thick with damp jackets and printer toner. There’s a table, two chairs, aportable heater, and a banner with too many logos on the wall for the next photo set.
“Okay,” Vincent says, closing the door on the noise. He’s already got his tablet out. “Five minutes, then Krone, ORF, Servus, the social content for the sponsors. After that, the podium sunset shots up on the ridge if the weather holds. Don’t disappear.”
