I can feel his grin even before he answers. “You want the nice version or the useful one?”
“Useful,” I say. “You can be nice later if I cry.”
He nudges my knee with his. “You’re rushing the transition on the steeps,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Especially after the delay. You come in good, then you panic a bit because you know you lost time and try to make it all back in one move.”
I wince. “You saw that from down here?”
“Yeah.” He tips his head toward the hill. “You can see it in your upper body. You get a little tight. Breathe after the delay gate, then attack again. Don’t try to fix it all in one turn. Let them stack.”
One gate at a time.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Breathe. Stack. Got it.”
He takes a sip of his own tea, grimaces, and sets it in the snow. “Mentally,” he adds, “you’re still skiing like you’re apologizing for being here.”
I flinch, even though he keeps his tone light.
“I am apologizing,” I say. “In my head. To… everyone.” The words feel stupid out loud, but this is why I pay for therapy. Might as well use the practice elsewhere. “I’m scared of looking like an idiot. Of failing, and you and Max thinking this was a waste of a day. Of…” I wave my cup vaguely. “Existing too loudly in front of people who actually know how to ski.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When I force myself to meet his eyes, they’re softer than I expect.
“You’re allowed to ski like you’re the fastest one here,” he says. “Nobody can see inside your head. They only see what your skis do.”
I snort. “Unless I cry at the finish.”
“Then they’ll think you care,” he shrugs. “Most people here know what that feels like. No one thinks you’re stupid for trying.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “And I definitely don’t.”
Something in my chest loosens a notch I didn’t know was still tight. I look down at my hands wrapped around the plastic cup, at the little tremor still buzzing under my skin.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll… try to ski like a maniac then.”
“Please don’t ski like a maniac,” he says. “Ski like you do in training when nobody watches. That’s enough.”
He shifts on the bench, turning toward me, and for a moment his hand hovers in the air like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do. Then he cups the back of my head, fingers slipping into damp hair, and leans in to kiss my forehead.
It’s a small kiss. Warm and brief, right at the point where my helmet usually presses.
It hits harder than any podium make-out ever could.
Hook-ups don’t get forehead kisses on a bench between runs at a Masters race. Girlfriends do. Partners do. People you plan races and summers with do.
I close my eyes for a second, let my head rest against his hand, and feel the panic and joy and terror and pride swirl together into something I can stand on.
“Second run,” he murmurs. “One gate at a time. You’ve got this, Golden Girl.”
***
FABIO
Second run, I’m more nervous than I was all two weeks ago in Courchevel.
Not for me. For her.
From my spot by the fence halfway down the course, I can see maybe twelve gates and a lot of nervous Masters dads trying to impress each other. The snow’s gone from firm to porridge in the time between her first run and now. Ruts everywhere, soft piles that will happily grab a ski and spit you out in front of your friends.
The starter’s voice floats down—numbers, names, categories. Kids, old guys, one woman in a suit so bright I need sunglasses. I know Zlata’s bib by heart. When “seven” goes into the gate, my heart rate jumps like I’m back in a World Cup start.
I can’t see her face from here, just the outline of her body above the wand. Even at this distance, I can tell she’s doing the little shoulder roll she does when she’s trying to shake off nerves. I know exactly what’s in her head. Half standard race panic, half “don’t make an idiot of yourself in front of Fabio.”
